Читать книгу Sorrell and Son - Warwick Deeping - Страница 32

The other problem that worried Sorrell was the inevitable advent of George Buck.

The ex-sergeant-major seemed to project a menacing adumbration, and to Sorrell he suggested the blonde beast dominant, something hectoring and elephantine.

Buck!

He did not like the name; it was both too male and too American. He agreed that it was absurd of him to worry about the fellow, and yet he would catch himself at all sorts of moments creating a shadowy image of the prospective head-porter. What was the man like? Would Buck be a big, muscular creature, all belly, voice, and blonde moustache? Would he order him about?

Sorrell began to dislike the man weeks before he had ever seen him, and his dislike was instinctive and natural. George Buck was a possible menace to his security; he might prove a destroyer of the pleasant and calm activity that Sorrell had begun to associate with the Pelican Inn. He might interfere with the nice little efficiencies that the second porter was evolving. Moreover, he might pocket, a sergeant-majorly share of the tips.

Sorrell was doing quite well in tips, in spite of the enforced quietness of these months of transfiguration. He was saving money fast; he had a Post Office savings book.

But his prophetic hostility to George Buck was not only the hostility of a dog with a bone towards the bigger dog who was to share it. It was as though Sorrell had a premonition, a sensitive fore-feeling of what the man's presence would mean in the lounge and the luggage-room and on the stairs and in the staff's quarters. Buck cast a shadow, a shadow as of something huge and menacing and hairy. Even the flicker of a fire at twilight throwing shadows about the lounge brought on his mood of depression and restlessness. Or a blustering wind at night. Sorrell fought against it. The thing was becoming an obsession, a clawing monkey at the back of his mind.

About a week before the head-porter's arrival, Sorrell compelled himself to speak to Roland.

"I suppose, sir, when that Buck comes–I shall have to take orders–?"

Roland was at the piano, and Sorrell had come in with a fresh supply of coal.

"Yes,–just a word. I told you–. Buck will be responsible. That's only fair, Stephen."

"Quite fair, sir."

"He's not a bad sort of a chap. Though, of course, I only knew him as a sergeant-major. I want him to have his chance."

Sorrell had a feeling that Tom Roland was maintaining certain mental reservations with regard to Buck. He did not quite know his man. There was an obligation, or what Roland conceived to be an obligation, and Sorrell found wisdom in reticence.

"I will do all I can to help him, sir."

"I am sure you will. So far as I am concerned, Stephen, a man makes good or cuts his own throat. I observe things."

He began to play a piece of Debussy's, and Sorrell, after putting coal on the fire with careful noiselessness, went softly out of the room.

"Do your job and hang on," he thought. "Whatever that other man is he is not going to make me cut my own throat."