Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (127 page)

The door opened. Johnny would have walked in had not a big, raw-boned woman barred his progress.

“What do you want?” demanded the raw-boned woman.

“Want to come in,” explained Johnny.

“What do you want to come in for?”

This appeared to Johnny a foolish question. On reflection he saw the sense of it. This raw-boned woman was not Mrs. Pegg, his landlady. Some friend of hers, he supposed.

“It’s all right,” said Johnny, “I live here. Left my latchkey at home, that’s all.”

“There’s no females lodging here,” declared the raw-boned lady. “And what’s more, there’s going to be none.”

All this was very vexing. Johnny, in his joy at reaching his own doorstep, had not foreseen these complications. Now it would be necessary to explain things. He only hoped the story would not get round to the fellows at the club.

“Ask Mrs. Pegg to step up for a minute,” requested Johnny.

“Not at ‘ome,” explained the raw-boned lady.

“Not — not at home?”

“Gone to Romford, if you wish to know, to see her mother.”

“Gone to Romford?”

“I said Romford, didn’t I?” retorted the raw-boned lady, tartly.

“What — what time do you expect her in?”

“Sunday evening, six o’clock,” replied the raw-boned lady.

Johnny looked at the raw-boned lady, imagined himself telling the raw-boned lady the simple, unvarnished truth, and the raw-boned lady’s utter disbelief of every word of it. An inspiration came to his aid.

“I am Mr. Bulstrode’s sister,” said Johnny meekly; “he’s expecting me.”

“Thought you said you lived here?” reminded him the raw-boned lady.

“I meant that he lived here,” replied poor Johnny still more meekly. “He has the second floor, you know.”

“I know,” replied the raw-boned lady. “Not in just at present.”

“Not in?”

“Went out at three o’clock.”

“I’ll go up to his room and wait for him,” said Johnny.

“No, you won’t,” said the raw-boned lady.

For an instant it occurred to Johnny to make a dash for it, but the raw-boned lady looked both formidable and determined. There would be a big disturbance — perhaps the police called in. Johnny had often wanted to see his name in print: in connection with this affair he somehow felt he didn’t.

“Do let me in,” Johnny pleaded; “I have nowhere else to go.”

“You have a walk and cool yourself,” suggested the raw-boned lady. “Don’t expect he will be long.”

“But, you see—”

The raw-boned lady slammed the door.

Outside a restaurant in Wellington Street, from which proceeded savoury odours, Johnny paused and tried to think.

“What the devil did I do with that umbrella? I had it — no, I didn’t. Must have dropped it, I suppose, when that silly ass tried to stop me. By Jove! I am having luck!”

Outside another restaurant in the Strand Johnny paused again. “How am I to live till Sunday night? Where am I to sleep? If I telegraph home — damn it! how can I telegraph? I haven’t got a penny. This is funny,” said Johnny, unconsciously speaking aloud; “upon my word, this is funny! Oh! you go to — .”

Johnny hurled this last at the head of an overgrown errand-boy whose intention had been to offer sympathy.

“Well, I never!” commented a passing flower-girl. “Calls ‘erself a lidy, I suppose.”

“Nowadays,” observed the stud and button merchant at the corner of Exeter Street, “they make ’em out of anything.”

Drawn by a notion that was forming in his mind, Johnny turned his steps up Bedford Street. “Why not?” mused Johnny. “Nobody else seems to have a suspicion. Why should they? I’ll never hear the last of it if they find me out. But why should they find me out? Well, something’s got to be done.”

Johnny walked on quickly. At the door of the Autolycus Club he was undecided for a moment, then took his courage in both hands and plunged through the swing doors.

“Is Mr. Herring — Mr. Jack Herring — here?”

“Find him in the smoking-room, Mr. Bulstrode,” answered old Goslin, who was reading the evening paper.

“Oh, would you mind asking him to step out a moment?”

Old Goslin looked up, took off his spectacles, rubbed them, put them on again.

“Please say Miss Bulstrode — Mr. Bulstrode’s sister.”

Old Goslin found Jack Herring the centre of an earnest argument on Hamlet — was he really mad?

“A lady to see you, Mr. Herring,” announced old Goslin.

“A what?”

“Miss Bulstrode — Mr. Bulstrode’s sister. She’s waiting in the hall.”

“Never knew he had a sister,” said Jack Herring, rising.

“Wait a minute,” said Harry Bennett. “Shut that door. Don’t go.” This to old Goslin, who closed the door and returned. “Lady in a heliotrope dress with a lace collar, three flounces on the skirt?”

“That’s right, Mr. Bennett,” agreed old Goslin.

“It’s the Babe himself!” asserted Harry Bennett.

The question of Hamlet’s madness was forgotten.

“Was in at Stinchcombe’s this morning,” explained Harry Bennett; “saw the clothes on the counter addressed to him. That’s the identical frock. This is just a ‘try on’ — thinks he’s going to have a lark with us.”

The Autolycus Club looked round at itself.

“I can see verra promising possibilities in this, provided the thing is properly managed,” said the Wee Laddie, after a pause.

“So can I,” agreed Jack Herring. “Keep where you are, all of you. ’Twould be a pity to fool it.”

The Autolycus Club waited. Jack Herring re-entered the room.

“One of the saddest stories I have ever heard in all my life,” explained Jack Herring in a whisper. “Poor girl left Derbyshire this morning to come and see her brother; found him out — hasn’t been seen at his lodgings since three o’clock; fears something may have happened to him. Landlady gone to Romford to see her mother; strange woman in charge, won’t let her in to wait for him.”

“How sad it is when trouble overtakes the innocent and helpless!” murmured Somerville the Briefless.

“That’s not the worst of it,” continued Jack. “The dear girl has been robbed of everything she possesses, even of her umbrella, and hasn’t got a
sou
; hasn’t had any dinner, and doesn’t know where to sleep.”

“Sounds a bit elaborate,” thought Porson.

“I think I can understand it,” said the Briefless one. “What has happened is this. He’s dressed up thinking to have a bit of fun with us, and has come out, forgetting to put any money or his latchkey in his pocket. His landlady may have gone to Romford or may not. In any case, he would have to knock at the door and enter into explanations. What does he suggest — the loan of a sovereign?”

“The loan of two,” replied Jack Herring.

“To buy himself a suit of clothes. Don’t you do it, Jack. Providence has imposed this upon us. Our duty is to show him the folly of indulging in senseless escapades.”

“I think we might give him a dinner,” thought the stout and sympathetic Porson.

“What I propose to do,” grinned Jack, “is to take him round to Mrs. Postwhistle’s. She’s under a sort of obligation to me. It was I who got her the post office. We’ll leave him there for a night, with instructions to Mrs. P. to keep a motherly eye on him. To-morrow he shall have his ‘bit of fun,’ and I guess he’ll be the first to get tired of the joke.”

It looked a promising plot. Seven members of the Autolycus Club gallantly undertook to accompany “Miss Bulstrode” to her lodgings. Jack Herring excited jealousy by securing the privilege of carrying her reticule. “Miss Bulstrode” was given to understand that anything any of the seven could do for her, each and every would be delighted to do, if only for the sake of her brother, one of the dearest boys that ever breathed — a bit of an ass, though that, of course, he could not help. “Miss Bulstrode” was not as grateful as perhaps she should have been. Her idea still was that if one of them would lend her a couple of sovereigns, the rest need not worry themselves further. This, purely in her own interests, they declined to do. She had suffered one extensive robbery that day already, as Jack reminded her. London was a city of danger to the young and inexperienced. Far better that they should watch over her and provide for her simple wants. Painful as it was to refuse a lady, a beloved companion’s sister’s welfare was yet dearer to them. “Miss Bulstrode’s” only desire was not to waste their time. Jack Herring’s opinion was that there existed no true Englishman who would grudge time spent upon succouring a beautiful maiden in distress.

Arrived at the little grocer’s shop in Rolls Court, Jack Herring drew Mrs. Postwhistle aside.

“She’s the sister of a very dear friend of ours,” explained Jack Herring.

“A fine-looking girl,” commented Mrs. Postwhistle.

“I shall be round again in the morning. Don’t let her out of your sight, and, above all, don’t lend her any money,” directed Jack Herring.

“I understand,” replied Mrs. Postwhistle.

“Miss Bulstrode” having despatched an excellent supper of cold mutton and bottled beer, leant back in her chair and crossed her legs.

“I have often wondered,” remarked Miss Bulstrode, her eyes fixed upon the ceiling, “what a cigarette would taste like.”

“Taste nasty, I should say, the first time,” thought Mrs. Postwhistle, who was knitting.

“Some girls, so I have heard,” remarked Miss Bulstrode, “smoke cigarettes.”

“Not nice girls,” thought Mrs. Postwhistle.

“One of the nicest girls I ever knew,” remarked Miss Bulstrode, “always smoked a cigarette after supper. Said it soothed her nerves.”

“Wouldn’t ‘ave thought so if I’d ‘ad charge of ‘er,” said Mrs. Postwhistle.

“I think,” said Miss Bulstrode, who seemed restless, “I think I shall go for a little walk before turning in.”

“Perhaps it would do us good,” agreed Mrs. Postwhistle, laying down her knitting.

“Don’t you trouble to come,” urged the thoughtful Miss Bulstrode. “You look tired.”

“Not at all,” replied Mrs. Postwhistle. “Feel I should like it.”

In some respects Mrs. Postwhistle proved an admirable companion. She asked no questions, and only spoke when spoken to, which, during that walk, was not often. At the end of half an hour, Miss Bulstrode pleaded a headache and thought she would return home and go to bed. Mrs. Postwhistle thought it a reasonable idea.

“Well, it’s better than tramping the streets,” muttered Johnny, as the bedroom door was closed behind him, “and that’s all one can say for it. Must get hold of a smoke to-morrow, if I have to rob the till. What’s that?” Johnny stole across on, tiptoe. “Confound it!” said Johnny, “if she hasn’t locked the door!”

Johnny sat down upon the bed and took stock of his position. “It doesn’t seem to me,” thought Johnny, “that I’m ever going to get out of this mess.” Johnny, still muttering, unfastened his stays. “Thank God, that’s off!” ejaculated Johnny piously, as he watched his form slowly expanding. “Suppose I’ll be used to them before I’ve finished with them.”

Johnny had a night of dreams.

For the whole of next day, which was Friday, Johnny remained “Miss Bulstrode,” hoping against hope to find an opportunity to escape from his predicament without confession. The entire Autolycus Club appeared to have fallen in love with him.

“Thought I was a bit of a fool myself,” mused Johnny, “where a petticoat was concerned. Don’t believe these blithering idiots have ever seen a girl before.”

They came in ones, they came in little parties, and tendered him devotion. Even Mrs. Postwhistle, accustomed to regard human phenomena without comment, remarked upon it.

“When you are all tired of it,” said Mrs. Postwhistle to Jack Herring, “let me know.”

“The moment we find her brother,” explained Jack Herring, “of course we shall take her to him.”

“Nothing like looking in the right place for a thing when you’ve finished looking in the others,” observed Mrs. Postwhistle.

“What do you mean?” demanded Jack.

“Just what I say,” answered Mrs. Postwhistle.

Jack Herring looked at Mrs. Postwhistle. But Mrs. Postwhistle’s face was not of the expressive order.

“Post office still going strong?” asked Jack Herring.

“The post office ‘as been a great ‘elp to me,” admitted Mrs. Postwhistle; “and I’m not forgetting that I owe it to you.”

“Don’t mention it,” murmured Jack Herring.

They brought her presents — nothing very expensive, more as tokens of regard: dainty packets of sweets, nosegays of simple flowers, bottles of scent. To Somerville “Miss Bulstrode” hinted that if he really did desire to please her, and wasn’t merely talking through his hat — Miss Bulstrode apologised for the slang, which, she feared, she must have picked up from her brother — he might give her a box of Messani’s cigarettes, size No. 2. The suggestion pained him. Somerville the Briefless was perhaps old-fashioned. Miss Bulstrode cut him short by agreeing that he was, and seemed disinclined for further conversation.

They took her to Madame Tussaud’s. They took her up the Monument. They took her to the Tower of London. In the evening they took her to the Polytechnic to see Pepper’s Ghost. They made a merry party wherever they went.

“Seem to be enjoying themselves!” remarked other sightseers, surprised and envious.

“Girl seems to be a bit out of it,” remarked others, more observant.

“Sulky-looking bit o’ goods, I call her,” remarked some of the ladies.

The fortitude with which Miss Bulstrode bore the mysterious disappearance of her brother excited admiration.

“Hadn’t we better telegraph to your people in Derbyshire?” suggested Jack Herring.

“Don’t do it,” vehemently protested the thoughtful Miss Bulstrode; “it might alarm them. The best plan is for you to lend me a couple of sovereigns and let me return home quietly.”

“You might be robbed again,” feared Jack Herring. “I’ll go down with you.”

“Perhaps he’ll turn up to-morrow,” thought Miss Bulstrode. “Expect he’s gone on a visit.”

“He ought not to have done it,” thought Jack Herring, “knowing you were coming.”

“Oh! he’s like that,” explained Miss Bulstrode.

“If I had a young and beautiful sister—” said Jack Herring.

“Oh! let’s talk of something else,” suggested Miss Bulstrode. “You make me tired.”