The card, p.18
The Card, page 18
It would be futile longer to conceal that the delegate of the Signal in the bowels of the car of Jupiter was not honestly a delegate of the Signal at all. He was, indeed, Denry Machin, and none other. From this single fact it will be seen to what extent the representatives of great organs had forgotten what was due to their dignity and to public decency. Ensconced in his lair Denry directed the main portion of the Signal’s advertising procession by all manner of discreet lanes round the skirts of Hanbridge and so into the town from the hilly side. And ultimately the ten vehicles halted in Crapper Street, to the joy of the simple inhabitants.
Denry emerged and wandered innocently towards the offices of his paper, which were close by. It was getting late. The first yelling of the imprisoned Daily boys was just beginning to rise on the autumn air.
Suddenly Denry was accosted by a young man.
‘Hello, Machin!’ cried the young man. ‘What have you shaved your beard off, for? I scarcely knew you.’
‘I just thought I would, Swetnam,’ said Denry, who was obviously discomposed.
It was the youngest of the Swetnam boys; he and Denry had taken a sort of curt fancy to one another.
‘I say,’ said Swetnam, confidentially, as if obeying a swift impulse, ‘I did hear that the Signal people meant to collar all your chaps this afternoon, and I believe they have done. Hear that now?’ (Swetnam’s father was intimate with the Signal people.)
‘I know,’ Denry replied.
‘But I mean – papers and all.’
‘I know,’ said Denry.
‘Oh!’ murmured Swetnam.
‘But I’ll tell you a secret,’ Denry added. ‘They aren’t today’s papers. They’re yesterday’s, and last week’s and last month’s. We’ve been collecting them specially and keeping them nice and new-looking.’
‘Well, you’re a caution!’ murmured Swetnam.
‘I am,’ Denry agreed.
A number of men rushed at that instant with bundles of the genuine football edition from the offices of the Daily.
‘Come on!’ Denry cried to them. ‘Come on! This way! By-by, Swetnam.’
And the whole file vanished round a corner. The yelling of imprisoned cheese-fed boys grew louder.
V
In the meantime at the Signal office (which was not three hundred yards away, but on the other side of Crown Square) apprehension had deepened into anxiety as the minutes passed and the Snape Circus procession persisted in not appearing on the horizon of the Oldcastle Road. The Signal would have telephoned to Snape’s, but for the fact that a circus is never on the telephone. It then telephoned to its Oldcastle agent, who, after a long delay, was able to reply that the cavalcade had left Oldcastle at the appointed hour, with every sign of health and energy. Then the Signal sent forth scouts all down the Oldcastle Road to put spurs into the procession, and the scouts returned, having seen nothing. Pessimists glanced at the possibility of the whole procession having fallen into the canal at Caulron Bridge. The paper was printed, the train-parcels for Knype, Longshaw, Bursley, and Turnhill were dispatched; the boys were waiting; the fingers of the clock in the publishing department were simply flying. It had been arranged that the bulk of the Hanbridge edition, and in particular the first copies of it, should be sold by boys from the gilt chariots themselves. The publisher hesitated for an awful moment, and then decided that he could wait no more, and that the boys must sell the papers in the usual way from the pavements and gutters. There was no knowing what the Daily might not be doing.
And then Signal boys in dozens rushed forth paper-laden, but they were disappointed boys; they had thought to ride in gilt chariots, not to paddle in mud. And almost the first thing they saw in Crown Square was the car of Jupiter in its glory, flying all the Signal colours; and other cars behind. They did not rush now; they sprang, as from a catapult; and alighted like flies on the vehicles. Men insisted on taking their papers from them and paying for them on the spot. The boys were startled; they were entirely puzzled; but they had not the habit of refusing money. And off went the procession to the music of its own band down the road to Knype, and perhaps a hundred boys on board, cheering. The men in charge then performed a curious act: they tore down all the Signal flagging, and replaced it with the emblem of the Daily.
So that all the great and enlightened public wandering home in crowds from the football match at Knype, had the spectacle of a Daily procession instead of a Signal procession, and could scarce believe their eyes. And Dailys were sold in quantities from the cars. At Knype Station the procession curved and returned to Hanbridge, and finally, after a multitudinous triumph, came to a stand with all its Daily bunting in front of the Signal offices; and Denry appeared from his lair. Denry’s men fled with bundles.
‘They’re an hour and a half late,’ said Denry calmly to one of the proprietors of the Signal, who was on the pavement. ‘But I’ve managed to get them here. I thought I’d just look in to thank you for giving such a good feed to our lads.’
The telephones hummed with news of similar Daily processions in Longshaw and Bursley. And there was not a high-class private bar in the district that did not tinkle with delighted astonishment at the brazen, the inconceivable effrontery of that card, Denry Machin. Many people foresaw law-suits, but it was agreed that the Signal had begun the game of impudence in trapping the Daily lads so as to secure a holy calm for its much trumpeted procession.
And Denry had not finished with the Signal.
In the special football edition of the Daily was an announcement, the first, of special Martinmas fêtes organized by the Five Towns Daily. And on the same morning every member of the Universal Thrift Club had received an invitation to the said fêtes. They were three – held on public ground at Hanbridge, Bursley, and Longshaw. They were in the style of the usual Five Towns ‘wakes’; that is to say, roundabouts, shows, gingerbread stalls, swings, coconut shies. But at each fête a new and very simple form of ‘shy’ had been erected. It consisted of a row of small railway signals.
‘March up! March up!’ cried the shy-men. ‘Knock down the signal! Knock down the signal! And a packet of Turkish delight is yours. Knock down the signal!’
And when you had knocked down the signal the men cried:
‘We wrap it up for you in the special Anniversary Number of the Signal.’
And they disdainfully tore into suitable fragments copies of the Signal which had cost Denry & Co. a halfpenny each, and enfolded the Turkish delight therein, and handed it to you with a smack.
And all the fair-grounds were carpeted with draggled and muddy Signals. People were up to the ankles in Signals.
The affair was the talk of Sunday. Few matters in the Five Towns have raised more gossip than did that enormous escapade which Denry invented and conducted. The moral damage to the Signal was held to approach the disastrous. And now not the possibility but the probability of law-suits was incessantly discussed.
On the Monday both papers were bought with anxiety. Everybody was frothing to know what the respective editors would say.
But in neither sheet was there a single word as to the affair. Both had determined to be discreet; both were afraid. The Signal feared lest it might not, if the pinch came, be able to prove its innocence of the crime of luring boys into confinement by means of toasted cheese and hot jam. The Signal had also to consider its seriously damaged dignity; for such wounds silence is the best dressing. The Daily was comprehensively afraid. It had practically driven its gilded chariots through the entire Decalogue. Moreover, it had won easily in the grand altercation. It was exquisitely conscious of glory.
Denry went away to Blackpool, doubtless to grow his beard.
The proof of the Daily’s moral and material victory was that soon afterwards there were four applicants, men of substance, for shares in the Daily company. And this, by the way, was the end of the tale. For these applicants, who secured options on a majority of the shares, were emissaries of the Signal. Armed with the options, the Signal made terms with its rival, and then by mutual agreement killed it. The price of its death was no trifle, but it was less than a year’s profits of the Signal. Denry considered that he had been ‘done’. But in the depths of his heart he was glad that he had been done. He had had too disconcerting a glimpse of the rigours and perils of journalism to wish to continue it. He had scored supremely and, for him, to score was life itself. His reputation as a card was far, far higher than ever. Had he so desired, he could have been elected to the House of Commons on the strength of his procession and fête.
Mr Myson, somewhat scandalized by the exuberance of his partner, returned to Manchester.
And the Signal, subsequently often referred to as ‘The Old Lady’, resumed its monopolistic sway over the opinions of a quarter of a million of people, and has never since been attacked.
10
His Infamy
I
When Denry at a single stroke ‘wherreted’ his mother and proved his adventurous spirit by becoming the possessor of one of the first motor-cars ever owned in Bursley, his instinct naturally was to run up to Councillor Cotterill’s in it. Not that he loved Councillor Cotterill, and therefore wished to make him a partaker in his joy; for he did not love Councillor Cotterill. He had never been able to forgive Nellie’s father for those patronizing airs years and years before at Llandudno, airs indeed which had not even yet disappeared from Cotterill’s attitude towards Denry. Though they were Councillors on the same Town Council, though Denry was getting richer and Cotterill was assuredly not getting richer, the latter’s face and tone always seemed to be saying to Denry: ‘Well, you are not doing so badly for a beginner.’ So Denry did not care to lose an opportunity of impressing Councillor Cotterill. Moreover, Denry had other reasons for going up to the Cotterills. There existed a sympathetic bond between him and Mrs Cotterill, despite her prim taciturnity and her exasperating habit of sitting with her hands pressed tight against her body and one over the other. Occasionally he teased her – and she liked being teased. He had glimpses now and then of her secret soul; he was perhaps the only person in Bursley thus privileged. Then there was Nellie. Denry and Nellie were great friends. For the rest of the world she had grown up, but not for Denry, who treated her as the chocolate child; while she, if she called him anything, called him respectfully ‘Mr’.
The Cotterills had a fairly large old house with a good garden ‘up Bycars Lane’, above the new park and above all those red streets which Mr Cotterill had helped to bring into being. Mr Cotterill built new houses with terra-cotta facings for others, but preferred an old one in stucco for himself. His abode had been saved from the parcelling out of several Georgian estates. It was dignified. It had a double entrance gate, and from this portal the drive started off for the house door, but deliberately avoided reaching the house door until it had wandered in curves over the entire garden. That was the Georgian touch! The modern touch was shown in Councillor Cotterill’s bay windows, bath-room and garden squirter. There was stabling, in which were kept a Victorian dogcart and a Georgian horse, used by the Councillor in his business. As sure as ever his wife or daughter wanted the dogcart, it was either out or just going out, or the Georgian horse was fatigued and needed repose. The man who groomed the Georgian also ploughed the flower-beds, broke the windows in cleaning them, and put blacking on brown boots. Two indoor servants had differing views as to the frontier between the kingdom of his duties and the kingdom of theirs. In fact, it was the usual spacious household of successful trade in a provincial town.
Denry got to Bycars Lane without a breakdown. This was in the days, quite thirteen years ago, when automobilists made their wills and took food supplies when setting forth. Hence Denry was pleased. The small but useful fund of prudence in him, however, forbade him to run the car along the unending sinuous drive. The May night was fine, and he left the loved vehicle with his new furs in the shadow of a monkey-tree near the gate.
As he was crunching towards the door, he had a beautiful idea: ‘I’ll take ’em all out for a spin. There’ll just be room!’ he said.
Now even today, when the very cabman drives his automobile, a man who buys a motor cannot say to a friend: ‘I’ve bought a motor. Come for a spin,’ in the same self-unconscious accents as he would say: ‘I’ve bought a boat. Come for a sail,’ or ‘I’ve bought a house. Come and look at it.’ Even today and in the centre of London there is still something about a motor – well something … Everybody who has bought a motor, and everybody who has dreamed of buying a motor, will comprehend me. Useless to feign that a motor is the most banal thing imaginable. It is not. It remains the supreme symbol of swagger. If such is the effect of a motor in these days and in Berkeley Square, what must it have been in that dim past, and in that dim town three hours by the fastest express from Euston? The imagination must be forced to the task of answering this question. Then will it be understood that Denry was simply tingling with pride.
‘Master in?’ he demanded of the servant, who was correctly starched, but unkempt in detail.
‘No, sir. He ain’t been in for tea.’
(‘I shall take the women out then,’ said Denry to himself.)
‘Come in! Come in!’ cried a voice from the other side of the open door of the drawing-room, Nellie’s voice! The manners and state of a family that has industrially risen combine the spectacular grandeur of the caste to which it has climbed with the ease and freedom of the caste which it has quitted.
‘Such a surprise!’ said the voice. Nellie appeared, rosy.
Denry threw his new motoring cap hastily on to the hallstand. No! He did not hope that Nellie would see it. He hoped that she would not see it. Now that the moment was really come to declare himself the owner of a motor-car, he grew timid and nervous. He would have liked to hide his hat. But then Denry was quite different from our common humanity. He was capable even of feeling awkward in a new suit of clothes. A singular person.
‘Hello!’ she greeted him.
‘Hello!’ he greeted her.
Their hands touched.
‘Father hasn’t come yet,’ she added. He fancied she was not quite at ease.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what’s this surprise?’
She motioned him into the drawing-room.
The surprise was a wonderful woman, brilliant in black – not black silk, but a softer, delicate stuff. She reclined in an easy-chair with surpassing grace and self-possession. A black Egyptian shawl, spangled with silver, was slipping off her shoulders. Her hair was dressed – that is to say, it was dressed; it was obviously and thrillingly a work of elaborate art. He could see her two feet and one of her ankles. The boots, the open-work stocking – such boots, such an open-work stocking, had never been seen in Bursley, not even at a ball! She was in mourning, and wore scarcely any jewellery, but there was a gleaming tint of gold here and there among the black, which resulted in a marvellous effect of richness. The least experienced would have said, and said rightly: ‘This must be a woman of wealth and fashion.’ It was the detail that finished the demonstration. The detail was incredible. There might have been ten million stitches in the dress. Ten sempstresses might have worked on the dress for ten years. An examination of it under a microscope could but have deepened one’s amazement at it.
She was something new in the Five Towns, something quite new.
Denry was not equal to the situation. He seldom was equal to a small situation. And although he had latterly acquired a considerable amount of social savoir, he was constantly mislaying it, so that he could not put his hand on it at the moment when he most required it, as now.
‘Well, Denry!’ said the wondrous creature in black, softly.
And he collected himself as though for a plunge, and said:
‘Well, Ruth!’
This was the woman whom he had once loved, kissed, and engaged himself to marry. He was relieved that she had begun with Christian names, because he could not recall her surname. He could not even remember whether he had ever heard it. All he knew was that, after leaving Bursley to join her father in Birmingham, she had married somebody with a double name, somebody well off, somebody older than herself; somebody apparently of high social standing; and that this somebody had died.
She made no fuss. There was no implication in her demeanour that she expected to be wept over as a lone widow, or that because she and he had on a time been betrothed, therefore they could never speak naturally to each other again. She just talked as if nothing had ever happened to her, and as if about twenty-four hours had elapsed since she had last seen him. He felt that she must have picked up this most useful diplomatic calmness in her contacts with her late husband’s class. It was a valuable lesson to him: ‘Always behave as if nothing had happened – no matter what has happened.’
To himself he was saying:
‘I’m glad I came up in my motor.’
He seemed to need something in self-defence against the sudden attack of all this wealth and all this superior social tact, and the motor-car served excellently.
‘I’ve been hearing a great deal about you lately,’ said she with a soft smile, unobtrusively rearranging a fold of her skirt.
‘Well,’ he replied, ‘I’m sorry I can’t say the same of you.’
Slightly perilous perhaps, but still he thought it rather neat.
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘You see I’ve been so much out of England. We were just talking about holidays. I was saying to Mrs Cotterill they certainly ought to go to Switzerland this year for a change.’
‘Yes, Mrs Capron-Smith was just saying—’ Mrs Cotterill put in.
(So that was her name.)
‘It would be something too lovely!’ said Nellie in ecstasy.
Switzerland! Astonishing how with a single word she had marked the gulf between Bursley people and herself. The Cotterills had never been out of England. Not merely that, but the Cotterills had never dreamt of going out of England. Denry had once been to Dieppe, and had come back as though from Timbuctoo with a traveller’s renown. And she talked of Switzerland easily!
