Bones in London. Wallace Edgar

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СКАЧАТЬ young fellow was in the Army. He's out of it now, running abusiness in the City – 'Schemes, Ltd.,' he calls it. Lots of peopleknow him – shipping people on the Coast. He's got a horrible nickname."

      "What's that, Fred?"

      "Bones," said Fred, in tones sufficiently sepulchral to be appropriate,"and, Joe, he's one of those bones I want to pick."

      There was another office in that great and sorrowful City. It wasperhaps less of an office than a boudoir, for it had been furnished onthe higher plan by a celebrated firm of furnishers and decorators, whose advertisements in the more exclusive publications consisted of aset of royal arms, a photograph of a Queen Anne chair, and the boldsurname of the firm. It was furnished with such exquisite taste thatyou could neither blame nor praise the disposition of a couch or theset of a purple curtain.

      The oxydized silver grate, the Persian carpets, the rosewood desk, withits Venetian glass flower vase, were all in harmony with the panelledwalls, the gentlemanly clock which ticked sedately on the Adammantelpiece, the Sheraton chairs, the silver – or apparently so – wallsconces, the delicate electrolier with its ballet skirts of purple silk.

      All these things were evidence of the careful upbringing and artisticyearnings of the young man who "blended" for the eminent firm ofMessrs. Worrows, By Appointment to the King of Smyrna, His Majesty theEmperor – (the blank stands for an exalted name which had beenpainted out by the patriotic management of Worrows), and divers otherroyalties.

      The young man who sat in the exquisite chair, with his boots elevatedto and resting upon the olive-green leather of the rosewoodwriting-table, had long since grown familiar with the magnificence inwhich he moved and had his being. He sat chewing an expensivepaper-knife of ivory, not because he was hungry, but because he wasbored. He had entered into his kingdom brimful of confidence and withunimagined thousands of pounds to his credit in the coffers of theMidland and Somerset Bank.

      He had brought with him a bright blue book, stoutly covered andbrassily locked, on which was inscribed the word "Schemes."

      That book was filled with writing of a most private kind and of afrenzied calculation which sprawled diagonally over pages, as forexample:

      Buy up old houses… say 2,000 pounds.

      Pull them down… say 500 pounds.

      Erect erect 50 Grand Flats… say 10,000 pounds.

      Paper, pante, windows, etc… say 1,000 pounds.

—

      Total… 12,000 pounds.

      50 Flats let at 80 pounds per annum. 40,000 lbs.

      Net profit… say 50 per cent.

      NOTE. – For good middel class familys steady steady people. By thismeans means doing good turn to working classes solving houseing problemand making money which can be distribbuted distribbutted to the poor.

      Mr. Augustus Tibbetts, late of H.M. Houssa Rifles, was, as hisdoorplate testified, the Managing Director of "Schemes, Ltd." He was asevere looking young man, who wore a gold-rimmed monocle on his greycheck waistcoat and occasionally in his left eye. His face was of thatbrick-red which spoke of a life spent under tropical suns, and whenerect he conveyed a momentary impression of a departed militarism.

      He uncurled his feet from the table, and, picking up a letter, read itthrough aloud – that is to say, he read certain words, skipped others, and substituted private idioms for all he could not or would nottrouble to pronounce.

      "Dear Sir," (he mumbled), "as old friends of your dear uncle, and so onand so forth, we are taking the first opportunity of making widdlywiddly wee… Our Mr. Fred Pole will call upon you and place himselfwiddly widdly wee – tum tiddly um tum. – Yours truly."

      Mr. Tibbetts frowned at the letter and struck a bell with unnecessaryviolence. There appeared in the doorway a wonderful man in scarletbreeches and green zouave jacket. On his head was a dull red tarbosh,on his feet scarlet slippers, and about his waist a sash of Orientalaudacity. His face, large and placid, was black, and, for all hissuggestiveness of the brilliant East, he was undoubtedly negroid.

      The costume was one of Mr. Tibbetts's schemes. It was faithfullycopied from one worn by a gentleman of colour who serves the Turkishcoffee at the Wistaria Restaurant. It may be said that there was nospecial reason why an ordinary business man should possess a bodyguardat all, and less reason why he should affect one who had the appearanceof a burlesque Othello, but Mr. Augustus Tibbetts, though a businessman, was not ordinary.

      "Bones" – for such a name he bore without protest in the limited circlesof his friendship – looked up severely.

      "Ali," he demanded, "have you posted the ledger?"

      "Sir," said Ali, with a profound obeisance, "the article was toocopious for insertion in aperture of collection box, so it wastransferred to the female lady behind postal department counter."

      Bones leapt up, staring.

      "Goodness gracious, Heavens alive, you silly old ass – you – you haven'tposted it – in the post?"

      "Sir," said Ali reproachfully, "you instructed posting volume in exactformula. Therefore I engulfed it in wrappings and ligatures of string, and safely delivered it to posting authority."

      Bones sank back in his chair.

      "It's no use – no use, Ali," he said sadly, "my poor uncivilized savage,it's not your fault. I shall never bring you up to date, my poor sillyold josser. When I say 'post' the ledger, I mean write down all themoney you've spent on cabs in the stamp book. Goodness gracious alive!You can't run a business without system, Ali! Don't you know that, mydear old image? How the dooce do you think the auditors are to knowhow I spend my jolly old uncle's money if you don't write it down, hey?Posting means writing. Good Heavens" – a horrid thought dawned onhim – "who did you post it to?"

      "Lord," said Ali calmly, "destination of posted volume is yourlordship's private residency."

      All's English education had been secured in the laboratory of anEnglish scientist in Sierra Leone, and long association with thatlearned man had endowed him with a vocabulary at once impressive andrecondite.

      Bones gave a resigned sigh.

      "I'm expecting – " he began, when a silvery bell tinkled.

      It was silvery because the bell was of silver. Bones looked up, pulleddown his waistcoat, smoothed back his hair, fixed his eye-glass, andtook up a long quill pen with a vivid purple feather.

      "Show them in," he said gruffly.

      "Them" was one well-dressed young man in a shiny silk hat, who, whenadmitted to the inner sanctum, came soberly across the room, balancinghis hat.

      "Ah, Mr. Pole – Mr. Fred Pole." Bones read the visitor's card with thescowl which he adopted for business hours. "Yes, yes. Be seated, Mr.Pole. I shall not keep you a minute."

      He had been waiting all the morning for Mr. Pole. He had been weavingdreams from the letter-heading above Mr. Pole's letter.

      Ships … ships … house-flags … brass-buttoned owners…

      He waved Mr. Fred to a chair and wrote furiously. This franticpressure of work was a phenomenon which invariably coincided with thearrival of a visitor. It was, I think, partly due to nervousness andpartly to his dislike of strangers. Presently he finished, blotted thepaper, stuck СКАЧАТЬ