Mr. Prohack - Arnold Bennett

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with food and shelter. Charlie was restlessly and dangerously waiting for his opportunity. But he had not developed into a revolutionist, nor a communist, nor anything of the sort. Oh, no! Quite the reverse. He meditated a different revenge on society.

      Mr. Prohack knew nothing of this meditated revenge, did not suspect it. If he had suspected it, he might have felt less compassion than, on this masculine evening with the unusual port, he did in fact feel. For he was very sorry for Charlie. He longed to tell him about the fortune, and to exult with him in the fortune, and to pour, as it were, the fortune into his lap. He did not care a fig, now, about advisable precautions. He did not feel the slightest constraint at the prospect of imparting the tremendous and gorgeous news to his son. He had no desire to reflect upon the proper method of telling. He merely and acutely wanted to tell, so that he might see the relief and the joyous anticipation on his son's enigmatic and melancholy face. But he could not tell because it had been tacitly agreed with his wife that he should not tell in her absence. True, he had given no verbal promise, but he had given something just as binding.

      "Nothing exciting to-day, I suppose," he said, when the silence had begun to distress him in his secret glee.

      "No," Charlie replied. "I got particulars of an affair at Glasgow, but it needs money."

      "What sort of an affair?"

      "Oh! Rather difficult to explain. Buying and selling. Usual thing."

      "What money is needed?"

      "I should say three hundred or thereabouts. Might as well be three thousand so far as I'm concerned."

      "Where did you hear of it?"

      "Club."

      Charlie belonged to a little club in Savile Place where young warriors told each other what they thought of the nature of society.

      Mr. Prohack drew in his breath with an involuntary gasp, and then said:

      "I expect I could let you have three hundred."

      "You couldn't!"

      "I expect I could." Mr. Prohack had never felt so akin to a god. It seemed to him that he was engaged in the act of creating a future, yea, a man. Charlie's face changed. He had been dead. He was now suddenly alive.

      "When?"

      "Well, any time."

      "Now?"

      "Why not?"

      Charlie looked at his watch.

      "Well, I'm much obliged," he said.

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      Mr. Prohack had brought a new cheque-book from the Bank. It lay in his hip-pocket. He had no alternative but to write out a cheque. Three hundred pounds would nearly exhaust his balance, but that did not matter. He gave Charlie the cheque. Charlie offered no further information concerning the "affair" for which the money was required. And Mr. Prohack did not choose to enquire. Perhaps he was too proud to enquire. The money would probably be lost. And if it were lost no harm would be done. Good, rather, for Charlie would have gained experience. The lad was only a child, after all.

      The lad ran upstairs, and Mr. Prohack sat solitary in delightful meditation. After a few minutes the lad re-appeared in hat and coat. Mr. Prohack thought that he had heard a bag dumped in the hall.

      "Where are you off to?" he asked.

      "Glasgow. I shall catch the night-train."

      He rang the bell.

      "Machin, run out and get me a taxi, sharp."

      "Yes, sir." Machin flew. This was the same girl of whom Mrs. Prohack dared to demand nothing. Mr. Prohack himself would have hesitated to send her for a taxi. But Charlie ordered her about like a slave and she seemed to like it.

      "Rather sudden this, isn't it?" said Mr. Prohack, extremely startled by the turn of events.

      "Well, you've got to be sudden in this world, guv'nor," Charlie replied, and lit a fresh cigarette.

      Mr. Prohack was again too proud to put questions. Still, he did venture upon one question:

      "Have you got loose money for your fare?"

      The lad laughed. "Oh, don't let that worry you, guv'nor … !" He looked at his watch once more. "I wonder whether that infernal girl is manufacturing that taxi or only fetching it."

      "What must I say to your mother?" demanded Mr. Prohack.

      "Give her my respectful regards."

      The taxi was heard. Machin dashed into the house, and dashed out again with the bag. The lad clasped his father's hand with a warm vigour that pleased and reassured Mr. Prohack in his natural bewilderment. It was not consistent with the paternal dignity to leave the dining-room and stand, valedictory, on the front-doorstep.

      "Well, I'm dashed!" Mr. Prohack murmured to himself as the taxi drove away. And he had every right to be dashed.

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      "Had any dinner?" Mr. Prohack asked his daughter.

      "No."

      "Aren't you hungry?"

      "No, thanks."

      Sissie seized the last remaining apple from the dessert-dish, and bit into it with her beautiful and efficient teeth. She was slim, and rather taller than necessary or than she desired to be. A pretty girl, dressed in a short-skirted, short-sleeved, dark blue, pink-heightened frock that seemed to combine usefulness with a decent perverse frivolity, and to carry forward the expression of her face. She had bright brown hair. She was perfectly mistress of the apple.

      "Where's mother?"

      "In bed with a headache."

      "Didn't she have dinner with you?"

      "She did not. And she doesn't want to be disturbed."

      "Oh! I shan't disturb her, poor thing. I told her this afternoon she would have one of her headaches."

      "Well," said Mr. Prohack, "that's one of the most remarkable instances of sound prophecy that I ever came across."

      "Father, what's amusing you?"

      "Nothing."

      "Yes, something is. You've got your funny smile, and you were smiling all to yourself when I came in."

      "I was thinking. My right to think is almost the only right I possess that hasn't yet been challenged in this house."

      "Where's Charles?"

      "Gone to Glasgow."

      "Gone to Glasgow?"

      "Yes."

      "What, just now?"

      "Ten minutes ago."

      "Whatever has he gone to Glasgow for?"

      "I don't know—any more than I know why you went out before dinner and came back after dinner."

      "Would

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