The streets of London were alive with an unwonted gaiety, and crowds of people waited patiently, and with an air of expectancy, to see the Lord Mayor of London pass in state on his way from the Mansion House to the Home for Children which he had built—about to be opened that day by his Majesty the King.
Ridgwell and Christine sat in the broad, chintz-covered window-seat of the Writer's chambers overlooking Trafalgar Square, and viewed the great crowds of people beneath them with astonishment and interest.
"When the Lord Mayor passes my window," said the Writer, "he has promised to look out as far as his dignity will permit and nod to me. That he also intends to nod to our old friend Lal is a foregone conclusion, for without that recognition upon his part I am sure the day's ceremony would be incomplete."
"Will it be like a circus?" inquired Ridgwell.
"Yes, rather like a circus," admitted the Writer. "That is to say, a very great deal of gilt and highly coloured horses, soldiers, and inevitably one brass band playing, probably more than one."
"We can see Lal perfectly from here," said Christine.
"What is that large wreath for, placed between Lal's paws?" askedRidgwell.
"That," declared the Writer, "was placed there early this morning by the Lord Mayor himself. He ordered it from Covent Garden, and he had great difficulty in procuring it even there. The wreath is entirely composed of water-lilies, Lal's favourite flower, and is put there in honour of the occasion. Of course this is undoubtedly one of the great days in the Lord Mayor's life, and he looks upon it as one of the crowning features in his whole career."
A sudden increased agitation among the crowd, a rumble as of cheering in the distance, and the first sound of trumpets and drums announced that the procession was drawing near.
The first sign of the vanguard were some mounted policemen who rode ahead to clear the way. There appeared to be little need for this precaution, as the crowds were standing in most orderly rows along the pavements.
"I'm sure Lal doesn't like those policemen," said Ridgwell decisively.
"No," agreed the Writer, "he sees such a lot of them where he is and, of course, he detests crowds of any sort, they jostle and bump his pedestal so much that it makes him feel uncomfortable. Here come the mounted soldiers; they look very smart, don't they? And here is the band, blowing their trumpets for all they are worth; some of them almost look as if they would burst with the effort."
"Is that first carriage the Lord Mayor's?" inquired Christine.
"No, the first carriages are all the other Aldermen."
"Six carriages full," said Christine. "And look at those men in red and gold standing up behind the last coaches."
"Yes," said Ridgwell, "strap-hangers. I wonder how they keep their balance and keep all that powder on their heads."
"I fancy," said the Writer, "they have to practise it; and as for the powder, I expect it is a secret preparation known only to themselves."
A burst of renewed cheering greeted the appearance of six cream horses, richly caparisoned with red and gold trappings, urged on by outriders.
"Here is the Lord Mayor," exclaimed the Writer excitedly, as he produced a large red silk handkerchief and waved it wildly out of the window.
There could be no doubt whatever that a fat old gentleman with red cheeks and a white moustache, whose portly form was covered with a scarlet and fur gown, around which hung a lot of glittering golden chains, and who had one side of the state coach all to himself, saw the Writer's greeting and returned it. The children saw him look up at the window and deliberately bow, then he turned his head in the direction of Lal, the Pleasant-Faced Lion, and bowed and smiled.
"Quite gorgeous," observed Ridgwell when the procession had passed, "but I always thought from what you told us that Alderman Gold was tall and thin."
"Ah," said the Writer, "that was at the beginning of the story, and he was a Miser then, and most misers are thin; but as he grew more and more cheerful, more and more happy, he grew a bit fatter and a bit fatter still, and then he got colour in his cheeks, until he became the jolly, agreeable, fat, old, good-natured gentleman you have seen just now in the distance. However, you will be able to see him at closer quarters and make his jolly acquaintance for yourselves presently, for he will call here and see me after all the ceremony is over."
"Will he be in time for tea?" inquired Christine.
"No, much too late for tea, Christine, but there will be a welcome for him, which I know he is looking forward to, and something I think he will like better than the big City banquet he has presided at, and it will be waiting for him here—a good cigar and a drink," and the Writer indicated a very handsome piece of old oak furniture at the end of the long room, which contained mysterious little cupboards which opened in odd angles and unexpected curves.
"I do hope he will turn up in his robes," ventured Ridgwell. "I rather want to see what they are like."
"We must wait and see about that, and as it must be some considerable time before tea, and a longer time still before His Worshipful the Mayor can possibly be here, I propose to finish the rest of the story I told you, right up to the present time. Of course, Lal may give the sign he promised to-night, or he may not; if he does you will both be here to see it."
Thereupon Ridgwell and Christine curled themselves up upon the broad window seat, and prepared to listen.
The Writer closed the window, and they all noticed that the crowds beneath were rapidly dispersing; occasionally some one would stop for a second and look at the big wreath of water-lilies between the Lion's paws, but the majority of people passing appeared not to have noticed it at all.
"Where did I get to in the story?" asked the Writer.
"Lal had said his last word to you," volunteered Ridgwell; "and what I particularly want to know is this: how did that second mysterious promise about Dick Whittington come true eventually, and did you ever meet Dick Whittington as Lal declared that you would, and did he really bring you fame and fortune when you met him?"
The Writer smiled. "Yes, indeed I met him, but not in any way or fashion that I should ever have expected. Of course both of you children know Lal well enough by this time to realise that he loves a little joke of his own at our expense, and many of his mysterious promises, although they come true in a way, turn out to be utterly and completely different from what he would seem to suggest to us by his words; in fact, Lal is like a great happy conjuror or wizard who dearly loves to mystify us with a trick. I am convinced he enjoys our amazement at any of his pet tricks, as much as he enjoys the laugh he has at our expense."
"That's right," said Ridgwell; "he tricked Chris and me finely once. I haven't forgiven him so very long for it, and it made me feel very uncomfortable for a good while."
"Everybody forgives Lal in the end," laughed the Writer; "one simply cannot help oneself, but really his pranks are too absurd, and yet when I found out how I had been tricked, I couldn't be cross with him, for I actually loved his funny old ways more than before, if such a thing were possible. To continue my story where I left off, Alderman Gold seemed in some miraculous way to have had much more than his sight restored to him that night. The first thing he did was to lift the body of poor Sam very gently, and as we left the Square he called a cab, and whilst we drove to his big mansion in Lancaster Gate, he asked me to tell him everything I could remember about my short life up to that time. Of course, I did so in my own peculiar fashion; the verbiage of the street and the gutter must have been freely sprinkled about during that narrative. Sometimes he looked thoughtful, and at other times he lay back in the cab and laughed out loud. When we arrived at his big house, which seemed to me at that time to be a mighty great mansion, he first made his way into a very big garden at the back where there were a lot of trees, and opening a gardening shed, he got a spade and dug a grave for Sam deep down under the trees, and it is there with his name, which was afterwards carved on a piece of wood, until this day.
"Whilst my childish tears were still flowing as the result of this sad ceremony, a lady came down the garden path in the moonlight, and as she joined us I noticed that although she appeared a little startled, she had a most beautiful face.
"'I didn't know it was you, sir, I couldn't think who could be digging in the garden at this time of night, and I grew frightened.'
"'Mrs. Durham,' said the Alderman earnestly, 'I was digging a grave for the dead pet of this small piece of humanity here, who will henceforth be one of your special charges.'
"Mrs. Durham glanced at the Alderman rather in amazement, I thought, as if he had suddenly taken leave of his senses, but she looked at me as she has ever done in a most kindly way.
"'Skylark,' said the Alderman, 'this is Mrs. Durham, my housekeeper.' Perhaps the Alderman had seen the expression upon Mrs. Durham's face, and had interpreted it correctly, for he added, 'Mrs. Durham, I am somewhat ashamed to say that in the grave of a faithful and most devoted creature I have here buried metaphorically, for good and all, as many of the reprehensible habits of my old life as I can cast at once, therefore, if I seem to you to be very different in the future, you may know there is a good reason for my being so. Could you conveniently take this infant and get him something substantial to eat and drink, and see he is put to bed?'
"Mrs. Durham said, 'Very well, sir,' and taking my hand led me into the house; but she still looked amazed, as if she had seen a ghost, I thought.
"A good many other people, I fancy, must have looked amazed the next day, when in the Alderman's big City offices all the clerks found that their salaries were to be raised. I rather imagine the office boy was the most astonished of all, for upon discovering that his master had raised his weekly remuneration to a pound a week, he was heard to exclaim, 'Well, that knocks all, that is if the Governor hasn't got softening of the brain!'
"The Alderman didn't stop there by a long way, for I know that all the servants in his house commenced to have a different time of it, and his thoughtfulness, as far as I was concerned, was more than wonderful.
"I remember a few days after my arrival he called a council of war withMrs. Durham, at which I was present, and I may say in passing, thatMrs. Durham and I were by this time fast friends.
"'There is one thing that must be done at once, Mrs. Durham,' I remember him saying during that important interview; 'the youngster must go at once to school. Now the difficulty is this: I don't want him to start at a disadvantage from the very beginning, and speaking as he does now, no ordinary school would take him.'
"'I'm afraid not, sir,' debated Mrs. Durham.
"'Very well, then,' said the Alderman, 'at present there is only one thing to do; we must have somebody here to teach him English, anyway to speak properly and to write and spell before he goes to a school. It must be done, but I think myself it is going to take time,' concluded the Alderman. Then he put on his hat and started for the City.
"I am not going to dwell upon this youthful period of my life, for everybody's school-days very much resemble every other person's, but I do know that the Alderman's belief that my education would take time proved to be only too true. I shall never forget how long and painfully I worked and toiled to speak my verbs in their proper tenses, to stop dropping my aitches, how I longed to drop the Cockney slang, how my life became possessed with a sort of terror that I should come out with some expression that would cause concern to either my benefactor or to Mrs. Durham.
"Well, I strove, and at last I succeeded so well that I was sent to a fine school where I received a first-class education, and the only effect of the great struggles I went through at this time was a sort of nervousness which I shall have all through my life, and which results, no doubt, from intense anxiety all those years not to make mistakes.
"And so I skip along until one night after the school had broken up at the end of a winter term. I remember it all so well. I had taken the best prizes in the fifth form, I was barely fifteen, and I rushed home, tore into the library, and emptied all those beautifully bound books into my benefactor's lap. He had been smoking his cigar, and was dozing in front of the fire.
"'What do you think of that, Dad?' I yelled. I always called him Dad as a sort of distinction, for although he wasn't my father really, he had been a ripping father to me.
"'Bless my heart, my boy,' he said, 'have you taken all these prizes?Why, I'm proud of you.'
"'And I proud of you,' I said; then I laughed at him. 'You've tried to keep a secret from me, Dad,' I cried, 'and you haven't succeeded a bit. Where's Mum?'
"'Now how on earth did you know that, miles away at school, too?' laughed the Alderman.
"'Read it in the papers days ago. Where is she, Dad? I want to give her a good hug.'
"'I'm here, dear boy,' said a voice just over my shoulder, a voice I knew so well, that had helped me more in my childish hours than I could ever count, a voice that was perhaps the one that had taught me to speak correctly in those trying early days. She wasn't Mrs. Durham any longer, she was Mrs. Gold, but she hadn't altered one bit, and she was Mum then, as she has always been since.
"It wouldn't be honest to skip the next part of the story, and yet I always want to omit this part somehow, because it is entirely composed of events brought about by my own selfishness, obstinacy and pig-headedness, although as a young man I never realised the great grief and the real trouble I was causing to people who had always loved me and done everything for me.
"It started after the time I had left the University of Oxford. I had just commenced to feel my wings, so to speak. Everything there had helped to increase and nourish my love of literature, the set I mixed with had placed me on a sort of pedestal which I in no way deserved, everybody seemed to expect a lot from me, every one seemed to believe I would do great and wonderful things, and what was more disastrous still, I believed I should do wonderful things myself. Imbued with these beliefs, I went home after my last year at Oxford, determined to be a great writer, mark you, not an ordinary writer, since I was positively assured of the fact that I had only to make an appearance in print to be instantly proclaimed one of the immortals. Whilst I was in this ridiculous frame of mind, Dad unfolded to me the cherished scheme of his life. It was that I should go into his office and learn the business, and one day become the head of the firm.
"I think my blank face must have told them the utter hopelessness of the scheme, even before I had explained to them all my hopes and beliefs as to what I intended to be. One of the things I regret most in my life was the grief I saw only too plainly upon the old Dad's face. He had been brought up a business man all his life, he didn't believe in Literature as a living. He never argued, he didn't storm, hardly said anything, except begging me in an appealing sort of way to reconsider my decision. But I saw at once that I had dealt a death-blow to all his hopes, and, like the selfish young brute I was, I didn't care so long as I got my own way.
"I must have been utterly mad at the time, or intoxicated with my own belief in myself, for I even went further, and said I was going away without any further help of any sort, and that I would make a name, and not come back until I had done so. I refused all assistance; I only wanted their good-will and belief in me, and this I knew neither of them could honestly give me. The Dad implored me to let him assist me; they both begged me to live at home until I could rely upon myself, feel my own feet, or lastly, the most fatal sentence they could have uttered in my state of pride, to remain at home until I realised thefailureI was about to make and alter my mind.
"What a hopeless and silly thing is pride. It must be a dangerous thing, too, if it can suddenly choke years of love and devotion.
"Pride was uppermost then when I left the house where we had all been so happy, and went out into the world, and I told them both I would only return when I had made myself famous, and not before. I believe they both broke down when I left, but I was a selfish young brute, and I never saw their view of things, nor how bitterly it must have hurt them. Retribution was not long in coming; I found as time went on that there were dozens of men, and women too, who could write better than I could. I found a living was not easy to get. I went even further still, and found at last that it was impossible to get any living at all. Education—there were hundreds of men, highly educated men, too, without any means of earning a living. Inspiration—and I had prated about inspiration often enough; inspiration only became inspiration when it was recognised as such. Luck, chance—I found there were no such things, save as words. Money—I never made any now, and gradually I went down and down, grew shabby, was passed hurriedly by friends of my own choosing; then followed shabby rooms and little food, only to give place in turn to an attic and no food at all. Pride must have been still at work with a vengeance, for whatever I suffered there was not a single day or night that I could not have rushed home and been welcomed like the Prodigal of old, and been rejoiced over. But the very idea of this gave me a chill feeling of horror. How could I go home with all my boasts unfulfilled? Was I to creep home a self-confessed failure, with the alternative of acknowledging it and mending my ways and becoming the head of a business firm with a heart embittered for life? I felt I would never do this. I would prefer to starve upon the Embankment, and when I made that resolution I knew only too well what I was in for. I had done the same thing in my earlier life, only it needed a far greater courage to face that life now than it required then. Things were at their very worst when one day, as I was wending my way through the poverty-stricken locality in which I lived, I was hailed by my name. The man was shabbily dressed, but about my own age as far as I could gather, yet I never remembered having met him before.
"'You don't remember me?' he asked.
"'No,' I replied.
"'Humph!' he rejoined, 'and yet at school you had quite a slap-up fight upon my behalf, which ought to have been a lesson to snobs in general, simply because I insisted upon talking to my own father when he was driving one of his own furniture vans.'
"'Murkel Minor,' I murmured. 'Jove, yes, I remember.'
"'Well, I'm a dealer now, got a place of my own, first-class antiques, you know, doing rather well, too.'
"I nodded.
"'But, I say, how about yourself? you don't look up to much. What are you doing? You know all the swell chaps at school, who always looked down on me, used to think you would do no end of things.'
"Somehow or other a sudden feeling of utter frankness came over me. 'I am not doing anything,' I said. 'I've never done anything, and I don't believe now I ever shall do anything.'
"'What are you supposed to do?' asked Murkel, and he asked it in rather a nice way.
"'Writing,' I said.
"'Books?'
"'Yes, and stories, and any blessed thing that comes along; that is to say, when itdoescome along.'
"Murkel mused for awhile as we walked along, and to this day I do not know whether he considered he was paying off an old debt, or whether he really required my services. Anyway he told me he wanted a descriptive catalogue written of some of his best antiques, their history guaranteed and authenticated, and that he would pay me a fair sum for writing it.
"I left my one-time schoolfellow Murkel Minor, with the certainty of work for which I should be paid, and with something like a ray of hope, and oddly enough I did not lament over the strange fortune which had prevented any one from accepting any of my books or poems, but had given me instead the writing of a catalogue of bric-à-brac. There was one thing I often resented in my own mind, and frequently sneered at most bitterly whenever I remembered it; that was the fact that Lal had prophesied that I should become great, and also that I should meet Dick Whittington. Both these imaginary things I regarded now as being utterly unreliable, and looked upon as two ghostly myths of the past. I might have known better. The nervousness from which I suffered, and which I have already alluded to, was becoming so marked that it greatly stood in my way, particularly whenever I had any writing to do. I would fidget, bite my fingers, nibble the pen, break the nibs, a thousand things sooner than deliberately sit down to write. Concentration seemed at times to me wholly impossible. One day, after sacrificing many nibs, and breaking my only ink-bottle, I settled down sufficiently to finish Murkel's catalogue, and received the sum of five pounds for the work. It seemed untold riches to me at the time. As I went homeward through the maze of dirty streets towards where my garret was situated, I had to pass through one where the outside pavement stalls were always heaped up upon either side of the way with every imaginable thing from greengrocery and scrap-iron to old prints and china-ware.
"Upon one of these stalls an inkstand immediately attracted my attention, partly from the fact that I had broken my own ink-bottle, and had resolved to buy another, but more particularly because this inkstand appeared to me to be one of the most uncommon receptacles for ink I had ever seen. It was made in what I judged must be some old form of china-ware I never remembered to have seen before, and beneath the dirt which was thickly coated over it I could see that both the modelling and colouring of it were very beautiful. It represented a figure lying upon the ground beside a big tree-stump, which, after the mud should be scraped out of it, was evidently intended to contain ink, and a milestone, when a similar operation had taken place, would doubtless contain one pen; a coloured three-cornered hat flung beside the figure upon the ground was obviously designed to hold a taper.
"The inkstand attracted me strangely, and I was so fascinated with it that I could not take my eyes off it. The woman to whom the stall belonged, doubtless spotting a likely customer, asked me how much I would give her for it. I deliberated for some time, as I had not the remotest idea what its value might be in her eyes, so I offered her eighteenpence as a sort of compromise between the inkstand and other articles ticketed upon her stall.
"'Give us two bob, and it's yours,' suggested the stall woman. However, I was firm, and was upon the point of going away when she called me back, and thrust it into my hand, carefully holding on to one of the square corners of it until she saw the money safely deposited.
"It took me some time to clean it properly when I got it home, but I must say it fully rewarded all the efforts I made to wash it, and somehow the more I looked at it the more beautiful I thought it was.
"There was something about that contemplative figure lying upon the grass that gave me confidence and reassurance, and I found myself regarding it as an old friend and talking to it, and when the big tree-stump was filled with ink I used to sit and write from it for hours. There always seemed to be encouragement and inquiry in the laughing face that looked from the figure on the inkstand, as if it were saying, 'Well, what are you going to write now, and when are you going to finish it?' I began to imagine that it gave me inspiration whenever I wrote; whether that was so or not, it certainly answered much better than its predecessor, the dull old ink-bottle that had been broken.
"So day by day I worked hard, and somehow became convinced that the wonderful little inkstand helped and inspired me in some curious manner which I could in no way account for, and after a few months I finished my book, eking out a scanty existence with other odd literary jobs. It was about this time that Murkel called on me.
"He stumbled up the winding stairs to my garret one day, smoking a quite objectionable pipe, and declared that I was the only old schoolfellow he had ever cared to call upon, as all the rest were snobs, and wound up by stating that we probably got along so well together as he came from the people, and he was certain that I came from the people also, and only those people who came from the people themselves ever got there eventually.
"After I had listened patiently to this harangue he came to the point by declaring he was a great friend of a publisher who sometimes bought the Murkel curios, furniture, china, pictures, etc., and if I liked he would get him to read my new book.
"I was only too thankful to accept this offer, and was saying so when a curious thing happened. Murkel, whose eyes had been roaming around my one attic room with the curious instinct of the dealer, and finding nothing that in any way interested him, suddenly crossed over to my rickety writing-table, and pouncing upon my inkstand emitted a low and prolonged whistle which might have been emblematical of either astonishment or delight.
"'Don't drop that inkstand,' I said. 'I'm very fond of that.'
"'Drop it!' almost shouted Murkel, 'drop it! Great Scott, do you knowwhatit is?'
"'Yes,' I said, 'of course, it's an ink-stand.'
"Murkel looked at me almost pityingly. 'Oh, my great aunt,' he said, 'the ways of writers are beyond understanding. Here's one who lives in a garret, probably hasn't enough to eat, and upon a rickety three-legged writing-table, which would be a disgrace to a fifth-rate coffee-house, he has a jewel worth a hundred guineas and more.'
"'Bosh! you're joking,' I retorted.
"Murkel gave a queer smile. 'Am I?' he said. 'Well, I am prepared to go back to my place and write you a cheque for a hundred guineas for this, now on the spot.'
"I suppose I still continued to stare at him stupidly, and most likely the signs of my utter disbelief were plainly to be seen in my countenance, for Murkel continued hurriedly—
"'It's my business, I never make a mistake. This inkstand is Old Bow china, date—early Queen Anne. My friend, there are not five of these left in the world to-day, there are not four, and this is probably the most perfect one in existence; and what makes it so valuable, apart from its glaze, is that it was done by a fine artist, and it is a famous legendary figure perfectly executed. In fact, it is none other than the famous Dick Whittington.'
"'What!' It was my turn to shout this time. 'Dick Whittington!' I cried.
"'Of course,' said Murkel; 'Dick Whittington, only done in the costume of Queen Anne's day instead of his own.'
"'Then it is all true,' I shouted. 'By Jove, what a fool I've been; I see it all now, every bit of it. Oh, Lal! Lal! how impossible you are to understand.' Of course, this was all so much Greek to Murkel, who hadn't the remotest idea what I was so excited about; but he was thoroughly convinced that I meant to jump at his offer, and he thought I was merely madder than usual when I told him that I wouldn't sell Dick Whittington for five thousand pounds if he offered it to me.
"Murkel replaced Dick Whittington regretfully upon the rickety table and sighed deeply.
"'I suppose,' he said, 'that some forms of mental derangement are inseparable from some writers. The annoying part of it is that I wanted this piece for my own cabinet. If I had bought it I should never have sold it again. Well, if you want money, you know where to get it, old chap.'
"'I do,' I replied, 'and I have as good as found it in an unexpected quarter.' I took up the MSS. of the new book, lying upon the rickety table actually in front of Dick Whittington.
"'I will prophesy to you,' I said, 'and although it is a second-hand sort of prophecy it is going to come true nevertheless. You see this manuscript; this is going to make the first lot of money.'
"Murkel looked at me curiously. Do what he would the poor chap could not rid his mind of the thought that I was mad, but I will say he was very patient with me.
"'Give me the introduction to your publisher friend, and I will bet you a dinner, or two dinners, he accepts this as a start, and most probably everything else I write afterwards.'
"'Of course,' debated Murkel, 'you are a very amazing person. I meet you one day and you swear that nobody ever wants anything you do, and is never likely to want any of your work again; and then a few days after, without rhyme or reason, you swear they will take everything, even the things you haven't written. I don't pretend to consider you at all sane, but I am prepared to tackle the publishers for you; and, by Jove, you are really eccentric enough to have done something really good, so you may be right. But I cannot and will not understand why you cannot take a hundred guineas down for that little Dick Whittington.'
"'Do you believe in mascots, Murkel?' I asked.
"'Yes,' he said. 'I've got a black cat in the shop that always sits on a big Chinese idol whenever I have any luck. I don't know what it is, but the combination of my black cat Timps and that Chinese idol is extraordinary, and the greatest mascot I know.'
"Well, I told him that my mascots were a lion and the china DickWhittington.
"'Where's the lion?' asked Murkel, always on the look-out for curios.
"'Oh, that is at present in a collection,' I told him, at the same time fervently hoping that Lal would forgive me for ever referring to him as being in a collection, for I knew the feeling of majestic toleration with which he regarded the other three lions.
"Very little more remains to be told, except that the person who was most astonished when my first book was instantly accepted was Murkel, and his astonishment appeared to greatly increase as each of my succeeding books made their appearance in print, whilst to-day is one of the red-letter days of my life, for the most important of all my books was published this morning, and so it is all doubtless intended to form part of to-day's story; and, by the way, so is to-day's tea."
* * * * *
"Ridgwell, would you ring the bell for the housekeeper? I have ordered all the sort of cakes you and Christine like best."
"I think it is a more wonderful story than Dick Whittington's," commented Ridgwell, as he rang the bell; "but before we have tea, we do so want to see the little china Dick Whittington which made all your story come true, and which is worth such a lot of money."
"You shall both see him presently, but at the present moment Dick Whittington is safely packed up; he is going to be given away this evening with a copy of my new book."
"Given away?" echoed the children blankly.
The Writer nodded.
"I can't make out how you can bear to part with it," suggestedRidgwell; "I know I would never give it away. Who is it for?"
"You will both see presently; and really, you know, if you come to consider it, it is not of any use giving anybody something one does not care for, for that is not a gift at all."
"It seems jolly hard to part with the one thing you like best," observed Ridgwell.
The Writer laughed. "Ah! Ridgwell, that is the only kind of gift worth giving in the world."
Tea was finished, the remains of it were cleared away, and the heavycurtains drawn over the big windows overlooking Trafalgar Square.Having turned on all the electric lights he could find, the Writer ledRidgwell and Christine by either hand towards the door.
"The Lord Mayor has arrived," he whispered, "I can hear him coming up the stairs. Now as he comes into the door let us all bow down with a low curtsey, and say, 'Welcome, Sir Simon Gold, Lord Mayor of London.'"
"Bless him, he is still puffing up the stairs," whispered the Writer, "so we shall have time to rehearse it once before he gets here. Now then, all together," urged the Writer. "That's fine; why, you children make obeisance better than I do, but of course I was forgetting you had both been to the Pleasant-Faced Lion's party. That must, of course, have been an education in itself. Now then, get ready."
Outside somebody who was puffing and panting somewhat heavily could be heard exclaiming between these exertions in a cheery voice: "Good gracious me, why ever does the boy live in such a place? These stairs will be the death of me; positively fifty of them if there is one. Really at my time of life it is most unreasonable; he ought to have a lift put in, I will make it my business to see he doesn't live up here in the clouds any longer, whether he always wants to see Lal or whether he doesn't."
The Writer grinned at the children, and Ridgwell and Christine gave a faint chuckle by way of an answer. At last the door was flung open and the pleasantest-faced old gentleman it would be possible to find anywhere, with round pink cheeks, merry eyes, a snowy white upturned moustache and white hair to match, peering through big gold-rimmed spectacles like a cheerful night-owl, stood in the doorway.
Thereupon the three people inside the room bobbed down in a most profound curtesy, and there was a perfectly timed and simultaneous chorus from three voices, "Welcome, Sir Simon Gold, Lord Mayor of London."
"Bless my soul," said the Lord Mayor, "very impressive, upon my word; but as His Majesty the King has only knighted me twenty minutes ago, how on earth did you come to hear of it?"
"Magic," said the Writer. "Besides, Lal prophesied the event."
"Who are the children?" asked the Lord Mayor.
"Friends of Lal's and myself," replied the Writer, "and very anxious to see you in your robes."
"They are all in this bag," vouchsafed the Mayor, "and it may be vanity upon my part, but I brought them up on purpose to stand in front of the window so that Lal could have a good look at them and see the effect of his own handiwork. And now, you rascal," demanded the Lord Mayor of the Writer as he helped himself to a comfortable chair, "what excuses have you got to give me for not coming near either Mum or myself for ages, and for taking up your abode in this absurdly high flat which is as bad as mounting the Monument?"
"I have my excuses all labelled and wrapped up, Dad, and you and Mum must accept them when you have looked at them."
Thereupon the Writer fished out of the mysterious odd-fashioned cupboard two packets very neatly done up, and placed them in the hands of genial old Sir Simon.
The old gentleman opened the first packet with evident pleasure; it was a well-bound book fresh from the printer's press.
"Open it, Dad, and see whom it is dedicated to," suggested the Writer; "you will find it upon the first page."
"Beautiful," murmured the old gentleman, whilst his hands trembled slightly as he held the book and read out, "Dedicated to my dear Dad, to whom I owe everything—created Lord Mayor of the City of London in the year——"
The old gentleman coughed and wiped his spectacles carefully, and even suspiciously, for they appeared to be quite misty. "Oh, you bad boy," he burst out unexpectedly. "How dare you write books and become famous, when you ought to have been sitting upon a stool behind a glass partition as a junior partner in my counting-house? However, I believe Lal was right, he usually is; he said we should disagree, and that the youngest one would be in the right, and upon my word, my dear boy, I never believed how very right he was until to-day. Bless me, I'm proud of you."
"And I'm proud of you, Dad," was the Writer's answer.
"Goodness alive," declared the old man, as he turned and beamed upon Ridgwell and Christine by turns, "do you children know, those were the very words this rascal here used sixteen years ago, when he deposited a lot of ridiculous prizes that nobody ever wanted to read in my lap when I was asleep in front of the fire in my library. Bless me, history does repeat itself."
"And prophecies come true," added the Writer.
"Tut, tut," said Sir Simon, "there was one prophecy our friend Lal made that never came true. How about that absurd statement of his that you would find Dick Whittington? That was all a lot of riddle-me-ree, as you may say, thrown in like the cheap-jack's patter to mystify all of us."
"You haven't opened the second parcel," quietly remarked the Writer; "but when I read in some of the papers three years ago that you had started collecting valuable old china, I always determined you should have this piece."
"It all sounds very mysterious," replied the old gentleman, as he gingerly prepared to take off the outside wrappings.
It was at this point that Ridgwell could contain himself no longer, for he felt as if he were present upon a Christmas Day before the gifts were opened.
"It's worth more than a hundred guineas," shouted Ridgwell.
"Then it is simply disgraceful extravagance," replied Sir Simon, "and I shall certainly not accept it."
"I am sure you will," ventured Christine, "it is the thing that he values most of anything he has got."
The last wrapping was undone, and the beautifully coloured and modelled Dick Whittington was disclosed to view. There was not even a spot or trace of ink anywhere upon his enamelled coat, the tree-stump, the milestone or the three-cornered hat, he had been washed and cleaned for the cabinet with a vengeance, and looked as beautiful and as spick and span as the day the artist had turned him out to an admiring world.
"Bless my heart!" exclaimed Sir Simon, as he viewed the treasure with the keen admiration of a connoisseur. "Why, it is perfect; I don't believe there is another one in existence like it. Where did you get it, and who is it meant to be?"
"Why, Dick Whittington, of course, Dad; so you see Lal was right after all."
Sir Simon placed the little figure carefully upon the table, and folding his hands regarded the Writer severely. "Do you happen to know that it was this particular piece of Lal's nonsense that has worried me more than anything else all these years?"
"It worried me for a long time until I found out his trick," confessed the Writer.
"Yes, but mine is a most disheartening story," declared Sir Simon, "and nearly succeeded in alienating me from all my friends; and as for Mum, I dare not so much as mention Lal's name to her for fear of having my nose snapped off; she never did and never will believe in him, declares that the whole thing is a preposterous lot of nonsense, and declines even to discuss the subject with me at all. You know, my dear boy, that Mum is very sensible upon other points, but about Lal she is openly scornful and secretly adamantine; in fact, the mere mention of Lal is like poison to her, and he was entirely responsible for the only difference we have ever had in our married lives."
"Light a cigar, Dad, before you start; and what will you have by way of a drink?"
The Writer had opened other compartments in the mysterious old oak cabinet that seemed to possess more doors than a Chinese temple.
"These Coronas I remembered you used to smoke, so I got some."
"Excellent," declared Sir Simon, "and, let me see, why, bless me what a lot of bottles you have there. I hope you don't drink them all. Some of that green stuff, my dear boy, if you please, Crème-de-Menthe; yes, I think a couple of liqueurs of that would be most beneficial to me after the most indigestible banquet we all partook of at the Mansion House to-day. The stuff is largely made up of peppermint, I'm sure; and, of course, peppermint, when it is tastily got up like this liqueur, is very good for indigestion, isn't it?"
The Writer lighted the old gentleman's cigar, and placing theCrème-de-Menthe upon the table, filled a tiny liqueur glass to the brim.
"Of course," commenced Sir Simon, "from the very first nothing would induce Mum to believe that the Pleasant-Faced Lion, our old friend Lal, ever had anything to do with my life, or ever influenced me in any way. You know, my boy, it is one of women's weaknesses to invariably believe that they do more than they really do. She declared that everything in my life was owing to your influence and to hers."
"Mine?" asked the Writer in astonishment.
"So Mum always insisted, and so she always undoubtedly believed, and when the time came that you ran away,—yes, you dog, for you did run away, don't deny it,—well, what with sorrow for the loss of you, and trouble with your mother, for she declared I had driven you from home by not encouraging you to write, and women are most illogical and unreasonable when they once get a fixed idea into their heads,—well, between one and the other of you I had a very bad time. The fact remained that you were gone, never gave us any address, and I got all the blame for it. But the thing that annoyed Mum more than anything else was my everlasting habit of going to the Pantomimes."
The Writer laughed. "Well, I never knew before, Dad, that Pantomimes were a special weakness of yours."
"Neither were they, my boy, but as sure as ever Christmas came, and the inevitable Pantomimes also, so did I go to every one; not only in London, but every city of the United Kingdom." Here Sir Simon, as if overcome with emotion, groaned aloud. "My boy, pity me; I believe I am the only person still alive who has ever sat out every single Pantomime that has been written for ten years, and oh! what twaddle they were."
"But what on earth did you go to them for?" asked the Writer, aghast.
"To find you."
"Me? Good heavens, at a Pantomime? Dad, were you dreaming?"
"Yes," answered old Sir Simon, shaking his white head at the recollection. "I was dreaming of what Lal had prophesied—that you would make your name and fortune when you met Dick Whittington, and then you would come back to us. And the more I thought of it, the more I was convinced that there was only one possible way of meeting Dick Whittington in the world to-day, and that would be when some lady—and they were always ladies, plain, fair, ugly, tall, lean, fat, pretty—who appeared as that character—met you whilst impersonating Dick. You rascal, I believed that you would meet one of these female Dick Whittingtons, would ever after write the rubbishy Pantomimes in which she appeared every Christmas season, train up your children to be Pantaloons and Harlequins, and have the audacity to appeal to me to keep the family after having christened the eldest child after me. There is not one single lady," continued the Lord Mayor, as he mopped the perspiration from his face, "from here to Aberdeen, and back to Liverpool and Manchester, who has ever played Dick Whittington that I have not treated to either port wine or champagne (for those were the refreshments they all seemed to favour most) in the hope of finding you; I have spent more than ten times the reputed worth of that Dick Whittington inkstand, in railway fares and buying stalls and programmes. Yet the worst of all to relate is, that when Mum saw the programmes underlined upon my return, she accused me of being enamoured of these extraordinary ladies who stalked the stage in the most indescribable costumes, accompanied by cats. My boy, I know every ridiculous speech, every stupid gag spoken by every Lord Mayor in all those Pantomimes by heart, and the one dread of my life is that I shall one day come out with some of it in one of my speeches at either the Guildhall or the Mansion House."
The Writer lay back in his chair and roared with laughter.
"Poor old Dad, I had no idea you were undergoing such an awful penance!"
"You think it funny, do you?" asked the Lord Mayor indignantly.
"I think it is the funniest thing I have ever heard, but I am sure that all the blame rests with Lal for playing us such a trick."
"Humph! Well, Mum didn't think so, and every time Christmas came there was a coldness between us. Perhaps she will be convinced when I take her this inkstand and explain what it is," wound up Sir Simon triumphantly; "she will believe in Lal then, and believe in me at the same time."
Some two hours later Ridgwell and Christine, having viewed the Lord Mayor in his state robes, were safely despatched home in a carriage with the Writer's housekeeper in charge, but not before old Sir Simon had promised to send one of his state coaches, attended by servants in livery, to fetch them to the Mansion House Children's Ball.
Upon taking his departure, Ridgwell had inquired most particularly if the state coach would drive up to their door for them. The Lord Mayor assured him that this would be the case.
"I believe," declared Ridgwell, as he said good-bye and made his departure, "that all the neighbours will believe we have something to do with fairies."
"I shouldn't wonder," chuckled Sir Simon, "and I will get the Lady Mayoress to send you both two costumes that will help the illusion enormously."
"I do wonder what they will be like," mused Christine; "I do so love dressing up."
"So does the Lady Mayoress, my dear," laughed Sir Simon, "so I am sure both of you will get on capitally together, and really she is the life and soul of a children's gathering. I don't know how I should get on without her."
"It certainly seems very strange," remarked Sir Simon, when at length he and the Writer were left alone, "that Lal has not given any sort of sign; this is undoubtedly the night of all nights that he ought to show he is pleased."
Sir Simon helped himself to a third cigar, and a second Crème-de-Menthe, and after drawing back the curtains, looked anxiously down into Trafalgar Square for at least the twentieth time that evening.
The lights of London twinkled gaily, lighting the Square up in fairy-like brilliancy of colours. Signs were to be seen in plenty; they burst from the tall roofs of houses, in coloured electric lights, which worked out advertisements for Foods, Patent Medicines, brands of Cigarettes, brands of Whisky; nearly everything, in fact, that one could not be reasonably in need of at that time of night; but still the Pleasant-Faced Lion remained obdurate and made no sign at all of ever having been alive.
"There is one thing that both Mum and I insist upon," commenced SirSimon.
"What's that, Dad?"
"Directly we leave the Mansion House, and I may say at once that although it is undoubtedly very stately, and all that sort of thing, we neither of us feel at home there, and for my part, I would as soon live in the British Museum—directly we leave, I insist that you come back to your old home and live with us, and complete the old happy party we three used to make."
"All right, Dad, I'll do that, I promise you."
"And now that you have made a name and fortune for yourself in spite of my doing everything I could to prevent you——"
"No, no, Dad, that isn't fair, and really, you know, I don't believe we could help ourselves, everything has come about exactly as Lal arranged it."
"I am very angry with Lal and his tricks, and if I thought he would listen to me for one minute, I would go down now and—Good gracious alive!" broke off Sir Simon, as he stared somewhat wildly out of the window; "what's that?"
"What's what?" inquired the Writer inconsequently, from his easy-chair at the other end of the room.
Sir Simon rubbed his eyes, then he looked out of the window again, then he rubbed his spectacles in case by any chance they were deceiving him.
"My dear boy," faltered Sir Simon, "is that—is' that—ahem!—Crème-de-Menthe you gave me exceptionally strong by any chance?"
"No, same as it always is, Dad; why?"
"Then I'm not mistaken, Lal's eyes have gone abrightgreen, the same colour as the liqueur in that bottle. Green," shouted Sir Simon, "and they are blazing like fireworks. Look! look at them."
The Writer rushed across the room to the window.
There could be no doubt about it that the calm eyes of the Pleasant-Faced Lion, which were wont to gaze haughtily upon the more commonplace things around him in Trafalgar Square, had suddenly changed to the colour of living emeralds, and were terrible to behold.
"Great Scott!" muttered the astonished Writer, "I have never seen him look like that. He's angry about something."
"He's more than angry—he's furious," suggested the Lord Mayor nervously. "What on earth can be the reason of it? Why, yes, I see. Why, how dare she!" spluttered Sir Simon. "There's a woman dancing, positively waltzing round the Square with his wreath of water-lilies I put there for him! I'll stop her, she must bring it back at once."
Without another word, Sir Simon rushed for the door and downstairs with the most surprising speed, followed closely by the Writer, who considered his old friend ought not to be deserted upon such a mission.
"Ho! hi! stop thief," puffed the Lord Mayor, as he toiled three parts round Trafalgar Square after the corybantic lady, who was dancing on ahead with the huge wreath held with both arms, swaying over her, as she danced a sort of bacchanal in front of the enraged Sir Simon.
"Hi!" panted the Lord Mayor, as after frantic efforts he came alongside. "Woman, bring that wreath back at once; how dare you take it away!"
"Oh, go on, ole dear," retorted the lady good-humouredly; "ain't it making me much 'appier than an old lion? Why, bless you, it put me in mind of the days when I used to play Alice in Pantomimes. Lead, I used to play, once, yes, s'welp me if I wasn't. What 'arm am I a-doing? Oh, look 'ere, if you're going to get snuffy, 'ere, take your ole wreath. I'm blowed if you don't look as if you come out of a Pantomime yourself, in them red robes! 'Ave yer been playing in a Pantomime?"
"Certainly not," replied Sir Simon, somewhat stiffly.
"Why, now I sees the light on your face, I knows you quite well; 'ow doyer do, ole sport? I'm Alice; don't you remember little Alice in thePantomime of Dick Whittington ten years ago at Slocum Theatre Royal?Why, you gave me a bouquet, and stood me two glasses of port."
The Lord Mayor groaned.
"Little Alice," he queried vaguely; "let me see, little Alice?"
"Yes," averred the lady, who must have weighed fully eighteen stone, "shake hands, old pal."
The Lord Mayor felt thoroughly uncomfortable, more particularly as theWriter joined him at that moment.
"Ahem! an old Pantomime friend," explained Sir Simon.
"Yes, my dears," continued the lady, "and I don't get no Pantomimes now, been 'ard up, I 'ave, for a long time, can't even get chorus now; but bless your 'earts! coming along to-night, when I gets to Trafalgar Square, I somehow could 'ave declared I saw that there Lion a-laughing at me, and then when I sees the wreath, blessed if I didn't want to dance once again all of a sudden. Look 'ere, old sport, you used to have plenty of the shinies in the old days, you used to chuck the 'oof about a bit; I remember you was a-looking for some bloke who wrote—that you had an idea in your 'ead all us girls wanted to marry."
The distressed Lord Mayor fumbled in his pockets and produced two sovereigns.
"Thank you, ole dear," observed the lady, as she pocketed the gold with alacrity, "you was always one of the best; and Cissie Laurie, that's me, you know—Cissie—who used to play Alice, will always swear you are a tip-top clipper. Lor! when I sees you in them robes, and you ain't told me yet why you've got 'em on——
"An inadvertency," stuttered the Lord Mayor; "most unfortunate."
"Well, when I sees you in them robes it puts me in mind of the dear old Pantomime, when little Alice flings herself at the Lord Mayor's feet," and here, overcome with past recollections of the drama, the fat lady sunk upon her knees, and dramatically clasping the robes of Sir Simon, to that worthy old gentleman's utter confusion and consternation, at the same time gave forth aloud the doggerel lines that had once accompanied the incident in the play—
"Oh! Dad, I'm your Alice, in whom you're disappointed,And here is Dick Whittington, whose nose was out-of-jointed,Though your heart be as cold as an icicle king's,Forgive us and say we are nice 'ikkle things."
"Oh, hush! hush! dreadful," implored the Lord Mayor, endeavouring in vain to extricate himself from the dramatic lady's clutches.
At this moment a gruff judicial voice, which sent an immediate thrill down the worthy Lord Mayor's back, broke in upon the scene.
"Now, then, what's all this? Move on, there!"
A dark blue policeman stood in the pale blue moonlight.
The Lord Mayor only shivered.
The dramatic lady was equal to the occasion.
"Aren't we a picture?" she asked coquettishly.
"Get up, then," commanded the policeman dryly, "and be a movin' one."
"All right, don't get huffy, dear, we're professionals."
"So I should think," observed the policeman shortly.
The Writer thought this a most propitious moment to seize the Lord Mayor by the arm, and hurry him in the direction of his own rooms, across the almost deserted centre of the Square, without waiting for any further conversation of any description.
The policeman stared after them suspiciously as they moved away.
"What's he doing in them things?" inquired the policeman of the lady.
"Lor', 'ow should I know? I guess he's a good sort, though, he gave me some money."
"Oh, did he?" remarked the policeman in a sepulchral voice. "Well, I hope he came by it honestly, that's all."
"Oh, that old chap's all right, old tin-feet," retorted the once time Lady of the Drama. "I only think 'e's a bit balmy in his 'ead, that's all. So-long, I'm off 'ome!"
"Balmy in his head, eh?" grumbled the policeman gruffly. "Ah, I thought there was a funny look about him; yes. Well, I had better follow him up, and see that he doesn't get up to no mischief of any sort."
"I say, Dad," suggested the Writer, "you had better let me carry the wreath, whilst you lake off those robes; you know they attract a lot of attention, even at this time of night."
"I am afraid they do," confessed the Mayor. "What a dreadful and degrading scene! That upsetting fragment of a pantomime enacted in the open air, too, which is only a specimen of the stuff I was compelled to listen to for so many years!"
"She evidently regarded you as an old friend, and a patron of the theatre," laughed the Writer, "without in any way guessing your identity."
"It was a terrible situation," groaned the Lord Mayor; "however shall I be able to tell Mum about such an incident when I arrive home?"
The worthy Lord Mayor got no further either in his remarks or in removing his bright robes, for as they approached the position occupied by the Pleasant-Faced Lion, Sir Simon became aware of another figure standing menacingly in front of it.
A short, thick-set man in a sailor's dress was holding his hands to his head, and regarding the Lion with his mouth and eyes wide open, whilst an expression of horrified wonder and astonishment appeared to have petrified his face into a sort of ghastly mask of perpetual astonishment.
Whilst the sailor continued to stare and mutter, the Lion's eyes could be seen to shoot out the most brilliant green fires; they looked like the flashing of two wonderful green emeralds.
The Lord Mayor quickened his pace almost to a run. "Look, look! what's the thing that man is flourishing about in his hand?"
"It's a big sailor's knife," replied the Writer uneasily.
"Quick, quick!" shouted the Lord Mayor, "he is going to do Lal some harm with it! Good heavens! he's swarmed up the pedestal and he is positively contemplating cutting Lal's eyes out. Stop, you villain," shouted the Lord Mayor, whilst he ran towards the spot. "Come down at once; how dare you touch that beautiful Lion's eyes!"
Without so much as turning his head, and apparently heedless of any remarks addressed to him, the sailor continued to flourish his ugly-looking knife, shouting meanwhile in the Lion's face as he did so—
"Emeralds, bloomin' emeralds here in London under my very nose. I'll 'ave 'em out," yelled the sailor. "I'll have 'em out in no time. I've come from Hindia, where they've got jools like these 'ere in the hidols' eyes. I couldn't get at them there, but I can get these 'ere," whereupon the sailor made a frantic jab with his knife at the Pleasant-Faced Lion's right eye.
He had no time, or indeed any opportunity of continuing his unpleasant execution, for the enraged Lord Mayor had seized the wide ends of the sailor's trousers and had dragged him down with such abruptness and goodwill that the over-venturesome son of Neptune, dropping his knife, lay upon the ground volunteering expressions which at least had the merit of showing that his travels must have been indeed varied and extensive to have left him in possession of such a widely stocked vocabulary.
"I'll have you up for attempting to mutilate the beautiful statues ofLondon," shouted the enraged Lord Mayor.
The Writer restrained the sailor's more or less ineffectual efforts to get at the Lord Mayor, but the Writer found it singularly impossible to control the shouted execrations of that abusive mariner, among a few of whose remarks could be mentioned, by way of sample, that he wanted to know why an old bloke dressed like an etcetera Mephistopheles meant by coming along from a blighted Covent Garden Ball and interfering with him; that if he, the mariner, could once get at the—ahem!—Mephistopheles in question, he would never go to a fancy ball again as long as he lived, as he would not have a head to go with, and his legs wouldn't ever be any use to him again as long as he lived.
The Writer being sufficiently athletically active to control, or at any rate postpone, these amiable intentions of the mariner, the Lord Mayor was afforded a few brief seconds to climb up and examine his favourite. Flinging the wreath of water-lilies around the Lion's mane to get it out of the way, the Lord Mayor clasped his old favourite Lal round the neck, uttering words of consolation and affection.
The Lion's eyes had changed from their bright emerald colour to a dull topaz yellow, which in turn subsided to their wonted colouring during the Lord Mayor's affectionate address.
The countenance of the Lion gradually resumed its ordinary pleasant-faced expression, and two large tears fell upon the Lord Mayor's outstretched hands.
The worthy Lord Mayor was quite overcome with emotion at this obvious sign from the Pleasant-Faced Lion!
"Dear old Lal," murmured the Lord Mayor, "dear, faithful, loving soul, these are the first tears I have ever known you shed. Are they tears of gratitude because we have rescued you from this ruffian with a knife, who would have destroyed your noble sight? Or are they tears of pity? Speak to me, Lal; if they are tears of pity, they will open the gates of——"
"A police station," interrupted a cold, judicial voice, and the good Lord Mayor turned to find what the Writer, although fully occupied with the mariner, had seen approaching with consternation and alarm, the same policeman who had spoken to them before, followed by a small crowd of late night loafers, who were already starting to exchange remarks and jeer at the somewhat unusual scene.
"Just you come down," said the constable, in his severest and most judicial tones.
The Lord Mayor prepared to climb down, looking somewhat crestfallen, whilst the unsympathetic crowd uttered a faint, ironical cheer.
"This is the second time to-night I have spoken to you," said the constable. "Now, as you have been behaving most strangely and attracting a crowd, I'll just trouble you for your name and address," and the constable unfolded an uncomfortable-looking pocket-book, bound in an ominous-looking black case, produced the stump of a pencil and prepared to take notes. "Now then, out with it, what's your name?"
"Gold," faltered the Lord Mayor, fumbling vainly for a visiting card, which he was unable to find.
The stolid constable misunderstood the action. "No, you don't bribe me," said the constable loftily.
"I was not attempting to," objected the Lord Mayor.
"Well, what's your name, then?"
"Gold," repeated the Lord Mayor.
"Oh, I see," muttered the constable; "what else?"
"Simon Gold."
"What else?" pursued the remorseless officer of the law.
"Sir Simon Gold," groaned the helpless Lord Mayor.
"What address?"
"The Mansion House."
"Here, I don't want none of your jokes," vouchsafed the constable sternly; "this is no joking matter, as you will find out when you're charged afore the magistrate."
The worthy Sir Simon's plump cheeks flushed red with anger at the bare mention of such an indignity. "How dare you suggest such a thing to me?" spluttered Sir Simon. "Do you know who I am? I am the Lord Mayor of London."
This remark was greeted with a loud cheer from the rapidly gathering crowd.
The constable smiled a maddening smile.
"A likely tale," observed the constable. "Why, I was present keeping the crowd off when his Worship, the Lord Mayor of London, opened his Home to-day; he returned hours ago; and I think myself it's some sort of Home as you have got to return to, and I don't leave you until I find out which Home it is."
Whether the mention of the word Home suggested sudden possibilities to the Writer, or whether, like Ulysses of old, he longed so ardently for a return to that blissful abode that he even stooped to emulate the sort of stratagem Ulysses might have adopted in similar circumstances will never be known. Yet the fact remains that the Writer turned the fortunes of war for the time being.
He drew the constable quickly upon one side and spoke rapidly and earnestly to him for some moments. At the end of these whispered explanations the constable closed his pocket-book with a snap, and pointed across the way in the direction of the Writer's chambers.
The Writer nodded.
The constable touched his forehead significantly at the side of his helmet.
Once again the Writer nodded.
"Very well," said the constable, "if you are the one who looks after him, you can go; better get him home as quickly as you can."
Amidst a parting ironical cheer the Writer hastily seized the worthy Lord Mayor by the arm and broke through the assembled crowd with all possible speed.
As they passed upon their way one small incident, however, caused theWriter grave misgiving.
A tall man who had undoubtedly watched the whole proceeding nodded to him and remarked sarcastically, as he passed—
"Good-night; a really most interesting and illuminating episode."
Having safely gained his own abode, the Writer gazed apprehensively out of the window.
The sailor could still be seen supporting himself against the pedestal of the Lion's statue, the policeman appeared to be engaged upon a new crusade of note-taking. The small crowd was melting away, but the sinister face of the sarcastic man could be seen wreathed in a cynical smile of triumph.
The Writer whistled, and drawing the curtains close, turned up the electric light and anticipated the worst.
The Lord Mayor sank into the most comfortable chair he could select, and helped himself to a drink; he felt he needed one badly at that moment.
"What a dreadful and degrading scene," lamented Sir Simon. "Good gracious, if anybody had seen me who recognised me, I should never have heard the last of it."
The Writer lit a cigar thoughtfully, and passed the box to Sir Simon.
"I am afraid, Dad, we never shall hear the last of it," prophesied theWriter gloomily.
"What do you mean?" inquired Sir Simon.
"Did you notice that man who spoke to me at the edge of the crowd, who had presumably seen the whole thing?"
"Of course not," replied Sir Simon; "how on earth could I notice anybody under such distressing circumstances? Who was he? what about him?"
"That was the famous Mr. Learnéd Bore."
"What, the man who is always advertising himself?"
"Yes," agreed the Writer, "and unfortunately he has the power to do so through the medium of the newspapers; his letters to London are one of the features of the Press," added the Writer significantly.