The Green Overcoat . Hilaire Belloc

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СКАЧАТЬ don't understand you, Charles," said Mr. Brassington quietly; "I simply don't understand you. I was written to and I hope I replied with dignity. I was written to again, and I answered in a final manner. I will not pay."

      "I have no doubt you did," said Mr. Kirby. "It 's a curious thing how eagerly a young man will take to expectations!"

      "You simply don't know what you 're saying, Charles," answered Mr. Brassington; "and if I didn't know you as well as I do, I 'd walk out of the room."

      "I know what I am saying exactly," riposted Mr. Kirby with as much heat as his quizzical countenance would allow. "I was going to follow it up if you hadn't interrupted me. I say it 's a curious thing how a young man will be moved by expectations. That 's why they gamble. Thank God, I never married! They like to see something and work for it. That 's why they gamble. You won't understand me, John," he said, putting up a hand to save an interruption; "but that 's why when I was a boy my father put me into the office and said that if I worked hard something or other would happen, something general and vague—esteem, good conscience, or some footling thing called success."

      "I wish you wouldn't say 'footling,'" interjected John Brassington gravely.

      "I didn't," answered Mr. Kirby without changing a muscle, "it 's a horrible word. Anyhow, if my dad had said to me, 'Charles, my boy, there 's £100 for you in March if you keep hours, but if you 're late once not a farthing,' by God, John, I 'd have worked like a nigger!"

      Mr. Brassington looked at the fire and thought, without much result.

      "I can't pay it, Charles, and I won't," he said at last. "I 've said I wouldn't, and that 's enough. I have written and said I wouldn't, and that 's more. But even if I had said nothing and had written nothing, I wouldn't pay. He must learn his lesson."

      "Oh, he 'll learn that all right!" said Mr. Kirby carelessly. "He 's learning it now like the devil. It 's an abominable shame, mind you, and I don't mind telling you so. I 've a good mind to send him the money myself."

      "If you do, Charles," said John Brassington, with one of his fierce looks, "I 'll, I 'll——"

      "Yes, that's what I was afraid of," said Mr. Kirby thoughtfully. "You 're an exceedingly difficult man to deal with. … I shouldn't have charged him more than five per cent. You 'll lose your train, John."

      John Brassington looked at his watch again.

      "You haven't been much use to me, Charles," he said, sighing as he rose.

      "Yes, I have, John," said Mr. Kirby, rising in his turn. "What do you do with your evening clothes when you run up to town by the night train like this?"

      "I change at my rooms in town when I get in, Charles," said Mr. Brassington severely, "you know that as well as I do—and I wear my coat up to town."

      "They say you wear it in bed," was Mr. Kirby's genial answer. "I 'll come out and help you on with it, and we 'll start."

      The two men came out from the smoking-room into the hall. They found a number of guests crowding for their cloaks and hats. They heard the noise of wheels upon the drive outside.

      "I told you how it would be, John," said Mr. Kirby. "You won't be able to get through that crush. You won't get your coat in time, and you 'll miss the train."

      "That's where you 're wrong, Charles," said Mr. Brassington, with a look of infinite organising power. "I always leave my coat in the same one place in every house I know."

      He made directly for the door, where a large and sleepy servant was mounting guard, stumbled to a peg that stood in the entry, and discovered that the coat was gone.

      There followed a very curious scene.

      The entry was somewhat dark. It was only lit from the hall beyond. Mr. Kirby, looking at his friend as that friend turned round from noting his loss, was astonished to see his face white—so white that it seemed too clearly visible in the dark corner, and it was filled with a mixture of sudden fear and sudden anger. From that face came a low cry rather than a phrase—

      "It's gone, Charles!"

      The louty servant started. Luckily none of the guests heard. Mr. Kirby moved up quickly and put his hand on Brassington's arm.

      "Now, do manage yourself, John," he said. "What 's gone?"

      "My Green Overcoat!" gasped Mr. Brassington in the same low tone passionately.

      "Well?"

      "Well! You say 'well'—you don't understand!"

      "Yes, I do, John," said Mr. Kirby, with a sort of tenderness in his voice. "I understand perfectly. Come back here with me. Be sensible."

      "I won't stir!" said Mr. Brassington irresolutely.

      My. Kirby put a hand affectionately upon his old friend's shoulder and pushed him to the door of the smoking-room they had just left. He shut that door behind him. None of the guests had noticed. It was so much to the good.

      "It 's gone! It 's gone!" said John Brassington twice.

      He had his hands together and was interlacing the fingers of them nervously.

      Mr. Kirby was paying no attention; he was squatting on his hams at a sideboard, and saying—

      "It 's lucky that I do John Perkin's business for him, I 'm being damned familiar."

      He brought out a decanter of brandy, chucked the heel of Mr. Brassington's port into the fire, and poured out a glassful of the spirit.

      "I always forget your last craze, John," he said; "but if I was a doctor I should tell you to drink that."

       It 's gone! It 's gone!" said John Brassington twice.

       "John Brassington drank a little of the brandy, and Mr. Kirby went on—

      "Don't bother about Belgium to-night, my boy. In the first place, take my overcoat. I am cleverer than you in these crushes, I don't even hang it on a peg. I leave it" (and here he reached behind a curtain), "I leave it here," and he pulled it out.

      It was no more than an easy mackintosh without arms. He put it on his unresisting friend, who simply said—

      "What are you going to do, Charles?"

      "I am going to take orders," said Charles Kirby, suddenly pulling out from his pocket a square of fine, black silk, and neatly adjusting it over his shirt front. "I haven't got a parsons dog collar on, but a man can walk the streets in this. After all, some of the clergy still wear the old-fashioned collars and white tie, don't they? "

      John Brassington smiled palely.

      "Oh, it 's in the house!" he said. "It 's sure to be in the house somewhere!"

      "Now, John," said Charles Kirby firmly, "don't make a fool of yourself. Don't ask for that coat. It 's the one way not to get it. Stay where you are, and I 'll bring you news."

      He СКАЧАТЬ