The Belovéd Vagabond. William John Locke

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      I spent many happy hours over these scraps, building up the fantastic fairy tale of Paragot's antecedents, and should have gone on reading them for an indefinite time had not Paragot one day discovered me. It was then that I learned the sacrosanctity of private papers.

      "I thought, my little Asticot," said he, bending his blue eyes on me, "I thought you were a gentleman."

      Only Paragot could have had so crazy a thought. I could not be a gentleman, I reflected, till I had a gold watch-chain. However Paragot expected me to be one without the seal and token of outward adornments, and I promised faithfully to mould myself according to his expectations.

      "How much of this nightmare farrago have you read?"

      "I know it all by heart, Master," said I.

      He took off his old hat and threw it on the bed, and ran his fingers through his hair perplexedly.

      "My son," said he at last, "if you were just a common boy I should make you go on your bended knees and lift up your hand and swear that you would not reveal to a living soul the mysteries which these papers contain, and then I should send you to dwell for ever among the tripe-plates. But I see before me a gentleman, a scholar and an artist and I will not submit him to such an indignity."

      He put his hand on my head and looked at me in kind irony.

      "I will never tell no one, Master," I promised.

      "Anyone," he corrected.

      "Anyone, Master," I repeated meekly.

      "You will wipe it all out of your memory."

      I was habitually truthful with Paragot, because he never gave me cause to lie.

      "I can't, Master," said I, thinking of my dreams of Joanna.

      The seriousness of my tone amused him.

      "What has made such an indelible impression on your mind?"

      "I can't forget——" I blurted out, moved both by reluctance to yield over my dreams of Joanna and by a desire to show off my familiarity with French, "I can't forget about ces petits pieds si adorés."

      The smile died from his face, which assumed a queer, scared expression. He went to the window and stood there so long, that I, in my turn grew scared. I realised dimly what I had done, and I could have bitten my tongue out. I drew near him.

      "Master," said I timidly.

      He did not seem to hear; presently he picked up his hat from the bed and walked out without taking any notice of me.

      We did not refer to the papers again until long afterwards, and though they lay unguarded as before in the old stocking, never till this present day have I set my eyes on them.

CHAPTER IV

       Table of Contents

      One May morning a year after my surprising of Paragot's secret, I awoke later than usual, the three-and-sixpenny clock on the mantelpiece marking eleven, and huddling on my clothes in alarm I left the foul smelling Club room, and ran upstairs to arouse my master.

      To my astonishment he was not alone. A stout florid man, wearing a white waistcoat which bellied out like the sail of a racing yacht, a frock coat and general resplendency of garb, stood planted in the middle of the room, while Paragot still in nightshirt but trousered, sat swinging his leg on a corner of the deal table. I noticed the fiddle which Paragot had evidently been playing before his visitor's arrival, lying on the disordered bed.

      "Who the devil is this?" cried the fat man angrily.

      "This is Mr. Asticot, my private secretary, who cooks my herrings and attends to my correspondence. Usually he cooks two, but if you will join us at breakfast Mr. Hogson——"

      "Pogson," bawled the fat man.

      "I beg your pardon," said my master sweetly. "If you will join us at breakfast he will cook three."

      "Damn your breakfast," said Mr. Pogson.

      "Only two then, Asticot. This gentleman has already breakfasted. You will forgive us for not treating you as a stranger."

      Mr. Pogson, who was in a rage, thumped the table with his hand.

      "I'll give you to understand Mr. Henkendyke, that I am the proprietor of this club. I have bought it with my money, and I'm not going to see it go to eternal glory as it's doing under your management. I'm not like that old ass Ballantyne. I'm a business man and I'm going to run this club for a profit, and if you continue to be manager you'll jolly well have to turn over a new leaf."

      "My good friend," said my master, rising and thrusting his hands in his pockets, "you have told me that about ten times; it is getting monotonous."

      "The way this place is run," continued Mr. Pogson, unheeding, "is scandalous. Not a blessed account kept. No check on provisions or drink. Every night your servants are drunk."

      "As owls," said Paragot.

      "And what the dickens do you do?"

      "I give the Lotus Club the prestige of my presidency. I accept a salary and this presidential residence as my remuneration. You do not expect a man like me to keep ledgers and check butcher's bills like a twopennyhalfpenny clerk in the City. It is you, my dear Mr. Pogson, who have curious ideas of club management. You should put this sort of thing into the hands of some arithmetical hireling. I—" he waved his long fingers tipped with their long nails, magnificently—"am the picturesque, the intellectual, the spiritual guide of the club."

      "You are a—— fraud," cried Mr. Pogson, using so dreadful an adjective that I dropped the gridiron. Paragot had trained me to a distaste of foul language. "You are a drunken incompetent thief."

      Paragot took his guest's glossy silk hat and gold mounted cane from the table and put them into his hands. He pointed to the door.

      "Get out—quickly," said he.

      He turned on his heel and sitting on the bed began to play the fiddle. Mr. Pogson instead of getting out stood in front of him quivering like an infuriated jelly, and informed him that it was his blooming club and his blooming room, that he would choose the moment of exit most convenient to his own blooming self; also that Paragot's speedy exit was a matter for his decision. In a dancing fury he heaped abuse on Paragot who played "The Last Rose of Summer," with rather more tremolo than usual. Even I saw that he was dangerous. Mr. Pogson did not heed. Suddenly Paragot sprang to his feet towering over the fat man and swung his fiddle on high like Thor's hammer. With a splitting crash it came down on Mr. Pogson's head. Then Paragot gripped him and running with him to the door, shot him down the stairs.

      "That, my little Asticot," said he, "is the present proprietor of the Lotus Club, and this is the late manager."

      I ran to the door for the purpose of locking it. Paragot smiled.

      "He will not come back. When he has mended what Fluellen calls his 'ploody coxcomb,' he will take СКАЧАТЬ