LITMIR.BIZ

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though she often slapped her children in vexation instead. They were used to slapping, and when nobody else slapped them they slapped one another. They were bright, ill-mannered brats, who pestered their parents and worried their teachers, and were happy as the Road was long.

      “Bother the school fees!” Peter retorted, vexed. “Mr. Cantercot’s not responsible for your children.”

      “I should hope not, indeed, Mr. Crowl,” Mrs. Crowl said sternly. “I’m ashamed of you.” And with that she flounced out of the shop into the back parlor.

      “It’s all right,” Peter called after her soothingly. “The money’ll be all right, mother.”

      In lower circles it is customary to call your wife your mother; in somewhat superior circles it is the fashion to speak of her as “the wife” as you speak of “the Stock Exchange,” or “the Thames,” without claiming any peculiar property. Instinctively men are ashamed of being moral and domesticated.

      Denzil puffed his cigarette, unembarrassed. Peter bent attentively over his work, making nervous stabs with his awl. There was a long silence. An organ-grinder played a waltz outside, unregarded; and, failing to annoy anybody, moved on. Denzil lit another cigarette. The dirty-faced clock on the shop wall chimed twelve.

      “What do you think,” said Crowl, “of Republics?”

      “They are low,” Denzil replied. “Without a Monarch there is no visible incarnation of Authority.”

      “What! do you call Queen Victoria visible?”

      “Peter, do you want to drive me from the house? Leave frivolousness to women, whose minds are only large enough for domestic difficulties. Republics are low. Plato mercifully kept the poets out of his. Republics are not congenial soil for poetry.”

      “What nonsense! If England dropped its fad of Monarchy and became a Republic tomorrow, do you mean to say that—?”

      “I mean to say that there would be no Poet Laureate to begin with.”

      “Who’s fribbling now, you or me, Cantercot? But I don’t care a button-hook about poets, present company always excepted. I’m only a plain man, and I want to know where’s the sense of givin’ any one person authority over everybody else?”

      “Ah, that’s what Tom Mortlake used to say. Wait till you’re in power, Peter, with trade-union money to control, and working men bursting to give you flying angels and to carry you aloft, like a banner, huzzahing.”

      “Ah, that’s because he’s head and shoulders above ’em already,” said Crowl, with a flash in his sad gray eyes. “Still, it don’t prove that I’d talk any different. And I think you’re quite wrong about his being spoiled. Tom’s a fine fellow—a man every inch of him, and that’s a good many. I don’t deny he has his weaknesses, and there was a time when he stood in this very shop and denounced that poor dead Constant. ‘Crowl,’ said he, ‘that man’ll do mischief. I don’t like these kid-glove philanthropists mixing themselves up in practical labor disputes they don’t understand.’”

      Denzil whistled involuntarily. It was a piece of news.

      “I daresay,” continued Crowl, “he’s a bit jealous of anybody’s interference with his influence. But in this case the jealousy did wear off, you see, for the poor fellow and he got quite pals, as everybody knows. Tom’s not the man to hug a prejudice. However, all that don’t prove nothing against Republics. Look at the Czar and the Jews. I’m only a plain man, but I wouldn’t live in Russia not for—not for all the leather in it! An Englishman, taxed as he is to keep up his Fad of Monarchy, is at least king in his own castle, whoever bosses it at Windsor. Excuse me a minute, the missus is callin’.”

      “Excuse me a minute. I’m going, and I want to say before I go—I feel it is only right you should know at once—that after what has passed today I can never be on the same footing here as in the—shall I say pleasant?—days of yore.”

      “Oh, no, Cantercot. Don’t say that; don’t say that!” pleaded the little cobbler.

      “Well, shall I say unpleasant, then?”

      “No, no, Cantercot. Don’t misunderstand me. Mother has been very much put to it lately to rub along. You see she has such a growing family. It grows—daily. But never mind her. You pay whenever you’ve got the money.”

      Denzil shook his head. “It cannot be. You know when I came here first I rented your top room and boarded myself. Then I learnt to know you. We talked together. Of the Beautiful. And the Useful. I found you had no soul. But you were honest, and I liked you. I went so far as to take my meals with your family. I made myself at home in your back parlor. But the vase has been shattered (I do not refer to that on the mantelpiece), and though the scent of the roses may cling to it still, it can be pieced together—nevermore.” He shook his hair sadly and shambled out of the shop. Crowl would have gone after him, but Mrs. Crowl was still calling, and ladies must have the precedence in all polite societies.

      Cantercot went straight—or as straight as his loose gait permitted—to 46 Glover Street, and knocked at the door. Grodman’s factotum opened it. She was a pock-marked person, with a brickdust complexion and a coquettish manner.

      “Oh, here we are again!” she said vivaciously.

      “Don’t talk like a clown,” Cantercot snapped. “Is Mr. Grodman in?”

      “No, you’ve put him out,” growled the gentleman himself, suddenly appearing in his slippers. “Come in. What the devil have you been doing with yourself since the inquest? Drinking again?”

      “I’ve sworn off. Haven’t touched a drop since—”

      “The murder?”

      “Eh?” said Denzil Cantercot, startled. “What do you mean?”

      “What I say. Since December 4, I reckon everything from that murder, now, as they reckon longitude from Greenwich.”

      “Oh,” said Denzil Cantercot.

      “Let me see. Nearly a fortnight. What a long time to keep away from Drink—and Me.”

      “I don’t know which is worse,” said Denzil, irritated. “You both steal away my brains.”

      “Indeed?” said Grodman, with an amused smile. “Well, it’s only petty pilfering, after all. What’s put salt on your wounds?”

      “The twenty-fourth edition of my book.”

      “Whose book?”

      “Well, your book. You must be making piles of money out of Criminals I Have Caught.”

      “Criminals I Have Caught,” corrected Grodman. “My dear Denzil, how often am I to point out that I went through the experiences that make the backbone of my book, not you? In each case I cooked the criminal’s goose. Any journalist could have supplied the dressing.”

      “The contrary. The journeymen of journalism would have left the truth naked. You yourself could have done that—for there is no man to beat you at cold, lucid, scientific statement. But I idealized the bare facts and lifted them into the realm of poetry and literature. The twenty-fourth edition of the book attests my success.”

      “Rot! The twenty-fourth edition was all owing to the murder! Did you do that?”

      “You take one up so sharply, Mr. Grodman,” said Denzil, changing his tone.

      “No—I’ve retired,” laughed Grodman.

      Denzil did not reprove the ex-detective’s flippancy. He even laughed a little.

      “Well, give me another fiver, and I’ll cry ‘quits.’ I’m in debt.”

      “Not a penny. Why haven’t you been to see me since the murder? I had to write that letter to the ‘Pell Mell Press’ myself. You might have earned a crown.”

      “I’ve had writer’s

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