The Green Overcoat . Hilaire Belloc

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      "Mr. Brassington," he began in a slow and modulated tone.

      "I 'm not Mr. Brassington, whoever Mr. Brassington may be," protested the unhappy victim, half understanding the portentous error. "What on earth do you take me for?"

      Jimmy by this time was in a mood to stand no nonsense.

      "Mr. Brassington," he said, "you broke your word to us once this evening when you kicked out at Melba, and that ought to have been a lesson to me. I was foolish enough to believe you when you gave your word a second time. I certainly believed it when you gave it a third time after we released you." (It was a very partial release, but no matter.) "Now," said he, setting his lips firmly, "if you try to shuffle out of the main matter, I warn you it will be the worse for you, very much the worse for you, indeed. You will be good enough to sign us a cheque for two thousand pounds, and to sign the type-written acknowledgment in front of you."

      Men in bewilderment do foolish things even when they are men of judgment, and Professor Higginson certainly was not that. His next words were fatal.

      "Do you suppose I carry a cheque-book on me?" he roared.

      "Melba," said Jimmy quietly, in the tones of a general officer commanding an orderly, "go through him."

      The Professor having said a foolish word, followed it by a still more foolish action. He dived into the right-hand pocket of the Green Overcoat with a gesture purely instinctive. Melba was upon him like a fat hawk, almost wrenched his arm from its socket, and drew from that right-hand pocket a noble great cheque-book of a brilliant red, with a leather backing such as few cheque-books possess, and having printed on it in bold plutocratic characters—

      "John Brassington, Esqr.,

       'Lauderdale,'

       Crampton Park, Ormeston."

      Melba conveyed the cheque-book solemnly to Jimmy, and the two young men sat down again opposite their involuntary creditor, spreading it out open before them in an impressive manner.

      "Mr. Brassington," said Jimmy, "what do I see here? Everything that I should have expected from a man of your prominence in the business world and of your known careful habits. I see neatly written upon the fly-leaf, ‘Private Account,' and the few counterfoils to the cheques already drawn carefully noted. I perceive," continued Jimmy, summing up boldly, "the sum of £50 marked 'self' upon the second of this month. The object of your munificence does not surprise me. Upon the next counterfoil I see marked £173 10s. It is in settlement of a bill—a garage bill. I am glad to see that you recognise and pay some of your debts. The third counterfoil," he said, peering more closely, "relates to a cheque made out only yesterday. It is for £5, and appears to have been sent to your son, who, as you know, is our honoured friend."

      "I protest …" interrupted Professor Higginson loudly.

      "At your peril!" retorted Melba.

      "You will do well, Mr. Brassington, to let me finish what I have to say," continued Jimmy. "I say your son, our honoured friend, as you know well—only too well! These three cheques are your concern, not ours. No further cheque has been drawn, and on the fourth cheque form, Mr. Brassington, you will be good enough to sign your name. You will make it out to James McAuley—a small c and a big A, if you please; an ey, not an a—in your letters you did not do me the courtesy to spell my name as I sign it. You will then hand me the instrument, and I will settle with my friend."

      At the words "my friend" he waved courteously to Melba, gave a ridiculous little bow, which in his youthful folly he imagined to be dignified.

      The Professor sat stolidly and said nothing. His thoughts hurried confusedly within him, and the one that ran fastest was, "I am in a hole!"

      "I do assure you, gentlemen," he said at last, "that there is some great mistake. I have no doubt that—that a Mr. Brassington owes you the money, no doubt at all. And perhaps you were even justified in the very strong steps you took to recover it. I should be the last to blame you." (The liar!) "But as I am not Mr. Brassington, but, if you want to know, Professor Higginson, of the Guelph University, I cannot oblige you."

      When the Professor had thus delivered himself there was a further silence, only interrupted by Melba's addressing to him a very offensive epithet. "Swine!" he said.

      "Are we to understand, Mr. Brassington," said Jimmy, when he had considered the matter, "that after all that you have said you refuse to sign? Did you imagine" (this with rising anger in his voice) "that we would compromise for a smaller sum?"

      "I tell you I am not Mr. Brassington!" answered the Psychologist tartly.

      "Oh!" returned Jimmy, now thoroughly aroused and as naturally as could be, "and you aren't wearing Mr. Brassington's clothes, Brassington, are you? And this isn't Mr. Brassington's cheque-book, is it, Brassington? And you 're not a confounded old liar as well as a cursed puritanical thief? Now, look here, if you don't sign now, you 'll be kept here till you do. You 'll be locked up without food, except just the bread and water to keep you alive; and if you trust to your absence being noticed, I can tell you it won't be. We know all about that. You were going to Belgium for a week, weren't you, by the night train to London? You were taking no luggage, because you were going to pick up a bag at your London office, as you always do on these business journeys. You were going on business, and I only hope the business will wait. Oh, we know all about it, Brassington! We have a clear week ahead of us, and you won't only get bread and water in that week; and I don't suppose anybody would bother if we made the week ten days."

      I have already mentioned in the course of this painful narrative the name of the Infernal Power. My reader will be the less surprised to follow the process of Professor Higginson's mind in this terrible crux. He sat there internally collapsed and externally nothing very grand. His two masters, stern and immovable, watched him from beyond the table with its one candle. It was deep night. There was no sound save the lashing of the storm against the window-panes.

      He first considered his dear home (which was a pair of rooms in a lodging in Tugela Street, quite close to his work). Then there came into his mind the prospect of sleepless nights in a bare room, of bread and water, and worse. …

      What was "worse"?

      His resolution sank and sank. The process of his thought continued. The eyes of the two young men, hateful and determined, almost hypnotised him.

      If the money of this ridiculous John Brassington, whoever he might be, was there in his pocket, he would stand firm. He hoped he would stand firm. But after all, it was not money. It was only a bit of paper. He would be able to make the thing right. … He was very ignorant of such things, but he knew it took some little time to clear a cheque. … He remembered someone telling him that it took three days, and incidentally he grotesquely remembered the same authority telling him that every cheque cost the bank sevenpence. … The rope hurt damnably, and he was a man who could not bear to miss his sleep, it made him ill. … And he was feeling very ill already. He could carefully note the number of the cheque, anyhow. Yes, he could do that. He had this man Brassington's address. He had the name of the bank. It was on the cheques. He would have the courage to expose the whole business in the morning. He would stop that cheque. He clearly remembered the Senate of the University having made a mistake two years before and how the cheque was stopped. … It was a perfectly easy business. … Of course, the actual signing of another man's name is an unpleasant thing for the fingers to do, but that is only nervousness—next door to superstition. One СКАЧАТЬ