Читать книгу The Staff at Simson's - Frederick Niven - Страница 9

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A buyer from Australia, a buyer from New Zealand arrived the day after Mr. Sinclair of Montreal, and in the matter of entertaining these visitors fortune was with the house of Simson. Was there not the Royal Visit, preparations for which the office-boy had seen when on his way to warn John Simson at the Royal Exchange of the Canadian's imminent advent?

For his family and himself, John had already secured a window near Charing Cross. He could have invited these three from overseas to share it, but Robert, in the end, was their host. They would be happier—such was the decision of the brothers—lunching with a bachelor at his club, and in a stag-party viewing the procession from its windows, than in a family gathering.

They had, already, memorable acquaintance with Robert's club, its cuisine and cellars. They liked the solid comfort of its rooms. They liked its servants, these waiters who spoke with a native burr, markedly neither Swiss nor Italian, who by reason of the heavy shoes they wore might be mistaken for comfortable farmers in evening dress, but never for dancing-masters. Mr. Heriot, the buyer from New Zealand, who was a reader, they always reminded of the servitors in the works of Scott, those servitors who, by their sterling character, sometimes for a whole chapter were more mighty than those behind whose old family chairs they stood.

The luncheon party was definitely successful. Mr. Robert had no occasion to recall the phrases he had prepared, the topics he had pondered in advance toward launching it. That was a way of his to combat a sort of stage-fright that sometimes assailed him in preliminaries of playing host. It was the Canadian who saved him the need to open proceedings.

"Do you realise," said Mr. Sinclair, spreading the napkin on his knees, bending forward, and looking from one to the other in a friendly and inclusive glance, "that we bring the Empire together?"

By nods and smiles they acknowledged realisation and he plunged on, neatly spearing hors-d'[oe]uvres the while, into statistics.

"D'ye realise the area we represent, sitting here at this table?" he asked. "Australia, three million square miles; New Zealand, a hundred and five thousand square miles; Canada, three millions, five forty-seven, two hundred AND thirty."

Robert Simson gazed in amazement. How was it done? Had this man prepared it beforehand? Did he also plan his table-talk in advance? The New Zealander stared at Sinclair in somewhat similar fashion, amused as well as awed. The Australian was, by his twinkle, as one going into joyous action—he, too, a statistician. He sat erect. He drew a deep breath, and when the Canadian inquired, "Did you gentlemen from the Antipodes come on the same boat?" he replied not only that they had not but, as well as giving the name of his steamer, added, "fifteen thousand tons."

Heriot decided the question had been sufficiently answered. No need for him to give the name of his boat. Had he known the tonnage he would no doubt have affably and proudly given both. Australia and Canada, however, warmed each to other over their gift in common, and the wine-waiter recharged their glasses at a nod from Mr. Robert while from outside through the open window came hum of the populace, like the sound of surf on a distant beach.

Sinclair of Montreal and Thomson from Sydney were climbing the genealogical trees of the Royal houses of Europe, swopping their knowledge of the ages of kings, queens, and emperors, and the New Zealander was beginning to feel fuddled—whether with the statistics or the wine, he could not say—when Mr. Robert, somewhat diffidently, for the talk of these two was going well, asked if they would like to have coffee there or in the smoking-room. Heriot, by reason of his feeling of being in a daze, self-consciously wondered if the coffee was suggested chiefly for his sake, for it was upon him that the host's gaze rested. He plumped promptly for the smoking-room.

On the way across the hall he suddenly remembered that in his breast-pocket he had the passenger list of the steamer on which he had come from New Zealand, and that on its forefront, under a picture of the vessel, its tonnage was noted. Furtively he drew it out sufficiently far to read the figures and when they sat down in the great saddlebags in the smoking-room, circling to a low, circular table, and coffee and liqueurs were before them, he began:

"By the way, the tonnage of the boat I came on was——"

Robert gazed at him with astonishment. Was he too, then, a statistician? Had he been lying low, just eating and drinking and biding his time?

"Damn it, I forget!" said the New Zealander.

Dominion and Commonwealth stared at him. At that moment the head-waiter came to Robert's side and bending there, spoke quietly almost paternally.

"Oh, that so? Thank you. Well, gentlemen, we'd better be getting to our window."

Australia and Canada gulped coffee and liqueur, but New Zealand, warned by having forgotten his ship's tonnage two minutes after, as he thought, he had memorised it, quaffed down his tot of coffee, but left the liqueur.

There was music without, distant, of pipe and drum as they crossed the quiet and void dining-room again to take their places on the flag-draped balcony before its windows. The sound as of surf on distant beaches was louder there and clearly realised as the hum of voices. On either side of the street the pavements were thronged from kerb to wall. In front of the barricades were soldiers, standing at ease, but even as they took their seats the rasp of an order to "Attention" rang out. High banners, slung from one side to the other of that thoroughfare, folded and unfolded, snapping in the passing breezes. In the middle of the street below a flock of pigeons pottered, pecking happily at the gravel as though it had been strewn there specially for them to use as roughage for their crops. Suddenly came mounted policemen at the gallop, and the pigeons rose, flying under the flags—a long streaming line of blue wings.

Heriot sat upon Robert's left. On his right sat Sinclair and next to him Thompson, with a corner to lean back comfortably. The Canadian bent forward, and raising his hands brought one down upon his host's knee, and one upon the Australian's.

"D'you realise, gentlemen," he inquired, "that we bring the Empire together?"

In another quarter of the city, Peter Pringle was busy, with marked proficiency, in a profession other than that of carrying loads. What that was, and how he had become a skilled practitioner, requires at least brief explanation. After that day on which, homing from the collecting of tramcar-tickets with (and for) Jean Morrison—the day of the lizard in the bottle, and the Mad Reformer—he found himself an orphan, he had been adopted, more or less, by a rogue with redeeming qualities in Argyle Court. This foster-father (he had been, ever and again, a close friend of Peter's mother, and may, indeed, have been his true father) was a great stravaiger to horse-races, whippet-races, country fairs, agricultural shows, staunch attender at all royal processions within reasonable distance of his base. A board, small enough to slip under his waistcoat at sight of a policeman, three thimbles and a pea: these were his chief means of support; and out of the fulness of his heart he had let the small boy sleep in his room at Argyle Court, share his food when he was at home, with no other return than occasional assistance (taking him along when pursuing his profession in the city) in watching for the police and clapping his hands together at sight of one drawing near. The sound of one brisk clap, he explained to young Peter, could penetrate through the clamour of even a large crowd. Renfrewshire and Ayrshire he had wandered through, also the border shires and northward into Perth, sometimes in summer accompanied by the boy who helped with that clap of the hands. He knew the Cowgate and the Grassmarket of Edinburgh as intimately as the Gallowgate and the Saltmarket of Glasgow, and had once lodged for a day or two in the Scouringburn of Dundee. A little, lean wiry man he was, a merry adventurer.

Many conjuring tricks he taught Peter, but chief of all was the pea and thimbles one. Since those days young Pringle had been boot-black, newsboy, billiard-marker, and here he was—porter at Simson's; but always he had kept in practice with thimbles and pea. A royal procession through the city gave excellent opportunity, if one were proficient in the handling of these, for making a little honest if illegal money. The necessity to have many police along the route of a procession left other quarters meagrely patrolled, and always a considerable percentage of those who had come to see processions were bored with the waiting and with having their toes trodden on. Disgruntled, they backed out and in the adjacent streets were ready for the excitement and consolation offered by betting on the problem of which thimble hid the elusive pea. "Help, gentlemen! Help, gents, to find the pea. Where has the little jigger gone? Only a penny a guess, gentlemen. Even money and no deception. Where, O where, has the little jigger gone?" Long since had the tall "land" at Argyle Court been demolished, long since had Peter's self-appointed foster-father—for other sleight of hand, beyond the secretion of a pea under a thimble—been taken off for a sojourn in prison; but Peter had all these years kept up his practice and ever and again he added to income by aid of that spare-time employment.

By streets parallel to the beflagged ones he took his way, while the Empire was being brought together in Robert Simson's Club. The voices of that festive day had come up to Mr. Robert and his guests indistinctly, like the sound of surf on a distant beach. To Peter Pringle they were distinct though coming to him only in detached fragments as he threaded his way through the moving throng looking for a pitch.

"You're no' all here!"

"No. Mauggie's at hame and I begin to wish I was there. It's a wonder we ever won this far."

"What a crowd! And sojers—sojers everywhere, wi' their braw uniforms and their shining boots. What a trudge we've had! There seems nae end to this road, or we get a place for tae slip in and see't."

"If only that husband o' mine hadna the notion to live away out in the country. For the children's health, he says, to save them breathing the soot."

"Aw, weel, it's worth seeing, nae doot. When the weans are auld they'll be able to tell o' seein't. That's a bonny frock ye have for the occasion. Fine stuff. If it's fair to ask—how much was ye taxed for it?"

"Goad, what a crowd! We'll never get through. It's like sardines in a tin."

"Oh, here they come. It's the Greys! It's the Scots Greys, the detachment frae Maryhill. They're going to have cavalry as well as infantry lining the route. Here, man, that's my toes ye're tramping on. It's granted.... Oh, look at that mounted policeman's horse rearin' up. Come in here, lassie, come in here. Give us hold of your hand. Have ye gone gyte, slipping out there on the causey?"

"They're awfu' brats, some of them. Well, we're a' richt here, I'm thinking."

"Aye, and I feel better. I felt dwamy in that crush, and I'm that feart of ramping horses...."

"See here, you tak' Jimmy's hand, and I'll tak' Mary's, and dinna you louse't or she'll be lost in the crowd. Did ye hear that rend the noo? Look! Somebody steppit on my dress. They're a nuisance these long dresses, gathering a' the glaur and stoor—and the hems getting tramped on!"

"Aw, haw! Did ye hear the would-be's go by, talking like they had been eating London buns? What's wrang wi' oor ain speech?"

"Here you are, ladies, you can get through here."

"Thank you, sir, thank you kindly. Come on, come on. Weel, now we'll get somewhere, now we shan't be long as the saying goes."

By streets parallel to those of the procession, Peter travelled along with a spate of others. At every side street they looked hopefully to see if there was room for them at the other end where the procession was to pass. But at every side street were people coming out with the cry of, "Farther on, there's nae room here!" Soon, by the signs, Peter would find the perfect place to begin, and at last he was at it. A group of men, with neither wife nor children to look after, had apparently decided that sufficient people were packed along the sides of the main thoroughfares to huzzah and wave. Perhaps they had even set out only half-heartedly, and were easily discouraged and deflected.

Here was Peter's opportunity. He whipped out from under his waistcoat (that action itself was like a conjuring trick) the little board, slipped its string round his neck, set the three thimbles in place, elevated the pea between curved thumb and forefinger in the true manner, and——

"Gents, oh, gents!" he pled in a waggish, wheedling, cajoling voice that brought friendly laughter, "where has the little jigger gone? Can no one find the little fellow? Here you are, sir. A penny a time and even money. Can you see the little jigger? Under this one? Well, well, who could believe it? Not there! I thought myself I saw it slip under that one, sir. In your place, I'd have bet on it. Why, here it is—under this other one. Thank you, sir. Penny a throw and even money. Where, O where, is the little jigger? No deception. Keep your eye on him. Here he is—and now he's gone! Penny a throw. Under this one? Well, well, it is not there! Why, under this one! Now, you little jigger, how did you get there?"

At the end of that street the heralding police rode past, and there was a throbbing in the air of fife and drum.

"Another try, sir? Where, oh, where...."

The bands blared and the crowds cheered while Peter pocketed the pennies.