LITMIR.BIZ

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I don’t have any luck, you know, old man. They turned me out of Oxford because I had too much sense of humour for the authorities there—beastly set of old fogeys! Objected to my ‘chucking’ oyster shells at the tutors’ windows—good old English custom, fast becoming obsolete. Then I crammed for the Army. But, bless your heart, a GENTLEMAN has no chance for the Army nowadays; a pack of blooming cads, with what they call ‘intellect,’ read up for the exams, and don’t give US a look-in; I call it sheer piffle. Then the Guv’nor set me on electrical engineering—electrical engineering’s played out. I put no stock in it; besides, it’s such beastly fag; and then, you get your hands dirty. So now I’m reading for the Bar; and if only my coach can put me up to tips enough to dodge the examiners, I expect to be called some time next summer.”

      “And when you have failed for everything?” I inquired, just to test his sense of humour.

      He swallowed it like a roach. “Oh, when I’ve failed for everything, I shall stick up to the Guv’nor. Hang it all, a GENTLEMAN can’t be expected to earn his own livelihood. England’s going to the dogs, that’s where it is; no snug little sinecures left for chaps like you and me; all this beastly competition. And no respect for the feelings of gentlemen, either! Why, would you believe it, Cumberground—we used to call you Cumberground at Charterhouse, I remember, or was it Fig Tree?—I happened to get a bit lively in the Haymarket last week, after a rattling good supper, and the chap at the police court—old cove with a squint—positively proposed to send me to prison, WITHOUT THE OPTION OF A FINE!—I’ll trouble you for that—send ME to prison just—for knocking down a common brute of a bobby. There’s no mistake about it; England’s NOT a country now for a gentleman to live in.”

      “Then why not mark your sense of the fact by leaving it?” I inquired, with a smile.

      He shook his head. “What? Emigrate? No, thank you! I’m not taking any. None of your colonies for ME, IF you please. I shall stick to the old ship. I’m too much attached to the Empire.”

      “And yet imperialists,” I said, “generally gush over the colonies—the Empire on which the sun never sets.”

      “The Empire in Leicester Squire!” he responded, gazing at me with unspoken contempt. “Have a whisky-and-soda, old chap? What, no? ‘Never drink between meals?’ Well, you DO surprise me! I suppose that comes of being a sawbones, don’t it?”

      “Possibly,” I answered. “We respect our livers.” Then I went on to the ostensible reason of my visit—the Charterhouse testimonial. He slapped his thighs metaphorically, by way of suggesting the depleted condition of his pockets. “Stony broke, Cumberledge,” he murmured; “stony broke! Honour bright! Unless Bluebird pulls off the Prince of Wales’s Stakes, I really don’t know how I’m to pay the Benchers.”

      “It’s quite unimportant,” I answered. “I was asked to ask you, and I HAVE asked you.”

      “So I twig, my dear fellow. Sorry to have to say NO. But I’ll tell you what I can do for you; I can put you upon a straight thing—”

      I glanced at the mantelpiece. “I see you have a photograph of Miss Sissie Montague,” I broke in casually, taking it down and examining it. “WITH an autograph, too. ‘Reggie, from Sissie.’ You are a friend of hers?”

      “A friend of hers? I’ll trouble you. She IS a clinker, Sissie is! You should see that girl smoke. I give you my word of honour, Cumberledge, she can consume cigarettes against any fellow I know in London. Hang it all, a girl like that, you know—well, one can’t help admiring her! Ever seen her?”

      “Oh, yes; I know her. I called on her, in fact, night before last, at Scarborough.”

      He whistled a moment, then broke into an imbecile laugh. “My gum,” he cried; “this IS a start, this is! You don’t mean to tell me YOU are the other Johnnie.”

      “What other Johnnie?” I asked, feeling we were getting near it.

      He leaned back and laughed again. “Well, you know that girl Sissie, she’s a clever one, she is,” he went on after a minute, staring at me. “She’s a regular clinker! Got two strings to her bow; that’s where the trouble comes in. Me and another fellow. She likes me for love and the other fellow for money. Now, don’t you come and tell me that YOU are the other fellow.”

      “I have certainly never aspired to the young lady’s hand,” I answered, cautiously. “But don’t you know your rival’s name, then?”

      “That’s Sissie’s blooming cleverness. She’s a caulker, Sissie is; you don’t take a rise out of Sissie in a hurry. She knows that if I knew who the other bloke was, I’d blow upon her little game to him and put him off her. And I WOULD, s’ep me taters; for I’m nuts on that girl. I tell you, Cumberledge, she IS a clinker!”

      “You seem to me admirably adapted for one another,” I answered, truthfully. I had not the slightest compunction in handing Reggie Nettlecraft over to Sissie, nor in handing Sissie over to Reggie Nettlecraft.

      “Adapted for one another? That’s just it. There, you hit the right nail plump on the cocoanut, Cumberground! But Sissie’s an artful one, she is. She’s playing for the other Johnnie. He’s got the dibs, you know; and Sissie wants the dibs even more than she wants yours truly.”

      “Got what?” I inquired, not quite catching the phrase.

      “The dibs, old man; the chink; the oof; the ready rhino. He rolls in it, she says. I can’t find out the chap’s name, but I know his Guv’nor’s something or other in the millionaire trade somewhere across in America.”

      “She writes to you, I think?”

      “That’s so; every blooming day; but how the dummy did you come to know it?”

      “She lays letters addressed to you on the hall table at her lodgings in Scarborough.”

      “The dickens she does! Careless little beggar! Yes, she writes to me—pages. She’s awfully gone on me, really. She’d marry me if it wasn’t for the Johnnie with the dibs. She doesn’t care for HIM: she wants his money. He dresses badly, don’t you see; and, after all, the clothes make the man! I’D like to get at him. I’D spoil his pretty face for him.” And he assumed a playfully pugilistic attitude.

      “You really want to get rid of this other fellow?” I asked, seeing my chance.

      “Get rid of him? Why, of course! Chuck him into the river some nice dark night if I could once get a look at him!”

      “As a preliminary step, would you mind letting me see one of Miss Montague’s letters?” I inquired.

      He drew a long breath. “They’re a bit affectionate, you know,” he murmured, stroking his beardless chin in hesitation. “She’s a hot ‘un, Sissie is. She pitches it pretty warm on the affection-stop, I can tell you. But if you really think you can give the other Johnnie a cut on the head with her letters—well, in the interests of true love, which never DOES run smooth, I don’t mind letting you have a squint, as my friend, at one of her charming billy-doos.”

      He took a bundle from a drawer, ran his eye over one or two with a maudlin air, and then selected a specimen not wholly unsuitable for publication. “THERE’S one in the eye for C.,” he said, chuckling. “What would C. say to that, I wonder? She always calls him C., you know; it’s so jolly non-committing. She says, ‘I only wish that beastly old bore C. were at Halifax—which is where he comes from and then I would fly at once to my own dear Reggie! But, hang it all, Reggie boy, what’s the good of true love if you haven’t got the dibs? I MUST have my comforts. Love in a cottage is all very well in its way; but who’s to pay for the fizz, Reggie?’ That’s her refinement, don’t you see? Sissie’s awfully refined. She was brought up with the tastes and habits of a lady.”

      “Clearly so,” I answered. “Both her literary style and her liking for champagne abundantly demonstrate it!” His acute sense of humour did not enable him to detect the irony of my observation. I doubt if it extended much beyond oyster shells. He handed me the letter. I read it through with equal amusement and gratification. If Miss Sissie

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