The Lucky Number. Ian Hay

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СКАЧАТЬ interval of silence Crake will open a kind of peep-hole in the oaken door, and say: “Who goes there?’ or something of that kind. Broxey, if he is still awake, will reply: ‘The Citizens of this Ancient Borough,” or words to that effect. Then the doors will be thrown open—assuming that they will open; but you know what our local contractors are—and Crake will be revealed in his top-hat, and will say: “Welcome, Stranger!” or, “Walk right in, boys!” or, ‘Watch your step!’ or something like that, and will hand the key of the Institute to Broxey, who will probably lose it.”

      “I see. And then to lunch at the Town Hall, I suppose?”

      “Not so fast. Remember this is a Cathedral city: the Dean and Chapter must be given an opportunity to put their oar in. The Dean will speak his piece, and then I understand that the Choir, who are to be concealed somewhere behind one of the doors, will create a brief disturbance. After that the Town will assert itself, as against the County and the Close.”

      “What is their stunt going to be?”

      “An Address of Welcome and Grateful Thanks to Crake.”

      “That seems reasonable. But who is going to compose it?”

      “I have already done so, by request. It is not half bad,” said the Rector modestly.

      “Who is going to read it? The Mayor?”

      “The Mayor is an imperfect creature, but he possesses one superlative quality: he harbours no illusions about his own ability to grapple with the letter H. He declines to read the Address. Most of the Corporation are in the same boat—though they don’t all admit it.”

      “Why don't you read it yourself?”

      “Trades-Union rules forbid. If I read it, it would be regarded as the propaganda of the Established Church. The forces of Town and Chapel would combine to fall upon me and crush me. No, we must have a citizen—a citizen of credit and renown, locally known and esteemed.” The Rector eyed me furtively. “I suppose you, now—”

      “Not on your life!” I replied hastily.

      “Why not?”

      “Well, for one thing I am a comparative stranger: I have n’t been here two years yet. Besides, in opening a literary and intellectual emporium of this kind you want—I have it! The very man!”

      “Who?” asked the Rector, eagerly.

      I told him.

      The Rector halted in the middle of the street and shook me by the hand.

      “Ideal!” he said. “I’ll fix it with the Council. You go and ask him.”

      V

       Table of Contents

      I repaired to the Home of The Oracle that same evening. It was destined to be a memorable visit. Something unusual in the atmosphere impressed itself on my senses the moment Ada Weeks opened the door to me. Miss Weeks's manner could never at any time be described as genial: at its very best it was suggestive of an indulgent sergeant-major. But this evening Ada resembled a small, lean cat, engaged in a rear-guard action with dogs. Her green eyes blazed: one felt that she would like to arch her back and spit.

      “Pettigrew and Mould is here,” she said. “Hang up your own hat: I can't leave them.” And she vanished into the front room.

      Messrs. Pettigrew and Mould were a sore trial to Mr. Baxter. They did not consult The Oracle regularly, but when they did they made trouble. Their efforts appeared mainly to be directed towards embarrassing their host by asking frivolous questions, and then humiliating him in the presence of his disciples by the manner in which they received his answers.

      The attitude of Mr. Pettigrew, the druggist, was understandable; for he was a mean little man, and jealous. He possessed diplomas and certificates of his own: he was steeped in all the essences of the Pharmacopœia: yet none did him reverence. The towns people purchased cough mixtures and patent pills from him with no more respect than if they had been sausages or yards of tape. Even when he assumed an air of portentous solemnity and retired behind his carved oak screen with a prescription, most of his customers took it for granted that he filled up the bottle from a water-tap and added colouring matter and a dash of something unpleasant to the taste. Probably they were not far wrong. But wrong or right, it never occurred to any of them to treat Mr. Pettigrew as an Oracle, or Savant, or Philosopher; and Mr. Pettigrew undoubtedly felt very badly about it.

      Mr. Mould was our local undertaker—which was unfortunate, for nature had intended him for a low comedian. Under a professionally chastened exterior he concealed the sense of humour and powers of repartee of a small boy of ten. To him Mr. Baxter, with his studied little mannerisms and his pedantic little courtesies, was fair game.

      When I entered the parlour these two worthies were heavily engaged in their favourite sport of philosopher-baiting. The philosopher himself, I noticed, was looking very old and very tired. I had not seen him for a week, and I was secretly shocked at his appearance.

      “You’re not looking well,” I said, as I shook hands. “You ought not to be entertaining your friends to-night.”

      “Indeed,” replied my host, with the ghost of a smile, “my friends have been entertaining me. Mr. Mould has been amusing us all. Has he not, Ada?”

      “If I was his wife,” replied Miss Weeks, with a glare which would have permanently disheartened any comedian less sure of himself than Mr. Mould, “I should die of laughing—at myself!”

      This dark saying was accepted by the undertaker as a compliment.

      “I certainly venture to claim,” he observed complacently, “that we pulled our respected friend's leg pretty neatly to-night.” Pettigrew sniggered.

      “What was the joke?” I asked, without enthusiasm.

      “Well, me and Mr. Pettigrew here,” began the undertaker, “knowing Mr. Baxter's fondness for giving information and advice, brought him a little poser last time we came here. We asked him if he could find anything in his library about an ancient Greek party called Cinchona. He said he would look Mr. Cinchona up. This evening he had his little lecture all ready for us. Highly enjoyable, it was. Cinchona, it seems, was one of the less-known figures in Ancient Greek Mythology—was n’t that it, Pettigrew?”

      Pettigrew grinned, and clicked. He was an unpleasant-looking creature, with false teeth which did not fit.

      “In fact,” continued Mould, with immense relish, “poor old Cinchona was such a little-known figure that most people—common uneducated druggists, like Mr. Pettigrew—thought Cinchona was the name of the bark they make quinine from. Haw, haw, haw!”

      The two humourists roared outright this time. Mr. Baxter, with the unruffled courtesy of perfect breeding, Smiled again, though I could see he was much put out. Jobson, the heavy-shouldered artisan from the factory, sat gazing at him in a puzzled and rather reproachful manner. One could see that he felt his master ought to have known all about Cinchona.

      “An interesting coincidence,” commented the old man gently. “The drug cinchona СКАЧАТЬ