The Green Overcoat . Hilaire Belloc

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      He told not a soul—only his chief friend and (of course) his servants had divined it—but Mr. Brassington lent to that Green Overcoat such private worship as the benighted give their gods. It was a secret and strange foible. He gave to it in its recurrent and successive births power of fortune and misfortune. Without it, he would have dreaded bankruptcy or disease. In the hands of others, he thought it capable of carrying a curse.

      The son to whom his affections were so deeply devoted bore the three names of Algernon Sawby Leonidas (Sawby had been his mother's family name), and was now grown up to manhood. He had been at Cambridge, had taken his degree the year before, but had lingered off and on for his rowing, and "kept his fifth year." He divided his time between London lodgings and the last requirements of his college.

      On that day in May with which I am dealing it was to consult upon this son of his that Mr. Brassington had left the crowd at Sir John Perkin's and had shut himself with Charles Kirby into the smoking-room.

      Mr. Kirby was listening, for the fifteenth or twentieth time, to his friend's views upon Algernon Sawby Leonidas, which lad, in distant Cambridge, was at that moment doing precisely what his father and his father's lawyer were about, drinking port, but with no such long and honest life behind him as theirs.

      It was Mr. Kirby's way to listen to anything his friends might have to say—it relieved them and did not hurt him. In the ordinary way he cared nothing whether he was hearing a friend's tale for the first or for the hundredth time; he had no nerves where friendship was concerned, and friendship was his hobby. But in this late evening he did feel a movement of irritation at hearing once again in full detail the plans for Algernon's life spun out in their regular order, as though they were matter for novel advice.

      Mr. Brassington was at it again—the old, familiar story! How, properly speaking, the Queen should have knighted him when she came to Ormeston during his mayoralty; how, anyhow, King Edward might have given him a baronetcy, considering all he had done during the war. How he didn't want it for himself, but he thought it would steady his son. How he would have nothing to do with paying for such things; how he had heard that the usual price was £25,000; how that was robbing his son! Robbing his son, sir! Robbing his son of a thousand pounds a year, sir! How Mr. Brassington would have that baronetcy given him for the sake of his son, of hearty goodwill, or not at all.

      Mr. Kirby listened, more and more bored.

      "I 've told you, Brassington, twenty times! They came to me about it and you lost your temper. They came to me about it again the other day, and it 's yours for the asking, only hang it all! you must do something public again, they must have a peg to hang it on."

      Whereat Mr. Kirby's closest and oldest friend went at him again, recited the baronetcy grievance at full length once more, and concluded once more with his views upon Algernon Sawby Leonidas.

      When Mr. Brassington had come to the end of a sentence and made something of a pause, Mr. Kirby said—

      "I thought you were going to Belgium?"

      Mr. Brassington was a little pained.

      "I have arranged to take the night mail," he said gravely. "I shall walk down. Will you come to the station with me?"

      "Oh, yes!" said Mr. Kirby briskly. "It 'll give me a nice walk back again all through the rain. If you think all that about Algernon you shouldn't have sent him to Cambridge."

      "I sent him to Cambridge by your advice, Kirby," said Mr. Brassington with dignity.

      "I would give it again," said Mr. Kirby, crossing his legs. "It's an extraordinary thing that a rich man like Perkin has good port one day and bad port another. … He ought to go to Cambridge. I have a theory that everyone should go to Cambridge who can afford it, south-east of a line drawn from——"

      "Don't, Charles, don't," said Mr. Brassington, a little pained, "it 's very serious!"

      Mr. Kirby looked more chirpy than ever.

      "I didn't say your ideas were right; I don't think they are. I said that if you had those ideas it was nonsense to send him to Cambridge. Why shouldn't he drink? Why shouldn't he gamble? What 's the harm?"

      "What 's the——?" began John Brassington, with a flash in his eyes.

      "Well, well," said Kirby soothingly, "I don't say it 's the best thing in the world. What I mean is you emphasise too much. You know you do. Anyhow, John, it doesn't much matter; it 'll all come right."

      He stared at the fire, then added—

      "Now, why can't I get coals to burn like that? Nothing but pure white ash!"

      He leant forward with a grunt, stirred the fire deliberately, and watched the ash with admiration as it fell.

      "Kirby," said John Brassington, "it will break my heart!"

      "No it won't!" said Mr. Kirby cheerfully.

      "I tell you it will!" replied the other with irritation, as though the breaking of the heart were an exasperating matter. "And one thing I am determined on—determined——" The merchant hesitated, and then broke out abruptly in a loud voice, "Do you know that I have paid his gambling debts four times regularly? Regularly with every summer term?"

      "It does you honour, John," said Mr. Kirby.

      "Ah, then," said Mr. Brassington, with a sudden curious mixture of cunning and firmness in his voice, "I haven't paid the last, though!"

      "Oh, you haven't?" said Mr. Kirby, looking up. He smelt complications.

      "No, I haven't …! I gave him fair warning," said the elderly merchant, setting his mouth as squarely as possible, but almost sobbing in his heart. "Besides which it 's ruinous."

      "I wonder if he gave the young bloods fair warning?" mused Mr. Kirby. "Last Grand National——"

      "Oh, Lord, Charles!" burst out Mr. Brassington, uncontrollable. "D'ye know what, what that cub shot me for? Curse it all, Kirby, two thousand pounds!"

      "The devil!" said Charles Kirby.

      "It is the Devil," said John Brassington emphatically.

      And it was, though he little knew it, for it was in that very moment that the Enemy of Mankind was at work outside in the hall upon the easy material of Professor Higginson. It was in that very moment that the Green Overcoat was enclosing the body of the Philosopher, and was setting out on its adventures from Sir John Perkin's roof. Even as Mr, Brassington spoke these words the outer door slammed. Kirby, looking up, suddenly said—

      "I say, they 're going! What about your train?"

      "There 's plenty of time," said Brassington wearily, "it 's only twelve. Do listen to what I am saying."

      "I 'm listening," said Kirby respectfully.

      "Well," went on Mr. Brassington, "there 's the long and the short of it, I won't pay."

      Mr. Kirby poked the fire.

      "The thing to do," he said at last in a meditative sort of tone, "is to go down and give the young cubs Hell!"

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