Читать книгу Golden Ballast - Henry De Vere Stacpoole - Страница 10

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Wilfred Corder, otherwise known as James for some occult reason or another, was perhaps twenty-five years old—as years go.

But a man is not equally old all through and all over. There were spots in James—and very important spots—that were not more than fifteen years of age.

The son of Henry Corder, head of a great manufacturing company, James, on the death of his father, had found himself the sole possessor of some two million pounds, half in real estate and half in company shares. He took no interest in the manufacturing company or in real estate. The great round wonderful world was enough for James; the golf clubs and courses, the yachting centres, the fishing grounds, the clubs and the pleasant companions therein to be met.

“Absolutely irresponsible,” said Hanover, the head of the manufacturing company; “no good for anything but play, and it’s well for the business he hasn’t taken the craze to mix himself up in it.”

But Hanover was only partly right. James had strange streaks of caution in his nature, a certain business sense, and taste that preserved him from vulgarity. His yacht was a proof of this, no millionaire’s yellow-funneled packet boat, but a schooner of one hundred and eighty tons, built for weather, auxiliary engined and fit to go anywhere.

“Well,” said Dicky, “here’s luck. I got into this carriage to avoid a beastly chap and find you.”

“Who’s the chap?” asked James.

Dicky explained and Corder absorbed the tale. Keen though he was over anything to do with yachts or boats, the story of the Dennises and their makeshift way of living seemed to interest him more than the story of the Baltrum.

“And they’ve been living in her for nothing all the winter,” said he, “and now the government steps in and sells her over their heads and this perisher Houston is going to be a buyer. Well, you’ve got to beat him, Dicky. When’s the auction to be?”

Dicky told.

“If I’ve a day to spare I’ll maybe drop down and see it,” said James. “Eleven o’clock, is it? I could run down by car. I’m staying at the Savoy and the yacht’s at Grove’s yard at Tilbury. She’s just finished refitting; you remember her at Torquay, it’s the same old boat and I never want a better.”

At Liverpool Street Mr. Corder proposed luncheon at the Savoy, and Dicky fell to the lure; they had champagne and liqueurs, and at three o’clock Dicky found himself getting into a taxi and ordering the driver to take him to the bank.

Despite the champagne or maybe because of its reaction he felt heavy and dull and dissatisfied with the world. Corder’s wealth and sumptuous rooms and manner of life contrasted themselves with the streets, the shabby old taxi and his own prospects. Then he ought not to have gone to luncheon—he had wasted hours and he would have to see the solicitor some other day.

The interview at the bank did not improve his state of mind. His balance had shrunk. He had been paying out some checks and that process has a tendency toward making balances shrink. He found that he had exactly four hundred and twenty-five pounds to his credit, and leaving the twenty-five he drew out the four hundred—eight fifty-pound notes, which he placed in the breast pocket of his coat, and getting into the taxi again told the driver to take him to the stores.

Auctioneers want money down from strangers, or a reliable local reference. There was no one in Hildersditch to whom he could refer except Captain Salt, whom he knew only slightly, that was why he drew the money; and as he sat waiting in a block of the traffic his heaviness of spirit deepened into pessimism. The money in his pocket cried to him that it would not be enough, that Houston was a rich man who would beat him hands down in this game. Also it told him some home truths, among others that it was nearly all the money he possessed in the world and that when it was spent he would be on his beam ends.

It was past five o’clock when, taking a taxi from the stores to Liverpool Street, he remembered that he ought to have paid a visit to his tailor, and that he had not had his hair cut, also that he would be too late for the five-fifteen train and must take the six-ten. With these recollections and facts his subconscious mind suddenly turned up the remembrance of the bit of metal in his waistcoat pocket and the reason why he had placed it there.

He told the driver to stop at Ambrose’s in the Strand.

Ambrose is a pawnbroker and also a gun dealer. One half of the shop is given over to the sale of guns, revolvers, rifles and sporting gear, the other to the jewelry and pawnbroking business.

Dicky was known there. He had bought a second-hand rifle once at the right-hand counter and once when he was hard up he had pawned his watch at the counter on the left.

He found the sleek-haired assistant at the jewelry counter selling a bangle to a woman customer, waited his turn and handed over the bit of metal.

“A friend of mine has asked me to see if that’s gold or not,” said Dicky. “Would you mind testing it?”

“Certainly not,” said the other.

He took the thing in the palm of his hand and vanished with it into the back premises while Dicky contemplated the rings in the show cases, the clocks pointing to different hours and the umbrellas and walking sticks—unredeemed pledges and bargains.

Moments became minutes, the taxi was ticking away outside and Mr. Sebright for the second or third time that day told himself that he was a fool.

Then at last from the shop beyond came the sleek-haired assistant. He was carrying the bit of metal between finger and thumb. He placed it in a small envelope which he picked off a shelf and handed it across the counter.

“That’s gold,” said the assistant.