Love and the Ironmonger — A Closer Reading

George looked at his watch.

"Half-past eight," he said intelligently; "that makes me half an hour late, doesn't it? Matter of fact, old chap, I----"

"That'll do," said the head clerk; "just you keep your place. And keep your time, too," he added warningly, "or else there'll be a vacancy in this office."

He marched off with a ledger under his arm, and George, with a wink at his nearest colleague, pulled a morning paper from an inner pocket and consulted the sporting column.

Fairbrothers' was an easy-going firm, that had the reputation of being good to its employees. If a man once got a seat on an office-stool there he was considered to have a berth for life, supposing of course that the iron trade and Upper Thames Street continued to exist. Fairbrothers' never dismissed a man unless he was a downright rogue, and in such a case it was believed that they secretly looked after him if he happened to be in a very bad way.

Nobody in the office minded much what was said unless Old Joe Fairbrother, the venerable head of the concern, happened to say it. If there was a threat of dismissal from anybody else the threatened man affected contrition and laughed up his sleeve. And although this general air of safety was as soothing to Thomas Parrott, the head clerk, as to anybody else, that admirable man's sense of duty compelled him to occasionally sound a warning note to his subordinates.

This morning the head clerk was in a bad temper, and found fault with everybody, especially with George Early.

"Who's been upsetting Polly?" asked George, looking round; "seems to have got 'em, doesn't he?"

"Wants a cracker," said the shorthand clerk; "got a bad attack of the pip."

"If he'd like his poll scratched," said George, impudently, "he's only got to say so."

A red-haired junior chimed in.

"It ain't that," he said; "Polly's looking for a new perch. Thinks Old Joe'll be wanting a manager soon."

Any reference to the head of the firm interested George.

"What's the matter with Old Joe?" he asked.

"Matter? What ain't the matter? you mean. Got one foot in the grave and the other on the edge. The poor old chap's fairly breaking up."

George turned thoughtfully to his work, but his mind ran on other things; the decay of the head of the firm opened up possibilities of promotion. A manager would be wanted soon.

To jump from the position of clerk to manager was unusual, but unusual things of that sort had a fascination for George Early. The work would just suit him; he always felt he was born to command. Compared with the other men in the office, George was quite a new hand; but the other men had less imagination and less confidence, and if they chose to follow the method of rising step by step it was their own affair.

The offices of Fairbrother and Co. were large and roomy, and occupied the lower part of an old-fashioned building in Upper Thames Street, adjoining a warehouse and a wharf. On the first floor facing the street and next to the showrooms was a large, handsome room. This was the private office of old Joseph Fairbrother, and no robber's cave with its glittering treasures had a greater fascination for any ambitious young man than had this apartment for George Early. The large roomy armchairs and the big safe appealed to him strongly. He liked to picture himself sitting in the biggest chair and sternly inquiring why certain orders had not been despatched a week ago; and he never went inside the door without the hope of coming out with an increase of salary.

The private office now became to George what the deserted wing of a country mansion is to the family ghost. If there was anything to go upstairs, he got it by hook or crook, and became the envoy. He liked to go best when the old gentleman was there, and when he wasn't George would look round the room, admire the handsome furniture, and stay as long as he dared. Sometimes he would carry up two letters and find that the room was empty. Then he would bring one down to make a second journey.

One morning he went up without anything at all. On this occasion he had seen Old Fairbrother in the lower office preparing to go out. George glanced around quickly, hoping that an umbrella or something of the sort had been left behind, so that he might dash after the retreating brougham. There was nothing.

"Just my luck!" he murmured, crossing to the window.

He looked out into the street, and, seeing that the brougham had departed, selected the biggest armchair, and from its depths thoughtfully perused the court column of a daily newspaper lying at hand.

Unfortunately he became so absorbed that he did not hear the familiar rattle of his employer's brougham as it returned and drew up outside, and it was not till the head of the firm was half-way up the stairs that he scented danger.

With alacrity George looked for means of escape, and at once turned to that which seemed easy and safe. This retreat was a private staircase which led direct from the room to the upper floors of the warehouse. He skipped across and closed the door behind him quickly and softly.

A second later old Joseph Fairbrother entered the room, and, as he did so, George Early found himself in another fix, for instead of passing through the door of the private staircase he had entered a tiny, box-like room which stood beside it. This room had no other outlet, and the venturesome clerk was a prisoner until his master chose to take himself off.

The young man selected the keyhole as a means of learning what was happening. It was a large keyhole, and he had ample means of proving that, so far as looks went, "Old Joe" had "one foot in the grave," as had been affirmed. To-day he looked older and more decrepit than usual, and for five minutes he did nothing but sit and look at the fire.

At the end of that time somebody else entered the room. George waited anxiously for the other party to come within range, and when he did so it proved to be Parrott.

"Sit down, Mr. Parrott," said Joseph Fairbrother; "one moment--hand me a cigar, please, and take one yourself."

The head clerk nervously helped himself to a cigar, and followed the lead of his chief as he lit up.

For another five minutes the old gentleman gazed abstractedly into the fire, finally shifting his gaze to the face of Parrott, who looked at everything in the room except his employer.

"Mr. Parrott," said Old Fairbrother, solemnly, "do you know why I have brought you here?"

The head clerk looked up with a start and coughed. He did not know why he had been brought there.

"Then I'll tell you," said his master. "I have made my will, Parrott, and I'm going to talk about a little legacy I have left you."

Parrott didn't know what to do, so he looked as bright as he could, and cleared his throat, as if to reply.

"Wait a minute," said the old gentleman, lifting a finger; "don't you thank me till you know what you're getting. I've had my eye on you, Parrott, for a good many years; I've watched you grow from a boy upwards, and I've noticed your good points and your bad ones. You're not the only one I have watched, but you're the only one I'm going to talk about now. When I have had my little say with you, there are others I shall talk to."

He took a long pull at his cigar, and allowed his eyes to rest on the uncomfortable Parrott, who seemed somewhat more doubtful of the issue of the interview than he had been a while ago.

"You're not my ideal of a man, Parrott," he continued; "but, of course, we all have our faults. You're a good man at your duty, and you believe in others doing their duty, which is right enough. There are not many in the office that love you, and I dare say you put it down to their selfishness and ignorance, or perhaps to envy. It isn't that, Parrott; it is you they don't like. They like a man who's sociable and one of them, and who's affable and generous. They don't like you because you're mean."

This home-thrust sent the colour rushing to the face of the head clerk, and the blood of his ancestors prompted him to get up and say--

"All right, all right," interrupted his master, "this is just between ourselves. I don't say that you are all to blame. These things are sometimes born in us, and we are not always able to root them out. Now, don't you interrupt me, but listen to what I've got to say.

"You are a mean man, Parrott; but I am of opinion that you are mean by habit, and not by nature. Habits are things that we can get rid of if we choose. I want you to get rid of your habit.

"You know me, and you know that if I can use my wealth to reform a man, I will do it. I might leave a lot of money to societies, and still do little good with it; I might distribute it over a large surface so that it benefited nobody. That's not my way. I should be doing more good by making sure of three or four men. You need reforming, Parrott, because meanness is a curse, and no man who has it badly, as you have, will ever be the ideal of his fellow-creatures.

"I have made my will, and I have left you an income to begin on the day of my death. You will not have long to wait. When I die you will receive the sum of five hundred pounds yearly so long as you live."

Parrott nearly jumped out of his chair with joy.

"Stop a bit!" cried Old Fairbrother; "there are a few conditions tacked on to this. First and foremost is this: You will receive this income on condition that you get rid of your habit of meanness. That is to say, if a man asks you for a loan of half a crown, or half a sovereign, or, in fact, wants to borrow anything from you, you shall lend it him. My lawyer will have the matter in hand, Parrott, and if it can be proved that you cling to your habit of meanness, and do not oblige a man when asked to do so, your income ceases.

"I shall not interfere with your position here. It will be the same when my successor takes the management. And this contract will be known to nobody but ourselves and my lawyer. Now, what do you say? Will five hundred pounds a year help you to get rid of that habit of yours? Don't be afraid to say so if you would rather not have the legacy."

George Early listened in amazement, as the head clerk murmured his thanks; and his astonishment was further increased by the astounding ingenuity of "Old Joe," who laid bare the plan of the legacy in its minutest detail. The lawyers were to follow their own methods in keeping observation on the legatees, and in due course would warn them of a breach of agreement. Three warnings were accorded before the legacy was lost.

"Not a word to any one, mind," said Joseph Fairbrother, as Parrott prepared to depart. "Just put yourself in training, that's all. Send Mr. Busby to me."

The head clerk departed, and a few minutes later Busby came in.

Albert Busby was the firm's cashier, one of the oldest of the staff, yet still a young man, being under forty. In appearance he was the most pious of black-haired Sunday School teachers; in reality it was difficult to get a word of truth from his lips. Lying was not part of his business, but distinctly a hobby, and it came as naturally to him as if he had been taught from birth.

Old Fairbrother offered Busby a cigar, then delineated his character in the same way as he had done that of Parrott A legacy of £500 a year awaited Busby if he chose to give up his habit of lying and stick to the truth. Of course, Busby readily consented. He said for the future no lie should ever pass his lips.

"You'll lose the money if it does," said "Old Joe," laconically.

The third and last man to be interviewed was Gray--Jimmy Gray, the accountant. Gray's face told its own tale, and those who couldn't read it had only to note Gray's movements, which were too often in the direction of a public-house.

The drink habit had Gray fairly in its toils, but he was willing to give it up for £500 a year, and he honestly believed he could.

When "Old Joe" stood alone once more, he took another long look at the fire. Then he gave a sigh, a smile, a shrug of the shoulders, and ended by putting on his hat and departing.

As soon as he was safely out of earshot, George Early stretched himself and walked thoughtfully into the middle of the big room.

Having arrived there, he gave voice to three words, audibly and distinctly: "Well, I'm hanged!"

Planting himself before the fire, he went musingly over the whole scene again. It was astounding. Three legacies of five hundred pounds a year each! George Early could scarcely realize the significance of it.

Presently, as he carefully thought over the matter, he began to smile, then to laugh; and when he finally returned to his office-stool, by way of a tour through the warehouse, he was bubbling over with mirth.

CHAPTER II--_A Young Man in search of Bad Habits_

The first thing that struck George Early on his arrival at the office next morning, was the extreme seriousness of the three legatees. Gray looked so sober and miserable that George was surprised at it passing unnoticed. For once Busby sat quietly in his office-seat, instead of entertaining Gray with some fictional incident of the night before. And Parrott was too occupied with his thoughts to give black looks to the late comers.

"A nice lot they are to get £500 a year!" thought George. "I call it a sin. It's a dead waste of money!"

He strolled over to Gray's desk. "Morning, Mr. Gray," he said affably.

"Good morning," said Gray, in a voice hoarse with temperance.

"Back that little thing yesterday?" asked George, in a whisper. "You know--Flower-of-the-Field for the Sub.?"

"I did it," whispered George--"ten to one. Bit o' luck, wasn't it?"

Gray assented, and George leaned over the desk to be out of hearing of Busby. He touched Gray on the hand with one forefinger.

"I've got a drop of Scotch in the desk," he said; "real old stuff. Going to have a nip?"

A flash of eagerness came into Gray's eyes, and then died away.

"No, thanks," he said hastily; "I don't think I will. The fact is, I--I don't feel up to it this morning."

"Blue ribbon?" asked George, opening his eyes in wonder.

"No--oh no," answered Gray, with some confusion; "no, nothing of that."

"Then have a drop," said George, enjoying the struggles of his victim. "It's ten years old, and strong enough to break the bottle. Got it from a friend of mine who works in a distillery."

Gray's eyes glistened; but George moved off to Busby's desk before he had time to give way.

Busby looked up and nodded, then went on with his work. This was something out of the ordinary for Busby, who rarely missed an opportunity to gossip. George Early chuckled to himself and began to sharpen a pencil.

"Saw you last night, Mr. Busby," he said presently. "Nice little girl, that sister-in-law of yours. Fine figure she has, too."

Busby rubbed his chin a moment, and became deeply interested in his work.

"She's not my sister-in-law," he said slowly.

"No?" said George, surprised. "Now, look here, you told me that little girl was your wife's sister. You don't mean to say she's--she's no relation?"

Busby made no reply, and George began to chuckle audibly.

"You sly dog!" he laughed. "Well, you are a sly dog! Fancy you trotting out a nice little girl like that! And I'll bet your wife doesn't know it. I'll bet she doesn't--does she?"

Busby frowned and flicked over some papers. "I say, Early, just you clear off; I've got a lot to do this morning," he whispered.

"Oh, get out!" said George. "You know I want to hear all about it. You are a lucky beggar! Did you kiss her? I'll bet you kissed her a few times. So would I. And, fancy, your wife knowing all about it, too!"

"She doesn't!" blurted out Busby, with reckless truthfulness.

"Not know it?" cried George. "Well, you are a devil! Come on, old chap, tell us the yarn. I suppose you took her out for the evening--eh? The little minx! And she knows you're a married man."

"She doesn't!" cried Busby, with another burst of frankness.

"Great Scott!" said George. "Did she----"

"Look here, Early," began Busby, growing red in the face; "didn't I tell you I was busy?"

George Early gave another audible chuckle, and went back to his stool, after pinching Busby's arm as a token of his appreciation of such devilry. Before settling himself, he looked over towards the desk of the head clerk; but that estimable man was evidently not in a mood for conversation.

"I'll touch his tender spot later on," said George to himself. "They are all taking it very seriously; and so would I if I had the chance. £500 a year for keeping sober! Good Heavens! It makes me mad to think of it."

Work was out of the question with George that morning, his head was full of legacies. "I wonder if Old Joe would spring another five hundred if he found a good case," he mused. "There'd be no harm in trying him, anyway."

There seemed to be something in this idea, so George endeavoured to fix upon a sound serviceable vice likely to arouse the interest of the head of the firm. "I might become a chronic borrower," he thought; "that's a pretty bad habit. A man who borrows money is always a nuisance to his friends and acquaintances. But whether it's worth five hundred or not is another question. There are several objections, I'm afraid. I dare say Old Joe would prefer to have a borrower here to help Polly reform; besides he'd know that as soon as people stop lending the habit ceases. That's no good."

George wrote down all the vices he could think of without being able to find one strong enough. There were plenty of second and third-rate failings, but not one that might be called of the first water. "It's just like those selfish brutes," he said bitterly, "to monopolize the only decent bad habits there are! I shouldn't wonder if the artful hounds got wind of it a long time ago, and went about drinking and telling lies under Old Joe's nose just to get the money. Men like those are capable of anything."

In this unenviable state of mind George Early went out to a bread-shop, and gloomily watched all the lunchers in the hope of discovering some objectionable practice that he had missed. The only habit that seemed to be noticeable was flirtation, and as George was doubtful of its viciousness he finished his coffee and strolled towards Billingsgate. Here the first really healthy suggestion came to him. He got it by treading on the toe of a market porter, who cursed him with a volubility that only time and a natural leaning that way could have made perfect. Instead of replying with some graceful oaths of his own, George felt inclined to invite his unknown friend to a drink.

"Swearing's a habit," said George chuckling, "and a damn bad habit too. Yes, by St. Christopher, that ought to do for Old Joe! There's something rich about a vice like that, and if it doesn't hit him in the eye straight away he's not the benevolent old man I take him to be."

Somebody ran into George as he entered the office, and Mr. Early promptly rattled out a string of oaths, just by way of practice.