Jimmy removed himself sorrowfully from the doorstep of the Dukeof Devizes' house in Cleveland Row. His mission had been afailure. In answer to his request to be permitted to see LordPercy Whipple, the butler had replied that Lord Percy wasconfined to his bed and was seeing nobody. He eyed Jimmy, onreceiving his name, with an interest which he failed to conceal,for he too, like Bayliss, had read and heartily enjoyed BillBlake's spirited version of the affair of last night which hadappeared in the _Daily Sun_. Indeed, he had clipped the report outand had been engaged in pasting it in an album when the bellrang.
In face of this repulse, Jimmy's campaign broke down. He was at aloss to know what to do next. He ebbed away from the Duke's frontdoor like an army that has made an unsuccessful frontal attack onan impregnable fortress. He could hardly force his way in andsearch for Lord Percy.
He walked along Pall Mall, deep in thought. It was a beautifulday. The rain which had fallen in the night and relieved Mr.
Crocker from the necessity of watching cricket had freshenedLondon up.
The sun was shining now from a turquoise sky. A gentle breezeblew from the south. Jimmy made his way into Piccadilly, andfound that thoroughfare a-roar with happy automobilists andcheery pedestrians. Their gaiety irritated him. He resentedtheir apparent enjoyment of life.
Jimmy's was not a nature that lent itself readily tointrospection, but he was putting himself now through a searchingself-examination which was revealing all kinds of unsuspectedflaws in his character. He had been having too good a time foryears past to have leisure to realise that he possessed anyresponsibilities. He had lived each day as it came in the spiritof the Monks of Thelema. But his father's reception of the newsof last night's escapade and the few words he had said had givenhim 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 asmany pieces in a jig-saw puzzle and that our every movementaffects the fortunes of some other piece. Just so, faintly atfirst and taking shape by degrees, must the germ of civic spirithave come to Prehistoric Man. We are all individualists till wewake up.
The thought of having done anything to make his father unhappywas bitter to Jimmy Crocker. They had always been more likebrothers than father and son. Hard thoughts about himself surgedthrough Jimmy's mind. With a dejectedness to which it is possiblethat his headache contributed he put the matter squarely tohimself. His father was longing to return to America--he, Jimmy,by his idiotic behaviour was putting obstacles in the way of thatreturn--what was the answer? The answer, to Jimmy's way ofthinking, was that all was not well with James Crocker, that,when all the evidence was weighed, James Crocker would appear tobe a fool, a worm, a selfish waster, and a hopeless, low-down,skunk.
Having come to this conclusion, Jimmy found himself so low inspirit that the cheerful bustle of Piccadilly was too much forhim. He turned, and began to retrace his steps. Arriving in duecourse at the top of the Haymarket he hesitated, then turned downit till he reached Cockspur Street. Here the Trans-Atlanticsteamship companies have their offices, and so it came about thatJimmy, chancing to look up as he walked, perceived before him,riding gallantly on a cardboard ocean behind a plate-glasswindow, the model of a noble vessel. He stopped, conscious of acurious thrill. There is a superstition in all of us. When anaccidental happening chances to fit smoothly in with a mood,seeming to come as a direct commentary on that mood, we are aptto accept it in defiance of our pure reason as an omen. Jimmystrode to the window and inspected the model narrowly. The sightof it had started a new train of thought. His heart began torace. 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 aticket for New York. The simplicity of the process fascinatedhim. All you had to do was to walk in, bend over the counterwhile the clerk behind it made dabs with a pencil at theillustrated plate of the ship's interior organs, and hand overyour money. A child could do it, if in funds. At this thought hishand strayed to his trouser-pocket. A musical crackling ofbank-notes proceeded from the depths. His quarterly allowance hadbeen paid to him only a short while before, and, though a willingspender, he still retained a goodly portion of it. He rustled thenotes again. There was enough in that pocket to buy three ticketsto New York. Should he? . . . Or, on the other hand--always lookon both sides of the question--should he not?
It would certainly seem to be the best thing for all parties ifhe did follow the impulse. By remaining in London he was injuringeverybody, himself included. . . . Well, there was no harm inmaking enquiries. Probably the boat was full up anyway. . . . Hewalked into the office.
"Have you anything left on the _Atlantic_ this trip?"The clerk behind the counter was quite the wrong sort of personfor Jimmy to have had dealings with in his present mood. WhatJimmy needed was a grave, sensible man who would have laid a handon his shoulder and said "Do nothing rash, my boy!" The clerkfell short of this ideal in practically every particular. He wasabout twenty-two, and he seemed perfectly enthusiastic about theidea of Jimmy going to America. He beamed at Jimmy.
"Plenty of room," he said. "Very few people crossing. Give youexcellent accommodation.""When does the boat sail?""Eight to-morrow morning from Liverpool. Boat-train leavesPaddington six to-night."Prudence came at the eleventh hour to check Jimmy. This was not amatter, he perceived, to be decided recklessly, on the spur of asudden impulse. Above all, it was not a matter to be decidedbefore lunch. An empty stomach breeds imagination. He hadascertained 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 hefelt about it after that. He thanked the clerk, and started towalk up the Haymarket, feeling hard-headed and practical, yetwith a strong premonition that he was going to make a fool ofhimself just the same.
It was half-way up the Haymarket that he first became consciousof the girl with the red hair.
Plunged in thought, he had not noticed her before. And yet shehad been walking a few paces in front of him most of the way. Shehad come out of Panton Street, walking briskly, as one going tokeep a pleasant appointment. She carried herself admirably, witha jaunty swing.
Having become conscious of this girl, Jimmy, ever a warm admirerof the sex, began to feel a certain interest stealing over him.
With interest came speculation. He wondered who she was. Hewondered where she had bought that excellently fitting suit oftailor-made grey. He admired her back, and wondered whether herface, if seen, would prove a disappointment. Thus musing, he drewnear to the top of the Haymarket, where it ceases to be a streetand becomes a whirlpool of rushing traffic. And here the girl,having paused and looked over her shoulder, stepped off thesidewalk. As she did so a taxi-cab rounded the corner quicklyfrom the direction of Coventry Street.
The agreeable surprise of finding the girl's face fully asattractive as her back had stimulated Jimmy, so that he was keyedup for the exhibition of swift presence-of-mind. He jumpedforward and caught her arm, and swung her to one side as the cabrattled past, its driver thinking hard thoughts to himself. Thewhole episode was an affair of seconds.
"Thank you," said the girl.
She rubbed the arm which he had seized with rather a ruefulexpression. 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 hada small, piquant, vivacious face. Jimmy, as he looked at it, hadan odd feeling that he had seen her before--when and where he didnot 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 shehad ever met him before, she showed no signs of recollecting it.
Jimmy decided that, if he had seen her, it must have been in hisreporter days. She was plainly an American, and he occasionallyhad the feeling that he had seen every one in America when he hadworked for the _Chronicle_.
"That's right," he said approvingly. "Always look on the brightside.""I only arrived in London yesterday," said the girl, "and Ihaven't got used to your keeping-to-the-left rules. I don'tsuppose I shall ever get back to New York alive. Perhaps, as youhave saved my life, you wouldn't mind doing me another service.
Can you tell me which is the nearest and safest way to arestaurant called the Regent Grill?""It's just over there, at the corner of Regent Street. As to thesafest way, if I were you I should cross over at the top of thestreet there and then work round westward. Otherwise you will haveto 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 shallget there. It doesn't seem at all likely."She gave him a little nod, and moved away. Jimmy turned into thatdrug-store at the top of the Haymarket at which so many Londonershave found healing and comfort on the morning after, and boughtthe pink drink for which his system had been craving since herose from bed. He wondered why, as he drained it, he should feelashamed and guilty.
A few minutes later he found himself, with mild surprise, goingdown the steps of the Regent Grill. It was the last place he hadhad in his mind when he had left the steamship company's officesin quest of lunch. He had intended to seek out some quiet,restful nook where he could be alone with his thoughts. Ifanybody had told him then that five minutes later he would beplacing himself of his own free will within the range of arestaurant orchestra playing "My Little Grey Home in theWest"--and the orchestra at the Regent played little else--hewould not have believed him.
Restaurants in all large cities have their ups and downs. At thistime the Regent Grill was enjoying one of those bursts ofpopularity for which restaurateurs pray to whatever strange godsthey worship. The more prosperous section of London's Bohemiaflocked to it daily. When Jimmy had deposited his hat with therobber-band who had their cave just inside the main entrance andhad entered the grill-room, he found it congested. There did notappear 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 againstone of the pillars with a little man with eye-glasses, a handsomewoman in the forties, and a small stout boy who was skirmishingwith 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 scattercommands among the underlings. "I will place a table for you inthe aisle.""Next to that pillar, please," said Jimmy.
The underlings had produced a small table--apparently from uptheir sleeves, and were draping it in a cloth. Jimmy sat down andgave his order. Ordering was going on at the other table. Thelittle man seemed depressed at the discovery that corn on the coband soft-shelled crabs were not to be obtained, and his wife'sreception of the news that clams were not included in theRegent's bill-of-fare was so indignant that one would have saidthat she regarded the fact as evidence that Great Britain wasgoing to pieces and would shortly lose her place as a worldpower.
A selection having finally been agreed upon, the orchestra struckup "My Little Grey Home in the West," and no attempt was made tocompete with it. When the last lingering strains had died awayand the violinist-leader, having straightened out the kinks inhis person which the rendition of the melody never failed toproduce, had bowed for the last time, a clear, musical voicespoke from the other side of the pillar.
"Jimmy Crocker is a WORM!"Jimmy spilled his cocktail. It might have been the voice ofConscience.
"I despise him more than any one on earth. I hate to think thathe's an American."Jimmy drank the few drops that remained in his glass, partly tomake sure of them, partly as a restorative. It is an unnervingthing to be despised by a red-haired girl whose life you havejust saved. To Jimmy it was not only unnerving; it was uncanny.
This girl had not known him when they met on the street a fewmoments before. How then was she able to display such intimateacquaintance with his character now as to describe him--justlyenough--as a worm? Mingled with the mystery of the thing was itspathos. The thought that a girl could be as pretty as this oneand yet dislike him so much was one of the saddest things Jimmyhad ever come across. It was like one of those Things Which MakeMe Weep In This Great City so dear to the hearts of thesob-writers of his late newspaper.
A waiter bustled up with a high-ball. Jimmy thanked him with hiseyes. 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! Ialways think Jimmy Crocker--"Jimmy began to wish that somebody would stop this girl. Whycouldn't the little man change the subject to the weather, orthat stout child start prattling about some general topic? Surelya boy of that age, newly arrived in London, must have all sortsof things to prattle about? But the little man was dealingstrenuously with a breaded cutlet, while the stout boy, grimlysilent, surrounded fish-pie in the forthright manner of astarving python. As for the elder woman, she seemed to bewrestling with unpleasant thoughts, beyond speech.
"--I always think that Jimmy Crocker is the worst case I know ofthe kind of American young man who spends all his time in Europeand tries to become an imitation Englishman. Most of them are thesort any country would be glad to get rid of, but he used to workonce, so you can't excuse him on the ground that he hasn't thesense to know what he's doing. He's deliberately chosen to loafabout London and make a pest of himself. He went to pieces withhis eyes open. He's a perfect, utter, hopeless WORM!"Jimmy had never been very fond of the orchestra at the RegentGrill, holding the view that it interfered with conversation andmade for an unhygienic rapidity of mastication; but he wasprofoundly grateful to it now for bursting suddenly into _LaBoheme_, the loudest item in its repertory. Under cover of thatprotective din he was able to toy with a steaming dish which hiswaiter had brought. Probably that girl was saying all sorts ofthings about him still but he could not hear them.
The music died away. For a moment the tortured air quivered incomparative 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 seenWestminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament and His Majesty'sTheatre and the Savoy and the Cheshire Cheese, and I've developeda frightful home-sickness. Why shouldn't we go back to-morrow?"For the first time in the proceedings the elder woman spoke. Shecast aside her mantle of gloom long enough to say "Yes," thenwrapped it round her again. The little man, who had apparentlybeen waiting for her vote before giving his own, said that thesooner he was on board a New York-bound boat the better he wouldbe pleased. The stout boy said nothing. He had finished hisfish-pie, and was now attacking jam roll with a sort of moroseresolution.
"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 backto America from." She paused. "What I can't understand is how,after having been in America and knowing what it was like, JimmyCrocker could stand living . . ."The waiter had come to Jimmy's side, bearing cheese; but Jimmylooked at it with dislike and shook his head in silent negation.
He was about to depart from this place. His capacity forabsorbing home-truths about himself was exhausted. He placed anoiseless 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 tobelieve in miracles, revised the views of a life-time. He lookedat 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 timein his predatory career, was staring at Jimmy with equalintensity, but with far different feelings. Speechless concernwas limned on his young face.
The commissionaire at the Piccadilly entrance of the restauranttouched his hat ingratiatingly, with the smug confidence of a manwho 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 ofhimself."He passed on. The commissionaire stared after him as intently asthe waiter and the hat-check boy. He had sometimes known Mr.
Crocker like this after supper, but never before during theluncheon hour.
Jimmy made his way to his club in Northumberland Avenue. Forperhaps half an hour he sat in a condition of coma in thesmoking-room; then, his mind made up, he went to one of thewriting-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 thismorning, and it seems to me the best thing I can do is todrop out of sight for a brief space. If I stay on inLondon, I am likely at any moment to pull some boner likelast night's which will spill the beans for you once more.
The least I can do for you is to give you a clear fieldand not interfere, so I am off to New York by to-night'sboat.
I went round to Percy's to try to grovel in the dustbefore him, but he wouldn't see me. It's no goodgrovelling in the dust of the front steps for the benefitof a man who's in bed on the second floor, so I withdrewin more or less good order. I then got the present idea.
Mark how all things work together for good. When they cometo you and say "No title for you. Your son slugged our palPercy," all you have to do is to come back at them with "Iknow my son slugged Percy, and believe me I didn't do athing to him! I packed him off to America withintwenty-four hours. Get me right, boys! I'm anti-Jimmy andpro-Percy." To which their reply will be "Oh, well, inthat case arise, Lord Crocker!" or whatever they say whenslipping a title to a deserving guy. So you will see thatby making this getaway I am doing the best I can to putthings straight. I shall give this to Bayliss to give toyou. I am going to call him up on the phone in a minute tohave him pack a few simple tooth-brushes and so on for me.
On landing in New York, I shall instantly proceed to thePolo Grounds to watch a game of Rounders, and will cableyou the full score. Well. I think that's about all. Sogood-bye--or even farewell--for the present.
J.
P.S. I know you'll understand, dad. I'm doing what seemsto me the only possible thing. Don't worry about me. Ishall be all right. I'll get back my old job and be aterrific success all round. You go ahead and get thattitle and then meet me at the entrance of the PoloGrounds. I'll be looking for you.
P.P.S. I'm a worm.
The young clerk at the steamship offices appeared rejoiced to seeJimmy once more. With a sunny smile he snatched a pencil from hisear 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 justcome in, a girl with red hair and a friendly smile.
"So you're sailing on the _Atlantic_, too!" she said, with a glanceat the chart on the counter. "How odd! We have just decided to goback on her too. There's nothing to keep us here and we're allhomesick. Well, you see I wasn't run over after I left you."A delicious understanding relieved Jimmy's swimming brain, asthunder relieves the tense and straining air. The feeling that hewas going mad left him, as the simple solution of his mysterycame to him. This girl must have heard of him in NewYork--perhaps she knew people whom he knew and it was on hearsay,not on personal acquaintance, that she based that dislike of himwhich she had expressed with such freedom and conviction so shorta 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 himto-day of all days, when he needed the tenderest treatment, whenhe had a headache already?
The clerk was eyeing him expectantly. He had laid down his penciland was holding aloft a pen. Jimmy gulped. Every name in theEnglish language had passed from his mind. And then from out ofthe 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 pressinglabels and a pink paper on him. The paper, he gathered dully, wasa form and had to be filled up. He examined it, and found it tobe a searching document. Some of its questions could be answeredoff-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 beample--provided she had red-gold hair, brown-gold eyes, the rightkind of mouth, and a dimple. Whatever doubts there might be inhis 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 snortedimpatiently, varying the process with an occasional sharp shriek.
The hands of the station clock pointed to ten minutes to six. Theplatform 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 faithfulwatchdog beside a large suitcase. To the human surf that brokeand swirled about him he paid no attention. He was looking forthe young master.
Jimmy clove the crowd like a one-man flying-wedge. Two fruit andbun boys who impeded his passage drifted away like leaves on anAutumn gale.
"Good man!" He possessed himself of the suitcase. "I was afraidyou might not be able to get here.""The mistress is dining out, Mr. James. I was able to leave thehouse.""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, willyou?""Very good, sir.""I'm glad you were able to manage. I thought your voice soundeddoubtful over the phone.""I was a good deal taken aback, Mr. James. Your decision to leavewas so extremely sudden.""So was Columbus'. You know about him? He saw an egg standing onits head and whizzed off like a jack-rabbit.""If you will pardon the liberty, Mr. James, is it not a littlerash--?""Don't take the joy out of life, Bayliss. I may be a chump, buttry to forget it. Use your willpower.""Good evening, Mr. Bayliss," said a voice behind them. They bothturned. The butler was gazing rather coyly at a vision in a greytailor-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 atthe steamship offices. And before that he saved my life. So weare old friends."Bayliss, gaping perplexedly and feeling unequal to theintellectual pressure of the conversation, was surprised furtherto perceive a warning scowl on the face of his Mr. James. Jimmyhad not foreseen this thing, but he had a quick mind and wasequal to it.
"How are you, Miss Chester? My father has come down to see meoff. This is Miss Chester, dad."A British butler is not easily robbed of his poise, but Baylisswas 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 Jimmyconfidentially. "He's not quite himself."Ann was a girl possessed not only of ready tact but of a kindheart. She had summed up Mr. Bayliss at a glance. Every line ofhim proclaimed him a respectable upper servant. No girl on earthcould have been freer than she of snobbish prejudice, but shecould not check a slight thrill of surprise and disappointment atthe discovery of Jimmy's humble origin. She understood everything,and there were tears in her eyes as she turned away to avoidintruding 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 reada whole long novel, one of those chunky younger-English-novelistthings. She knew the whole story as well as if it had been toldto her in detail. She could see the father, the honest steadybutler, living his life with but one aim, to make a gentleman ofhis beloved only son. Year by year he had saved. Probably he hadsent the son to college. And now, with a father's blessing andthe remains of a father's savings, the boy was setting out forthe New World, where dollar-bills grew on trees and no one askedor cared who any one else's father might be.
There was a lump in her throat. Bayliss would have been amazed ifhe could have known what a figure of pathetic fineness he seemedto her. And then her thoughts turned to Jimmy, and she was awareof a glow of kindliness towards him. His father had succeeded inhis life's ambition. He had produced a gentleman! How easily andsimply, without a trace of snobbish shame, the young man hadintroduced his father. There was the right stuff in him. He wasnot ashamed of the humble man who had given him his chance inlife. 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; itwas necessity.""Very good, Mr. James. I think you had better be taking your seatnow.""Quite right, I had. It would spoil the whole thing if they leftme behind. Bayliss, did you ever see such eyes? Such hair! Lookafter my father while I am away. Don't let the dukes worry him.
Oh, and, Bayliss"--Jimmy drew his hand from his pocket--"as onepal to another--"Bayliss looked at the crackling piece of paper.
"I couldn't, Mr. James, I really couldn't! A five-pound note! Icouldn't!""Nonsense! Be a sport!""Begging your pardon, Mr. James, I really couldn't. You cannotafford to throw away your money like this. You cannot have agreat 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'sstarting! Good-bye, Bayliss!"The engine gave a final shriek of farewell. The train began toslide along the platform, pursued to the last by optimistic boysoffering buns for sale. It gathered speed. Jimmy, leaning out thewindow, was amazed at a spectacle so unusual as practically toamount to a modern miracle--the spectacled Bayliss running. Thebutler was not in the pink of condition, but he was striding outgallantly. He reached the door of Jimmy's compartment, and raisedhis hand.
"Begging your pardon, Mr. James," he panted, "for taking theliberty, but I really couldn't!"He reached up and thrust something into Jimmy's hand, somethingcrisp and crackling. Then, his mission performed, fell back andstood waving a snowy handkerchief. The train plunged into thetunnel.
Jimmy stared at the five-pound note. He was aware, like Annfarther along the train, of a lump in his throat. He put the noteslowly into his pocket.
The train moved on.
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