Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (126 page)

“Wish I was a soap man and had got advertisements to give away,” sighed the Babe.

“Wish you were,” agreed the sub-editor.

“You should have them all, Tommy.”

“My name,” corrected him the sub-editor, “is Miss Hope.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the Babe. “I don’t know how it is, but one gets into the way of calling you Tommy.”

“I will thank you,” said the sub-editor, “to get out of it.”

“I am sorry,” said the Babe.

“Don’t let it occur again,” said the sub-editor.

The Babe stood first on one leg and then on the other, but nothing seemed to come of it. “Well,” said the Babe, “I just looked in, that’s all. Nothing I can do for you?”

“Nothing,” thanked him the sub-editor.

“Good morning,” said the Babe.

“Good morning,” said the sub-editor.

The childlike face of the Babe wore a chastened expression as it slowly descended the stairs. Most of the members of the Autolycus Club looked in about once a day to see if they could do anything for Tommy. Some of them had luck. Only the day before, Porson — a heavy, most uninteresting man — had been sent down all the way to Plaistow to inquire after the wounded hand of a machine-boy. Young Alexander, whose poetry some people could not even understand, had been commissioned to search London for a second-hand edition of Maitland’s
Architecture
. Since a fortnight nearly now, when he had been sent out to drive away an organ that would not go, Johnny had been given nothing.

Johnny turned the corner into Fleet Street feeling bitter with his lot. A boy carrying a parcel stumbled against him.

“Beg yer pardon—” the small boy looked up into Johnny’s face, “miss,” added the small boy, dodging the blow and disappearing into the crowd.

The Babe, by reason of his childlike face, was accustomed to insults of this character, but to-day it especially irritated him. Why at twenty-two could he not grow even a moustache? Why was he only five feet five and a half? Why had Fate cursed him with a pink-and-white complexion, so that the members of his own club had nicknamed him “the Babe,” while street-boys as they passed pleaded with him for a kiss? Why was his very voice, a flute-like alto, more suitable — Suddenly an idea sprang to life within his brain. The idea grew. Passing a barber’s shop, Johnny went in.

“‘Air cut, sir?” remarked the barber, fitting a sheet round Johnny’s neck.

“No, shave,” corrected Johnny.

“Beg pardon,” said the barber, substituting a towel for the sheet. “Do you shave up, sir?” later demanded the barber.

“Yes,” answered Johnny.

“Pleasant weather we are having,” said the barber.

“Very,” assented Johnny.

From the barber’s, Johnny went to Stinchcombe’s, the costumier’s, in Drury Lane.

“I am playing in a burlesque,” explained the Babe. “I want you to rig me out completely as a modern girl.”

“Peeth o’ luck!” said the shopman. “Goth the very bundle for you. Juth come in.”

“I shall want everything,” explained the Babe, “from the boots to the hat; stays, petticoats — the whole bag of tricks.”

“Regular troutheau there,” said the shopman, emptying out the canvas bag upon the counter. “Thry ’em on.”

The Babe contented himself with trying on the costume and the boots.

“Juth made for you!” said the shopman.

A little loose about the chest, suggested the Babe.

“Thath’s all right,” said the shopman. “Couple o’ thmall towelths, all thath’s wanted.”

“You don’t think it too showy?” queried the Babe.

“Thowy? Sthylish, thath’s all.”

“You are sure everything’s here?”

“Everythinkth there. ‘Thept the bit o’ meat inthide,” assured him the shopman.

The Babe left a deposit, and gave his name and address. The shopman promised the things should be sent round within an hour. The Babe, who had entered into the spirit of the thing, bought a pair of gloves and a small reticule, and made his way to Bow Street.

“I want a woman’s light brown wig,” said the Babe to Mr. Cox, the perruquier.

Mr. Cox tried on two. The deceptive appearance of the second Mr. Cox pronounced as perfect.

“Looks more natural on you than your own hair, blessed if it doesn’t!” said Mr. Cox.

The wig also was promised within the hour. The spirit of completeness descended upon the Babe. On his way back to his lodgings in Great Queen Street, he purchased a ladylike umbrella and a veil.

Now, a quarter of an hour after Johnny Bulstrode had made his exit by the door of Mr. Stinchcombe’s shop, one, Harry Bennett, actor and member of the Autolycus Club, pushed it open and entered. The shop was empty. Harry Bennett hammered with his stick and waited. A piled-up bundle of clothes lay upon the counter; a sheet of paper, with a name and address scrawled across it, rested on the bundle. Harry Bennett, given to idle curiosity, approached and read the same. Harry Bennett, with his stick, poked the bundle, scattering its items over the counter.

“Donth do thath!” said the shopman, coming up. “Juth been putting ’em together.”

“What the devil,” said Harry Bennett, “is Johnny Bulstrode going to do with that rig-out?”

“How thoud I know?” answered the shopman. “Private theathricals, I suppoth. Friend o’ yourth?”

“Yes,” replied Harry Bennett. “By Jove! he ought to make a good girl. Should like to see it!”

“Well arthk him for a ticket. Donth make ’em dirty,” suggested the shopman.

“I must,” said Harry Bennett, and talked about his own affairs.

The rig-out and the wig did not arrive at Johnny’s lodgings within the hour as promised, but arrived there within three hours, which was as much as Johnny had expected. It took Johnny nearly an hour to dress, but at last he stood before the plate-glass panel of the wardrobe transformed. Johnny had reason to be pleased with the result. A tall, handsome girl looked back at him out of the glass — a little showily dressed, perhaps, but decidedly
chic
.

“Wonder if I ought to have a cloak,” mused Johnny, as a ray of sunshine, streaming through the window, fell upon the image in the glass. “Well, anyhow, I haven’t,” thought Johnny, as the sunlight died away again, “so it’s no good thinking about it.”

Johnny seized his reticule and his umbrella and opened cautiously the door. Outside all was silent. Johnny stealthily descended; in the passage paused again. Voices sounded from the basement. Feeling like an escaped burglar, Johnny slipped the latch of the big door and peeped out. A policeman, pasting, turned and looked at him. Johnny hastily drew back and closed the door again. Somebody was ascending from the kitchen. Johnny, caught between two terrors, nearer to the front door than to the stairs, having no time, chose the street. It seemed to Johnny that the street was making for him. A woman came hurriedly towards him. What was she going to say to him? What should he answer her? To his surprise she passed him, hardly noticing him. Wondering what miracle had saved him, he took a few steps forward. A couple of young clerks coming up from behind turned to look at him, but on encountering his answering stare of angry alarm, appeared confused and went their way. It began to dawn upon him that mankind was less discerning than he had feared. Gaining courage as he proceeded, he reached Holborn. Here the larger crowd swept around him indifferent.

“I beg your pardon,” said Johnny, coming into collision with a stout gentleman.

“My fault,” replied the stout gentleman, as, smiling, he picked up his damaged hat.

“I beg your pardon,” repeated Johnny again two minutes later, colliding with a tall young lady.

“Should advise you to take something for that squint of yours,” remarked the tall young lady with severity.

“What’s the matter with me?” thought Johnny. “Seems to be a sort of mist—” The explanation flashed across him. “Of course,” said Johnny to himself, “it’s this confounded veil!”

Johnny decided to walk to the Marble Soap offices. “I’ll be more used to the hang of things by the time I get there if I walk,” thought Johnny. “Hope the old beggar’s in.”

In Newgate Street, Johnny paused and pressed his hands against his chest. “Funny sort of pain I’ve got,” thought Johnny. “Wonder if I should shock them if I went in somewhere for a drop of brandy?”

“It don’t get any better,” reflected Johnny, with some alarm, on reaching the corner of Cheapside. “Hope I’m not going to be ill. Whatever—” The explanation came to him. “Of course, it’s these damned stays! No wonder girls are short-tempered, at times.”

At the offices of the Marble Soap, Johnny was treated with marked courtesy. Mr. Jowett was out, was not expected back till five o’clock. Would the lady wait, or would she call again? The lady decided, now she was there, to wait. Would the lady take the easy-chair? Would the lady have the window open or would she have it shut? Had the lady seen
The Times
?

“Or the
Ha’penny Joker
?” suggested a junior clerk, who thereupon was promptly sent back to his work.

Many of the senior clerks had occasion to pass through the waiting-room. Two of the senior clerks held views about the weather which they appeared wishful to express at length. Johnny began to enjoy himself. This thing was going to be good fun. By the time the slamming of doors and the hurrying of feet announced the advent of the chief, Johnny was looking forward to his interview.

It was briefer and less satisfactory than he had anticipated. Mr. Jowett was very busy — did not as a rule see anybody in the afternoon; but of course, a lady—”Would Miss—”

“Montgomery.”

“Would Miss Montgomery inform Mr. Jowett what it was he might have the pleasure of doing for her?”

Miss Montgomery explained.

Mr. Jowett seemed half angry, half amused.

“Really,” said Mr. Jowett, “this is hardly playing the game. Against our fellow-men we can protect ourselves, but if the ladies are going to attack us — really it isn’t fair.”

Miss Montgomery pleaded.

“I’ll think it over,” was all that Mr. Jowett could be made to promise. “Look me up again.”

“When?” asked Miss Montgomery.

“What’s to-day? — Thursday. Say Monday.” Mr. Jowett rang the bell. “Take my advice,” said the old gentleman, laying a fatherly hand on Johnny’s shoulder, “leave business to us men. You are a handsome girl. You can do better for yourself than this.”

A clerk entered, Johnny rose.

“On Monday next, then,” Johnny reminded him.

“At four o’clock,” agreed Mr. Jowett. “Good afternoon.”

Johnny went out feeling disappointed, and yet, as he told himself, he hadn’t done so badly. Anyhow, there was nothing for it but to wait till Monday. Now he would go home, change his clothes, and get some dinner. He hailed a hansom.

“Number twenty-eight — no. Stop at the Queen’s Street corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields,” Johnny directed the man.

“Quite right, miss,” commented the cabman pleasantly. “Corner’s best — saves all talk.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Johnny.

“No offence, miss,” answered the man. “We was all young once.”

Johnny climbed in. At the corner of Queen Street and Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Johnny got out. Johnny, who had been pondering other matters, put his hand instinctively to where, speaking generally, his pocket should have been; then recollected himself.

“Let me see, did I think to bring any money out with me, or did I not?” mused Johnny, as he stood upon the kerb.

“Look in the ridicule, miss,” suggested the cabman.

Johnny looked. It was empty.

“Perhaps I put it in my pocket,” thought Johnny.

The cabman hitched his reins to the whip-socket and leant back.

“It’s somewhere about here, I know, I saw it,” Johnny told himself. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Johnny added aloud to the cabman.

“Don’t you worry about that, miss,” replied the cabman civilly; “we are used to it. A shilling a quarter of an hour is what we charge.”

“Of all the damned silly tricks!” muttered Johnny to himself.

Two small boys and a girl carrying a baby paused, interested.

“Go away,” told them the cabman. “You’ll have troubles of your own one day.”

The urchins moved a few steps further, then halted again and were joined by a slatternly woman and another boy.

“Got it!” cried Johnny, unable to suppress his delight as his hand slipped through a fold. The lady with the baby, without precisely knowing why, set up a shrill cheer. Johnny’s delight died away; it wasn’t the pocket-hole. Short of taking the skirt off and turning it inside out, it didn’t seem to Johnny that he ever would find that pocket.

Then in that moment of despair he came across it accidentally. It was as empty as the reticule!

“I am sorry,” said Johnny to the cabman, “but I appear to have come out without my purse.”

The cabman said he had heard that tale before, and was making preparations to descend. The crowd, now numbering eleven, looked hopeful. It occurred to Johnny later that he might have offered his umbrella to the cabman; at least it would have fetched the eighteenpence. One thinks of these things afterwards. The only idea that occurred to him at the moment was that of getting home.

“‘Ere, ‘old my ‘orse a minute, one of yer,” shouted the cabman.

Half a dozen willing hands seized the dozing steed and roused it into madness.

“Hi! stop ‘er!” roared the cabman.

“She’s down!” shouted the excited crowd.

“Tripped over ‘er skirt,” explained the slatternly woman. “They do ‘amper you.”

“No, she’s not. She’s up again!” vociferated a delighted plumber, with a sounding slap on his own leg. “Gor blimy, if she ain’t a good ‘un!”

Fortunately the Square was tolerably clear and Johnny a good runner. Holding now his skirt and petticoat high in his left hand, Johnny moved across the Square at the rate of fifteen miles an hour. A butcher’s boy sprang in front of him with arms held out to stop him. The thing that for the next three months annoyed that butcher boy most was hearing shouted out after him “Yah! who was knocked down and run over by a lidy?” By the time Johnny reached the Strand,
viâ
Clement’s Inn, the hue and cry was far behind. Johnny dropped his skirts and assumed a more girlish pace. Through Bow Street and Long Acre he reached Great Queen Street in safety. Upon his own doorstep he began to laugh. His afternoon’s experience had been amusing; still, on the whole, he wasn’t sorry it was over. One can have too much even of the best of jokes. Johnny rang the bell.