Читать книгу The Jest of Life - Arthur Gask - Страница 4

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ARCHDEACON BOTTLEWORTHY was a very well-known person in Adelaide, the beautiful city of the plains, and there were few citizens there who were unaware who he was when they encountered him in any public place.

In the early fifties, a proud cleric of cold imperious mien, he was reserved in disposition and most distant towards those not in his own social circle.

Undue humility certainly never troubled him and believing always to the point of an obsession that an admiring Providence had destined him for great things, he was sure that his high advancement in the Church was only the matter of a very short time.

For twenty years Head Master of St. Benger's College, one of the great schools of South Australia, and eleven, as Archdeacon of the Cathedral, he was quite aware that he loomed large in the public eye and he saw to it, accordingly, that all his movements should be well chronicled in the City Press.

By no possibility could it be said that the public were ever, even for one day, kept ill-informed as to exactly what he or his family were doing.

"Archdeacon Bottleworthy," they read, "left yesterday by the Melbourne Express—Archdeacon Bottleworthy returned from Melbourne this morning—Archdeacon, Mrs. and Miss Bottleworthy are spending a few days at Victor Harbour—Archdeacon Bottleworthy will preach on Sunday at St. Stephen's—Archdeacon Bottleworthy is confined to his room with a bad cold," etc., etc.

At St. Benger's, with a little less reserve, he would have been an even greater success, for he was a fine organizer, and had all the routine of school life well at his fingers' ends. By the masters and the boys alike he was feared and respected, but not loved.

Such then was the man whom Fate had ordained should first receive the wandering spirit of Mr. Montague Mackerel Twiggs.

THE archdeacon had been walking majestically along. The day, being a Saturday, was a holiday, but for all that, he told himself he was 'on duty.' He was always 'on duty,' it was his habit to say, and at that moment he was casting around a cold and severe eye to determine if any of his scholars should be comporting themselves in a manner that he would consider detrimental to the interests and reputation of the college.

He walked up North Terrace and then at once his eyebrows contracted into a frown. Pilcher secundus was eating an apple in the street! Most disgusting! He must be reproved for it. Pilcher always did look a greedy youth, and it should be brought sharply home to him on Monday that the consumption of fruit upon the public highway was not in accordance with the traditions of St. Benger's.

Then Riddle, the junior mathematical master, next caught his eye. He never had liked Riddle much, he murmured, and the fellow was now actually reading a sporting paper whilst waiting at the corner for a tram! The archdeacon knew it was a sporting paper at a glance, for it was highly pink in colour and upon the exposed front page there were pictures of horses galloping at great speed. Good! then Riddle should be interviewed on Monday and advised strongly as to the desirability of keeping his sporting proclivities within the confines of his own home.

But the archdeacon's annoyance was not over yet, for suddenly he visualized Holt, the school butler, in the act of buying a race-card from a yelling boy.

"So, so," he hissed angrily, "and that's what he's up to, is it? That's the flower-show for which he asked for early leave to go to this afternoon!"

He frowned contemptuously and then in majesty walked on. He nodded curtly to Wangleton, the Baptist Minister of North Unley, and then catching sight of Poodlum, the banker, in front of him, slackened his pace so that he should not have to say 'Good morning.' He despised Poodlum because, although a wealthy man now, the latter had had no university education and his parents had been of poor social status.

Presently he arrived opposite the Public Library and then, just when he was considering whether or not he should cross to the other side of the terrace—Poodlum really was walking so slowly—he suddenly felt a twinge.

He did not know exactly what it was, or indeed in what part of his august body he had actually felt it, but it startled him considerably and made him catch his breath.

Something had happened he realized; something had given way, and then to his great astonishment he burst into a hearty laugh.

It was a loud laugh, an exultant laugh, the laugh of a man who was enjoying a good joke. Two passing pedestrians looked up inquiringly; a little boy in front began to run, and Poodlum, the banker, turned half round to see what was happening.

"Rootity-toot," hummed the archdeacon gaily to himself—

"Rootity-toot, she plays the flute

In a very charming manner,

Pinkitty-pong she patters along,

On the keys of the grand pianner."

He waved his hand smilingly to Poodlum and the latter, smiling back, waited for him to come on.

"Good morning, Poodlum," cried the archdeacon hilariously and in a most friendly manner, "and pray how are all the little Poodles to-day?"

The banker's jaw dropped. Surely he could not have caught the words aright!

"All wagging their little tails, eh?" went on the archdeacon gaily, "and being good boys and girls and not running after motor-cars or chasing the cats."

A frown, a reluctant frown, came into the banker's face. That Archdeacon Bottleworthy was a most important person he was quite aware, but it was clear the man was now insulting him and he felt most indignant.

"I don't quite follow you," he said very coldly.

The archdeacon beamed good nature. "Only a little joke," he smiled apologetically. "The sun and the holiday really are too stimulating for an old man." He put his arm into that of the banker and, after a moment's hesitation on the part of the latter, the two walked on.

"Now, where are you off to?" inquired the archdeacon. "To that musty old bank of yours, I suppose."

The banker nodded without replying. It still rankled in him that the archdeacon had punned so disrespectfully upon his name and referred to his children as 'poodles.'

Two young fellows, walking quickly, overtook them.

They were dressed sportingly, in light check suits, with light ties to match. They wore bowler hats and they carried race-glasses, slung across their shoulders. They were laughing and talking animatedly together but, catching sight of the archdeacon, their faces sobered instantly and they both got rather red.

The archdeacon put up his hand for them to stop.

"Ha!" he exclaimed heartily. "Bulger primus, and Perkins secundus." He turned all smiles to the banker. "Both old St. Benger's boys, Poodlum, and very good boys, too, except perhaps for being a trifle wild." He shook his finger playfully at the taller of the two. "Now tell me, Bulger," he asked, "how many times did I whack you whilst you were at St. Benger's? Now how many times, pray?"

"Couldn't say, sir," replied the young fellow looking very innocent, "but I'm sure it was more than once."

"More than once," ejaculated the archdeacon, elevating his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Why, you young rascal, it was at least fifty times and the same with Perkins here, too. But where are you off to so hurriedly now? There's plenty of time, if it's to the flower-show you are going."

"No, sir, we're going to the races at Morphettville," replied young Bulger stoutly, yet getting redder in the face than ever. "There are some crack horses from Victoria running against ours in the Cup to-day."

"Ah! so I understand!" commented the archdeacon thoughtfully. "But the Victorians won't win, anyhow," he added, "for we shall beat them, and Whiskers will do the trick at the home bend. He will streak away like blue blazes—er—er"—he seemed to wince suddenly, but steadied himself and went on—"he'll—he'll accelerate his pace considerably at the turn and will ultimately achieve success by many lengths. He will pay a good dividend, too, I should say."

For a few seconds, then, an intense silence ensued. The faces of the archdeacon's hearers were pictures of surprise, and both Bulger primus and Perkins secundus stood literally open-mouthed. The contempt that the Head Master of St. Benger's had for racing was so well known and indeed it was his boast that he did not know the name of even one race-horse in the Commonwealth. He was dead against all forms of betting, too.

Poodlum was the first to recover. He was still annoyed about the punning and inclined to be spiteful, in consequence.

"Dear me! Archdeacon Bottleworthy," he remarked dryly, "I'm sure I had no idea you were so well posted in racing matters. Why, perhaps you are even intending to go to Morphettville yourself?"

The archdeacon looked sternly at his interrogator. His face had dropped to cold, proud lines again and all traces of the jovial humour of the few moments back had passed.

"And why not?" he asked with dignity. "Why should I not, if I want to?" The ghost of a smile flickered into his eyes. "I should meet, I am sure, not a few of the fathers and mothers of my boys."

"You would, sir," said Bulger primus heartily, "and I'm sure you'd enjoy yourself if you came. It will be a great afternoon's sport and besides"—the young fellow grinned rather impudently here—"you could keep us all in order whilst you were there. But good-bye, sir, we must be going now," and touching their hats respectfully, the two young fellows moved off.

"Good-bye, Poodlum, too," said the archdeacon carelessly. "I expect our roads part here. I am going to the club," and with a wave of his hand the great man resumed his walk and turned up into King William Street.

The archdeacon's club, one of the best in the city, was the great Boodle Club in Bunkum Square, and considered by its members to be aristocratic and exclusive to a degree. In a vulgar world, it was a refined oasis for the great ones of the earth and, as far as new membership was concerned, its rules and regulations were of so hard, so stringent and of so inflexible a nature, that no one except those of extreme importance could ever hope to enter in.

It was true of some of its members that their origins were obscure, and of others that their appearance and intelligence hardly suggested the incidence of gentle birth, but still—still—they were undoubtedly possessed of qualities that uplifted them far above their fellows. They were giants in their own way, for—they were great masters of £. s. d.

Yes, pounds, shillings and pence were most highly esteemed in this holy of holies, and to members of the club, generally, their possession in no wise detracted from the worthiness of a candidate, when at election time he approached its sacred doors.

But the archdeacon was a member by virtue of his position in the Church, and he saw to it, accordingly, that he preserved his dignity as a unit of the professional classes. He never mingled too freely with the other members of the club, and was never too familiar with those whose merits had been appraised upon a strictly cash basis.

Arriving then at the club upon this particular morning, he walked slowly into the lounge, and, with a distant nod to those whom he encountered, ensconced himself comfortably in a large armchair, and picking up a magazine proceeded unconcernedly to read.

For quite a long time he remained absorbed in his periodical, and then in spite of his abstraction he was forced with some reluctance to take interest in the conversation that was going on around him.

An election of new members, it appeared, was shortly coming on and the desirability, or otherwise, of a certain candidate was being energetically discussed. From the remarks passing it was evident there was nothing at all detrimental about the individual in a general way, for he was well-connected, a gentleman, and well-known in the insurance world, but doubt was being covertly expressed as to his importance in a strictly financial sense.

"But he's not a bad sort," drawled a tall man with a monocle, "and he plays quite a good game of golf."

"He tipped me the winner of the Hurdle's last week," chirruped a short, stout individual who was absorbing cocktails like a sponge, "and I don't forget that it paid nearly seven to one."

"He was pretty good too during the war, wasn't he?" contributed a third speaker. "I remember he worked hard for the Soldiers' Fund."

"That's all very well," exclaimed a fussy little person with some irritation, "but look at the house he lives in. Why, it's hardly larger than a good-sized cottage!"

"Dreadful, dreadful!"' groaned the cocktail man, "but hasn't anyone been sent to take an exact measurement of the rooms?"

"Oh, you needn't try to be funny," replied the fussy person warmly. "Think of the good name we've got here. We must all try to keep up the reputation of the club."

The archdeacon put down his magazine. He thought, strangely, that it was his duty to make some comment.

"And do I understand," he asked, in his quiet and aristocratic tone, "that there is some doubt as to the desirability of this gentleman as a member, simply because he lives in a house of somewhat smaller dimensions than those we inhabit ourselves?"

An instant hush came over the room, and for a few moments not a sound could be heard. It was most unusual for the archdeacon at any time to take part in the general conversation of the club, and now that he was so doing, everyone was interested to learn the reason why.

"Well, it's not exactly that," stammered the fussy man, looking rather embarrassed, "but—er—er, you see we can't be too careful and must all pull together to keep this club select. We've got our reputation to keep up, you know."

"Pooh! pooh!" exclaimed the archdeacon scornfully, "our reputation is quite an imaginary one, for really, we are many of us nonentities here. Just the sons or grandsons of men who made money in very humble occupations and handed it down when they died." He shrugged his shoulders. "Worthy men, undoubtedly, but butchers, drovers, farm-hands and people who kept little shops or inns."

There was a gasp of astonishment from the fussy man, and the hush deepened in the room. The archdeacon was the cynosure of all eyes.

Could members believe their ears? What—the great Boodle referred to as a club of nonentities and their early and long-forgotten histories dragged obscenely into the light! It was unthinkable, and from the archdeacon of all people, too!

The archdeacon smiled. He seemed to be enjoying the sensation he was creating. "Not that all of us in callings or professions either, have great cause to boast," he went on, "for very few of us, indeed, are the really important people that we imagine ourselves to be.'"

For quite a long moment no one took up the challenge, and then Professor Sinker from an armchair by the window, broke the silence.

"Really, Archdeacon," he remarked reprovingly, "you're a little bit hard on us, aren't you?"

The archdeacon looked over towards the speaker.

"Not at all, Professor," he replied calmly. "It's quite a mild statement that I made. We are just a very ordinary lot of people here and apart from our mediocrity I may add, too, that we are not all of us—even honest."

The fat was in the fire right enough this time, and, in spite of all the awe usually accorded to the archdeacon, he was now regarded with scowling faces and black brows. This really was beyond a joke!

"Come, come, Archdeacon Bottleworthy," snapped the professor very sharply, "you've no right to make a statement like that. It's a libel upon us all."

The archdeacon looked round disdainfully. "Sir," he replied coldly, "I lost two umbrellas here last month."

For the moment, the drop even of a pin could have been heard, and the atmosphere was charged everywhere with grim suspense.

Then suddenly the cocktail man exploded violently into a loud and rapturous guffaw, and all eyes were on the instant levelled in his direction.

What was the fellow up to? The archdeacon had openly stigmatized some of them as dishonest and here was one of their number actually laughing and treating it as a good joke! His amusement was worse than out of place! It was disgraceful!

But their black looks were of no avail and the cocktail gentleman continued to rock and roar with laughter. Then notwithstanding everyone's resentment, their merriment began to spread. The angry lines upon faces softened, lips began to twitch, and then before anyone could realize that it had happened, a delighted roar of laughter was rolling round the room.

"Oh, lor!" groaned the cocktail man, wiping his eyes, "but who could have pinched the ecclesiastical umbrellas?"

Professor Sinker alone had preserved his equanimity. "But these umbrellas of yours, Archdeacon," he asked frowning, "were they expensive ones?"

"The first one had an ivory handle," replied the archdeacon, "but the handle of the second one was only bone." He smiled dryly. "I was acquiring wisdom, you see."

A short and stout man with a round, fat face bustled breathlessly into the room, and throwing himself into a chair, called for a whisky and soda. He was the great Dr. Bunions, of North Terrace.

"Hullo, Doc," said a member, "you're late for prayer-time this morning. What's happened?"

"Oh, I had an urgent call, just when I was coming away," replied the doctor pompously. "Twiggs, the dentist, had some sort of seizure, and I had to go at once."

A mild interest was occasioned. "Anything serious?" asked one man. "Twiggs is my dentist."

"Can't say yet," replied Dr. Bunions, "I've never seen anything quite like it before. The man seems to be in some kind of trance. He'll probably get over it, however, but in any case he'll be laid up for some months."

"Not at all," said the archdeacon, breaking in. "He'll be indisposed for exactly six weeks, and then he'll be better than he's ever been before."

Dr. Bunions stared at the archdeacon in great surprise, and then, from the expression on his face, seemed upon the point of making some sarcastic remark. But he remembered, in time, that he had many church patients, and also that the archdeacon was far too important a person to offend. So he just contented himself with a smile, and remarked dryly:

"Then we're rival practitioners, are we, Archdeacon? But I didn't know you had already made a diagnosis of the case."

"Nor have I," replied the archdeacon carelessly, "but for quite a long time I have thought something of the kind was coming on. Young Twiggs has been much too hard-worked." He raised his voice. "Twiggs is the best dentist in the State."

"But I thought Fangles was your dentist," said Dr. Bunions.

The archdeacon inclined his head haughtily. "Twiggs is our best dentist, I say."

"By the by, Doctor," broke in the man with the monocle, "now do you happen to have any umbrellas in your house?"

"Certainly, sir," replied the unsuspicious doctor, looking rather puzzled, "as a matter of fact, I have two."

For the second time that morning there was a delighted roar of laughter round the room, and the stout man ordered, paid for, and consumed another cocktail before the hilarity had quite died down.

For a while then the archdeacon resumed the perusal of his magazine, but soon becoming aware that he was feeling hungry, he proceeded into the dining-room to partake of lunch. There, to his astonishment, for it was his rule of life never to drink alcohol at any midday meal, he found himself ordering a pint of burgundy and later two brandy liqueurs.

"But I ought not to have done it," he frowned as he returned into the lounge, "for it is not seemly that the cloth should be seen drinking in public. It is sure to be remarked upon and may get back to St. Benger's."'

The clock struck one, and with everyone apparently bent upon going to the races, the lounge quickly emptied and soon the archdeacon was the only one remaining there.

He tried to concentrate upon his magazine but, do all he could, his thoughts were very far away, and above all things, to his very great annoyance, he kept on wondering how Whiskers would fare in the Cup.

But what a lovely day it was, he mused, and how delightful it would be to stroll about at Morphettville! How gay and bustling the race-course would look and how happy and animated everyone would be!

He sighed heavily, for he had not been to a race-meeting for nearly thirty years, not indeed, since his undergraduate days, and the memory of everything now came back to him, and struck at him like a blow. He was growing old, he told himself; he was losing grip on the happiness of life, and he was getting mouldy, like so many of the other clergy were.

He remembered so well the last race he had seen. It had been on the great, wide moor at Doncaster, in the far-off days at home. Yes, he could visualize, even now, the whole scene, with a great bunch of horses, nearly a score of them, all charging up the course in line. It had been anyone's race up to within a few yards of the judge's box, and then a beautiful little chestnut filly had flashed out in front and snatched the spoils almost in the last stride. It had been terribly exciting, and he remembered his delight, because it had been the winner he himself had backed.

Ah! those had been happy days, and he had not thought then that racing was an evil thing! He wrinkled up his forehead and looked very troubled. Then why did he think so now?

He thought on for quite a long while and then suddenly his face broke into a relieved and happy smile. Perhaps, after all, he was mistaken, he told himself, and therefore, as a just man, surely it was his clear duty to ascertain at once if it were really so. Yes, of course it was, and so he would go straightaway down to Morphettville and see for himself how Whiskers would—he corrected his thoughts quickly—how things were conducted on the race-course side. It was his duty, plain and unmistakable, and the wonder was he had not thought of it before! Really, he had been very remiss!

He picked up his hat and passing out of the building proceeded to walk quickly in the direction of the railway station.