McClure's Magazine/Volume 25/Number 4/Catherwood's Data Of Ethics

by Arthur Train

CATHERWOOD'S DATA OF ETHICS

BY

ARTHUR TRAIN

ILLUSTRATED BY FRANK CRAIG

I

CERTAINLY, sir. Your clothes shall be delivered at the Metropole at nine-forty-five to-morrow evenin', sir.”

Pondel's dapper little clerk tossed a half dozen bolts of “trouserings” upon the polished table, and smiled graciously at the firm's best paying customer.

“Here Bulstead! Take Mr. Catherwood's waist measure—just a matter of precaution,” he added deferentially. “These are somethin' fine, sir—very fine! When they came in I says to Mr. Pondel: 'If only Mr. Catherwood could see that woolen! It's a shame,' I says, 'not to save it for 'im!' An' Mr. Pondel agreed with me at once. 'Very good, Wessons,' says he. 'Lay aside enough of that Lancaster to make Mr. Catherwood a single-breasted sack suit, and if he don't fancy it I 'll have it made up into somethin' for myself,' he says. Ain't that so Mr. Pondel?”

The gentleman addressed had graciously sauntered over to congratulate Mr. Catherwood upon his selections.

“Ah! Very good. Very good indeed! How's that, Wessons? Yes, I told him to keep that piece for you, sir. Lord Bentwood begged for it almost with the tears in his eyes, as I may say, but I assured him that it was already spoken for.” He patted the cloth with a fat, ring-covered hand. An atmosphere of exclusive opulence emanated from every inch of his sleek, pudgy person—from the broad white forehead over the glinting steel-gray eyes, from the pointed Vandyke trimmed to resemble that of a certain exalted personage, from his drab waistcoated abdomen begirdled with its heavy chain and dangling seals, down to the gray-gaitered patent leathers. Catherwood distrusted, feared, relied upon him.

The clubman wiped his monocle and glanced out through the plate-glass window. Marlborough Square was flooded with the soft sunshine of the autumn afternoon. Hardly a pedestrian violated the eminently aristocratic silence of St. Timothy's.

“Very thoughtful of you, I'm sure,” he replied, not grudging Pondel the extra two guineas which he very well knew the other invariably charged for these little favors. It were cheap at twice the money to feel so much a gentleman.

“But this is Saturday, and it's five o'clock now. I don't see how you can possibly finish all those suits by to-morrow evening. You know I really did n't intend to order anythin' but the frock coat. Perhaps you'd just better let the rest go. I can get 'em some other time.”

“Not at all, Mr. Catherwood. Not at all. We are always delighted to serve you by any means in our power. Did Wessons say they would be finished to-morrow? Then to-morrow they shall be, sir. I'll set my men at work immediately. Pedler! Where's Pedler? Send him here at once!”

A hollow-eyed, lank, round-shouldered journeyman parted the curtains that concealed the rear of the room, and nervously approached his employer. He blinked at the unaccustomed sunlight, suppressing a cough.

“Did you call me, sir?”

“Yes,” replied Pondel, with the severity of one granting an undeserved favor. “This is Mr. Catherwood of whom you have heard us speak so often. I believe you have cut several of the gentleman's suits. He is to take the 'Majestic' which sails early Monday morning, and I have promised that his clothes shall be ready to-morrow evening. Can you arrange to stay here to-night and whatever portion of to-morrow is necessary to finish them?”

A worried look passed over the man's face, and his hand flew to his mouth to strangle another cough.

“Certainly, sir. That is—of course—Yes, sir. May I ask how many, sir?”

“Only three, I believe. I was sure it could be arranged. Please ask Aggam to assist you. That is all.”

“Yes, sir. Very good, sir.” Pedler hesitated a moment as if about to speak, then turned listlessly and plodded back behind the curtains.

“Very obliging man—Pedler. You see, there will be no difficulty, Mr. Catherwood.”

“Well, I don't see how on earth you 're goin' to do it!” protested Catherwood feebly. He wanted the clothes badly, now that he had seen the material. “It's mighty good of you to take all this trouble.”

Mr. Pondel made a depreciating gesture.

“We are always glad to serve you, sir!” he repeated as Wessons escorted the distinguished customer to the door.

“It's a great privilege to be employed by such a man as Mr. Pondel,” he whispered. “He thinks an enormous lot of you, sir. Very fine man—Mr. Pondel.”

As the hansom jogged rapidly towards the hotel, Catherwood reflected painfully upon the enormous sums of money that he annually transferred from his own pockets to those of the lordly tailor. Not that the money made any particular difference. The clubman was well enough fixed, only sometimes the bills were unexpectedly large. The three suits just ordered would average fourteen guineas each. Roughly they would come to two hundred and twenty-five dollars, plus the duty, which he always paid conscientiously. And he was getting off easy at that. He remembered heaps of bills for over two hundred pounds, and that was only the beginning, for he bought most of his clothes right in New York.

Climbing the steps of his hotel he wondered vaguely how long Pedler and the other fellow would have to work to finish the suits. Of course, they would be paid extra—were probably glad to do it. The chap had a nasty cough, though. O, well, that was their business—not his. So long as he put up the money, Pondel could look out for the rest.

However, he felt a distinct sense of relief that his own obligations consisted merely in dressing, dining at the Savoy with Aversly, and then leisurely taking in the Alhambra afterwards. Once in his room he found that Thompson had already laid out his clothes. Catherwood rather dreaded dressing, for the place was one of those heavily oppressive apartments characteristic of English hotels. Green marble, yellow plush, and black walnut filled the foreground, background, and middle distance, while a marble-topped table, placed squarely in the center of the room, offered the only oasis in the desert of upholstery, in the form of a single massive book, bound in brown morocco and bearing the inscription stamped upon its cover in heavy gilt:

HOTEL METROPOLE

HOLY BIBLE

NOT TO BE REMOVED

It fascinated him, recalling the chained hair-brush and comb of the Pacific coast. There you were offered cleanliness—here godliness, by the proprietors—only the means thereto were not to be taken away. The next comer must have his chance. Maybe there was a statute requiring it.

As the clubman idly lifted the volume, he suddenly realized that this was the first Bible he had actually touched in thirty years. The last time he had owned one himself had been at school when he was fifteen years old. Something moved him to carry it to the window. The sun was just dropping over the scarlet chimney-pots of London. Its burnished glare played upon the red gilt edges of the leaves, as Catherwood mechanically allowed the book to fall open in his hands. He read these words:

“So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that are done under the sun; and behold the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no comforter; and on the side of their oppressors there was power; but they had no comforter.”

The sun sank; the chimneys deadened against the sky-line. When Thompson, ten minutes later, stole in to see if his master needed his assistance, he found Catherwood staring into the darkening west.

II

The bell on St. Timothy's tolled twelve o'clock as Catherwood's hansom, straight from the Alhambra, clacked into the moonlit silence of Marlborough Square. A soft breath of distant gardens hung on the cool air. The chimneys rose from the housetops sharp against a pale blue sky glittering with stars. Here and there a yellow window gleamed for a moment under the eaves, then vanished mysteriously. It was a night for lovers—calm, still, ecstatic—for hayfields under the harvest-moon, for white, ghostly reaches of the Thames, for poetry, for the exquisite enjoyment of earth's nearest approach to heaven.

The trap above Catherwood's head opened.

“Beg pardon, sir. W'ere did you s'y sir?”

“I said Pondel's,” replied Catherwood, rather sharply. He knew the cabby must think him a lunatic, but he didn't care. He intended to do the decent thing. Hang it! The fellow could mind his own business.

The hansom crossed the street and reined up in the shadow. All was dark, silent, deserted. Only the brass plate beside the door reflected strangely the moonlight across the way.

“'Ere's Pondel's, sir.” The cabby got down and crossed the sidewalk to the door.

“All shut hup!” he commented. “Close at six.”

A dark figure emerged quickly from a neighboring shadow.

“'Ere! Wot is it you want?” demanded the bobby accosting the cabman with tentative and potential roughness.

“Gent want's Pondel's. I dunno w'y. Ax 'im yerself!” responded cabby in an injured tone.

The bobby turned to the hansom.

“This shop's closed at six o'clock,” he announced. “Wot do you want?”

Catherwood felt ten thousand times a fool. Che beauty of the night, the odoriferous quiet, the peace of the deserted square all made his errand seem monstrously idiotic. The universe was wheeling silently across the housetops, respectable men and women were in their beds, only night-hawks, lovers, policemen were abroad. It was as if a worm were raising objection to some cardinal law. Why should he try to upset the order and regularity of the London night, clattering into this slumbering section, startling a respectable somnolent policeman, making an ass of himself before his cabby—because somewhere a fellow was workin' overtime on his trousers. He imagined that as soon as he had made his explanation the bobby and the driver would collapse with merriment, and hale him to a mad-house. But Catherwood set his teeth. He was fighting for a principle. He wouldn't “welch” now. He clambered out of the hansom.

“I want to find Pondel, because he's got some fellows workin' on my clothes, and I don't propose to have anybody workin' for me on Sunday. Understand? It's Sunday. I don't intend to have folks workin' on my clothes when they ought to be in bed.”

He spoke brokenly, catching his breath between words, almost ready to cry, defiantly—then waited for his auditors to fall upon each other's necks in derisive mirth. He forgot, however, that he was in London. The situation was one apposite to American humor, but evoked no sense of amusement in the policeman. He treated Catherwood's explanation with vast respect. Our hero gained confidence. The bobby regretted that the place seemed closed; ventured to express his approval of the clubman's altrusitic effort; dilated upon it to the cabby, who was correspondingly impressed. Catherwood, immensely cheered, held forth on the wrongs of labor at some length, and, finding a sympathetic audience, produced cigars. The three proved, as it were, a little group of humanitarians united in a common purpose. Then, suddenly, inconsequently, inexcusably, a man coughed. The sound was muffled, but unmistakable. It came from a point directly beneath their feet. The bobby rapped sharply on the pavement several times.

“Hi, there, you!” he called. “Hi there, you in Pondel's. Come an' open hup!”

They could hear a dull murmur of conversation, the cough was repeated, a bench dragged across a floor, some fastening was slowly loosed, and a yellow gleam of light shot up through the shadow as a scuttle opened in the sidewalk. A lean, scrawny figure thrust itself upward, sleepily rubbing its eyes, collarless, its shirt open at the breast, its hair tousled, coughing. Catherwood, now confident that he had the support of his companions, addressed the ghost, in whom he recognized Pedler, the journeyman from behind the curtains. The clubman's face, however, was concealed in shadow from the other.

“You 're workin' for Pondel, ar'n't you?”

The ghost coughed again, and shivered, although the air was warm.

“Yes,” it answered huskily.

“Are you workin' on some clothes for a gentleman who's sailin' on Monday?”

“Yes,” it repeated.

“Then don't, any more,” chirped Catherwood encouragingly. “Those clothes are for me, and I don't want you to work any longer. You ought to be in bed.”

“Wotcher givin' us?” grumbled Pedler. “G'wan! Leave us alone!” he started to descend. But the bobby stepped forward.

“Look 'ere,” he said roughly. “Don't you understand? It's just as the gentleman s'ys. You don't 'ave to work any more to-night. You can go 'ome.”

“I s'y, wotcher givin' us?” repeated the other. “I cawn't go 'ome. Mr. Pondel's horders is to sty 'ere until the clothes is finished. M'ybe it's as you s'y, but I cawn't go 'ome.”

At this juncture a child began to cry drowsily below, and a woman's voice could be heard striving to comfort it.

“You don't mean you 've got a baby down there!” exclaimed Catherwood.

“Only little Annie,” replied Pedler. “An' the old woman.”

“Any one else?”

“Aggam.”

“Let's go down” suggested the bobby. “I can make 'em understand.” The ghost descended, dazed, and Catherwood, the bobby, and last of all, the cabman, followed down a creaking ladder, into a sort of vault under the cellar. A small oil wick gave out a feeble, fluctuating light. On one side, cross-legged, sat a shriveled-up, little old man, his brown beard streaked with gray, stitching. He did not look up, but only worked the faster. A thin woman crouched on a broken chair, holding a little girl in her lap.

“There, there, Annie, don't cry. The bobby's not arter you. It's all right, darlin'!”

Strewn about the cement floor lay the bolts of Lancaster which Catherwood had selected, together with patterns, scissors, and unfinished garments.

“Excuse the child, sir,” apologized the woman. “She's just a bit sleepy.”

“Well,” said Catherwood, his indignation rising at the scene, and shame burning in his cheeks. “Go right home. I won't have you workin' on these clothes any more.” How he wished Pondel was there to get a piece of his mind!

Pedler looked wearily at Aggam.

“Wot d'ye s'y, Aggam?”

The other kept on stitching.

“I gets my horders from Pondel,” he replied, shortly. “An' I don't tyke no horders from no one else!”

“But look here,” cried Catherwood. “The clothes are mine, ain't they? Pondel has n't anything to do with it! And I tell you to go home.”

“Yes,” grunted Aggam. “An' then you loses your job, does yer? I don't want no toff mixin' into my affairs. I minds my business, they can mind their's!”

“I s'y, that's no w'y to speak to the gentleman,” exclaimed the bobby with disgust “'E's only tryin' to do yer a favor! "Ave n't yer got no manners?”

“I minds my business, let 'im mind 'is'n!” repeated Aggam, stolidly.

“Well, I must s'y,” ejaculated the cabby, “they 're a bloomin' grateful lot!”

The tall man seemed to resent this last from one of his own station.

“I appreciates wot the gent wants,” he said weakly, “but it's just like Aggam s'ys. Wot can we do? The gent cawn't tell us to go 'ome!”

The child began to cry again. Catherwood was exasperated almost to the point of profanity.

“Don't you want to go home?” he exclaimed.

The woman laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh.

“Annie an' me 'ave st'y'd 'ere all the evenin' just to be with Jim. 'E's awful sick. An' 'e 'll 'ave to st'y 'ere all d'y to-morrer. Do we want to go 'ome!”

Her husband dashed his shirt-sleeve across his eyes.

“Don't, Nell,” he muttered. “I ain't sick. I can work. You go 'ome with the kid.”

Catherwood thrust a handful of bank-notes toward her.

“Where does old Pondel live?” he inquired of the bobby.

“Out in Kew somewheres,” replied the officer.

The woman was staring blankly at the money. Suddenly she dropped the little girl and began to sob. Jim broke into a fit of harsh coughing. The cabman climbed up the ladder. The temperature of the vault seemed insufferable to Catherwood.

“I suppose you 'll go home if Pondel says so?” he suggested.

“Just watch us!” growled Aggam.

“Take that child home, anyhow, and put it to bed,” ordered the clubman. “I 'll be back in an hour or so!”

As he climbed up through the scuttle into the sweet, soft moonlight, and started to enter the hansom, the bobby held out his hand.

“Excuse me, sir. I 'ope you 'll pardon the liberty, but, would you mind, I've got a brother in America—Smith's the naime—'e lives in a plaice called Manitoba. Do you 'appen to know 'im?”

“I'm sorry,” replied our friend. “I never ran across him.”

“Where to now?” asked the cabby.

“To Kew,” replied Catherwood.

They swung out of the square, leaving the bobby standing in the shadow of Pondel's.

“I 'll look out for 'em while you 're gone,” called the latter encouragingly. They crossed Bond Street, followed Grosvenor Street into Park Lane, and plunging round Hyde Park corner, past the statute to England's greatest soldier, they entered Kingsbridge. Catherwood, all awake from his recent experience, saw things that he had never observed before—bedraggled flower-girls in gaudy hats, with heart-rending faces—drunken laborers staggering along upon the arms of sad-featured women—young girls, slender, painted, strolling with an affectation of lightheartedness along the glittering sidewalks. On they jogged, past narrow streets where, amid the flare of torches the entire population of the neighborhood swarmed, bargained, swore, and quarreled; where little children rolled under the costers' carts, fighting for scraps of meat and decaying vegetables; and where their passage was obstructed by the throngs of miserable humanity for whom this was their only park, their only club. It being Saturday night the butchers were selling off their remnants of meat, and their shrill cries could be heard for blocks. Several times the horse shied to avoid trampling upon some old hag who, clutching her wretched purchase at her breast, hurried homeward before a drunken lout should snatch it from her. Catherwood had never imagined the like. It was with a sigh of relief that they left the Hammersmith Road behind, and at last reached the residential districts. In about an hour they found themselves in Kew. A cool breeze from the country fanned his cheek. On either hand trim little villas with smooth lawns lined the road, and the moonlit air was fragrant with the smell of damp grass, violets, and heliotrope. Here and there could be heard the tinkle of a cottage piano, and the laughter of belated merry-makers on the verandas.

They located Mr. Pondel's villa without difficulty. Standing back some thirty yards from the street, its well-kept garden full of flowering shrubs and carefully-tended beds of geraniums, it was a residence typical of the London suburb, with fretwork along the piazza roof, a stone dog guarding each side of the steps, and salmon-pink curtains at the parlor windows. The door stood open, a Japanese lamp burned in the hallway, and the murmur of voices floated out from the door leading into the parlor. Catherwood once again felt the overwhelming absurdity of his position. Over his shoulder, as he stood by the hyacinths at the door, floated the same big moon in the same soft heaven. Damp and fragrant, the wind blew in from the lawn and swayed the portières in the narrow hall, behind which, doubtless, sat the lordly Pondel, friend of noblemen, adviser of royalty, entrenched in his castle, a unit in an impregnable system. The whinny of the cab-horse beyond the hedge recalled to Catherwood the necessity for action. He realized that he was losing moral ground every instant.

The bell jangled harshly somewhere in the back of the house. A man's voice—Pondel's—muttered indistinctly, there was a feminine whisper in response, some one placed a glass on a table and pushed back a chair. A clock in the neighborhood struck two, and Pondel emerged through the portières—Pondel in a wadded, claret-colored dressing-gown embroidered with birds of Paradise, in carpet slippers, with a meerschaum pipe, watery eyes, and slightly disarranged hair. It was rather dim in the hallway, and he did not recognize his visitor.

“What is it? What do you want?” The inquiry was abrupt and a little thick.

“Good evening, Mr. Pondel,” stammered Catherwood. “I hope you 'll excuse me for disturbing you at this hour. It's about the clothes.”

“W'o is it?” Pondel peered into his guest's flushed face. “W'y Mr. Catherwood, what are you doin' way out 'ere? Excuse my appearance—a little pardonable neglishay of a Saturday evenin'. Come right in, won't you? Great honor, I'm sure. Though, if you 'll believe it, I once 'ad the honor of a call from His Grace the Duke of Bashton right in this very 'all. Excuse me w'ile I announce your presence to Mrs. Pondel.”

Catherwood said something about having to go at once, but Pondel shuffled through the curtains, almost immediately sweeping them back with a lordly gesture of welcome.

“This way, Mr. Catherwood.” Our miserable friend entered the parlor. “Elizabeth, hallow me to present Mr. Catherwood—one of my oldest customers.”

Elizabeth—a fat vision of fifty-five, with peroxide hair, and a soft pink of unchanging hue mantling her elsewhere mottled cheeks, arose graciously from the table where she and her husband had been playing double-dummy bridge, and courtesied.

“Cha'med, I'm sure. What a beautiful evenin'! Won't you si' down?” murmured this enchantress.

Catherwood took a chair and Pondel pressed whisky and water upon him. O, Mr. Catherwood need n't be afraid of it—it was the real old thing—Lord Langollen had sent him a dozen. Lizzie would take a nip with 'em. Eh, Lizzie? A gen'leman did n't take that long trip every evenin', and a little refreshment would not only do him good, but, as the Yankees said, would show there was no 'ard feelin', eh? He must really take just a drop—Say when!

Lizzie poured out a glass for the much embarrassed guest. She was in a flowered kimono, even more “neglishay” than her husband, but the bower in which the goddess reclined was a perfect pearl of the decorator's art. Cupids, also “neglishay,” toyed with one another around a cluster of electric burners in the ceiling, gay streamers of painted blossoms dangling from their hands and floating down the walls. Gilt chairs, a white and gilt sofa, and a brown etching in a Florentine frame on each wall were the most conspicuous articles of furniture. At the windows the brilliant salmon-pink curtains bellied softly in the breeze that stole into the chamber and diluted the gentle odor of Parma violets, which exuded from the dame in the kimono. To Pondel, Catherwood's presence was an evidence of his power; and his pride, tickled mightily, put him in an exquisite good humor. Certainly the occasion required from him, the host, a proper felicitation.

“'Ere's to our better acquaintance,” said the tailor, raising his glass sententiously. “Lizzie, drink to Mr. Catherwood!”

The three drank solemnly. Then the voluble tailor addressed himself to the task of entertaining his distinguished guest. Catherwood could catch at no opening to explain his visit. Pondel chatted gaily of Paris, the Continent, and familiarly of the races and the beau monde. Apparently he knew (by their first names), half the nobility of England, and he endeavored to place his customer equally at his ease with them. He ventured that he knew how most young Americans spent their time in London and Paris; dropped with a wink, that in spite of his present uxoriousness he had been a bit of a dog himself, and ended by suggesting another toast to “A short life and a merry one.” The lady of the kimono, grammatically not so strong as her husband, contented herself with expansive smiles and frequent recurrence to the tumbler

“I must explain my visit,” finally broke in Catherwood. “It's about the clothes!”

Pondel smiled condescendingly.

“My dear Mr. Catherwood, you don't need to worry in the slightest. They 'll be done promptly to-morrow evenin', take my word for it.”.

Catherwood flushed. How in Heaven's name could he ever make the tailor understand?

“I 've decided I don't want 'em!” he stammered.

Pondel's glass went to the table with a bang, and he gazed blankly at his customer. The clubman, not realizing the implication, did not proceed.

“That's all right,” finally responded Pondel a trifle coldly. “There's no hurry about settlement. You can take a year, if necessary.” Mrs. Pondel slipped unobtrusively out of the room, leaving a trail of perfume behind her.

“O,” exclaimed our friend, catching his breath. “It is n't that. But you see I can't have those men workin' over night and to-morrow on my account. It's—it's against my principles.”

Pondel brightened. A load had been taken from his heart. So long as Catherwood's bank account was good, any idiosyncrasy the American might exhibit did not matter. He had always regarded Catherwood, however, as a man of the world, and had esteemed him accordingly. He perceived that he had been mistaken: His customer was merely a religious crank. He had had experience with them before.

“Pooh! That's all right,” said he, resuming his former cordiality. “Why, they like to earn the extra money. They 're all devoted to my interests, you know.”

“Well, I don't want 'em to work any longer on my clothes,” repeated Catherwood helplessly.

“1 understand,” replied Mr. Pondel, rather loftily. “I'm afraid, however, it's too late to stop them now. The cloth 'as been cut, and they would not stop contrary to my direction.”

“That's the point,” returned Catherwood, “I want you to change your orders.”

“But, my dear sir,” expostulated the tailor, “you can't expect me to go to London this time of night. Besides, they 're nearly done by this time. It's impossible!”

“I 'll manage that,” exclaimed Catherwood. “I 've been down to the shop already and they 're waiting for me now to come back with your permission to go home—they would n't go without it.”

“Dear, dear!” replied the tailor, changing his tactics. “How much interest you have taken in their welfare! How kind and thoughtful of you. No, they 're faithful men—they would n't think of disobeying orders. But what a shame I did n't know of it before. Why, they might 'ave been at 'ome and in their beds. However, I sha' n't forget 'em at the end of the month. Mr. Catherwood, I respect you. I have never known of a more unselfish act. Permit me to say it, sir, you are a Christian—a true Christian. I wish there were more like you, sir!”

Catherwood rose to his feet. His one thought now was to escape as quickly as possible. The sight of Pondel's smiling countenance filled him with unutterable disgust. Suppose the fellows at the club could see him sitting in this pursy tailor's parlor, with his scented wife, and gilded chairs——!”

The tailor, however, was anxious to restore the cordiality of their relations, and slopped over in his eagerness to show how kind he was to his men, and how considerate of their well-being. He took Catherwood's arm familiarly as he showed him to the door.

“Yes,” he added confidentially, “this is a very good locality. Only the best people live in this neighborhood. Rather a neat little property.” He proffered Catherwood a cigar. The clubman wanted to kick him for a miserable, dirty cad.

“Right back!” he said to the cabby, hardly replying to the tailor's good-night.

London was asleep. Even the streets through which he had driven to Kew were hushed in preparation for the sodden Sunday to come. The moon had lowered over the housetops, and St. Timothy's was in the shadow as once again he drew up in front of Pondel's.

“Back already, sir?” The bobby stepped out to meet him.

“Yes,” replied Catherwood wearily. “And those fellows down there are goin' home.”

The bobby rapped on the scuttle. Once more Pedler's head protruded above the sidewalk.

“Mr. Pondel says you 're to go home,” said Catherwood.

“The gent's been all the way to Kew for you,” interjected the bobby.

“Hi, Aggam!” exclaimed Jim, huskily. “Th' gentleman says we are to go 'ome, Mr. Pondel says.” He disappeared. Aggam could be heard muttering below. Presently the light was extinguished and both emerged from the scuttle and put on their coats. Catherwood felt sleepily exultant. Pedler pushed the scuttle into place.

“Well,” said Catherwood after an awkward pause, “can I give you a lift? Which way do you go? I tell you what, you come back with me to the hotel, and then the hansom can take you both home.”

Pedler and Aggam looked doubtfully at one another.

“O, come on, you fellers!” exclaimed Catherwood, all his natural good spirits returning with a rush. “Get in there, now!”

Pedler and Aggam climbed in and Catherwood directed the driver to goto the Metropole, after stuffing a sovereign into the hand of his friend, the policeman. The stars were still marching across the sky, and the breeze had freshened. Every window was dark; no one was astir. They heard only the echoes of their horse's hoof-beats. Yet the restless silence that precedes the dawn was in the air.

“I lives miles aw'y from 'ere,” said Pedler after a meditative period.

“So do I,” supplemented Aggam.

“I don't care,” replied Catherwood. “I've had this cab all night, anyhow, and I want to celebrate. You see, this is the first time I ever got ahead of my tailor.”

Another long pause ensued. They were not a talkative lot, surely. Catherwood's flow of language absolutely deserted him. He could think of no subject of conversation whatever. Pedler finally came to his assistance.

“I'm thirty-seven year old, an' this is the fust time I 've ever ridden in a 'ansom.”

“Jiminy!” exclaimed Catherwood. “You don't say so! What luck!”

“Fust time for me, too,” added Aggam.

After this burst of confidence the three rode in utter silence. At the Metropole the clubman jumped out, and bade his companions good-night.

As the cabby gathered up the reins preparatory to a fresh start, Aggam leaned forward rather apologetically.

“You must hexcuse me,” he remarked, “but I don't want to sail under false colors, and I feel as if I hort to s'y that while I'm a Socialist, I 'ave no particular sympathy with Sabbatarianism.”

“Well, neither have I,” replied Catherwood encouragingly, an answer which probably puzzled Mr. Aggam for a fortnight.