The Man Who Lost Himself Part 37

"Have you rooms to let?" asked Jones.

"Well, sir, I have the front parlour unoccupied," replied the landlady, "and two bed-rooms on the top floor. Are there any children?"

"No," said Jones. "I came down here alone for a holiday. May I see the rooms?"

She took him to the top front bed-room first. It was clean and tidy, just like herself, and gave a cheery view of the shop fronts on the opposite side of the street.

Jones, looking out of the window, saw something that held him for a moment fascinated and forgetful of his surroundings and his companion.

Hoover, no less, walking hurriedly and accompanied by a man who looked like a gardener. They were pa.s.sing towards the sea, looking about them as they went. Hoover had the appearance of a person who has lost a purse or some article of value, so Jones thought as he watched them vanish. He turned to the landlady.

"I like this room," said he, "it is cheerful and quiet, just the sort of place I want. Now let's see the parlour."

The parlour boasted of a horsehair sofa, chairs to match, pictures to match, and a gla.s.s fronted bookcase containing volumes of the Sunday Companion, Sword and Trowel, Home Influence, and Ouida's "Moths" in the old, yellow-back, two s.h.i.+lling edition.

"Very nice indeed," said Jones. "What do you charge?"

"Well, sir," said the landlady--her name was Henshaw--"it's a pound a week for the two rooms without board, two pounds with."

"Any extras?" asked the artful Jones.

"No, sir."

"Well, that will do me nicely. I came along here right from the station, and my portmanteau hasn't arrived, though it was labelled for here, and the porter told me he had put it on the train. I'll have to go up to the station this evening again to see if it has arrived. Meanwhile, seeing I haven't my luggage with me, I'll pay you in advance."

She a.s.sured him that this was unnecessary, but he insisted.

When she had accepted the money she asked him what he would have for supper, or would he prefer late dinner.

"Supper," replied Jones, "oh, anything. I'm not particular."

Then he found himself alone. He sat down on the horsehair sofa to think.

Would Hoover circularise his description and offer a reward? No, that was highly improbable. Hoover's was a high cla.s.s establishment, he would avoid publicity as much as possible, but he would be pretty sure to use the intelligence, such as it was, of the police, telling them to act with caution.

Would he make inquiries at all the lodging-houses? That was a doubtful point. Jones tried to fancy himself in Hoover's position and failed.

One thing certainly Hoover would do. Have all the exits from Sandbourne-on-Sea watched. That was the logical thing to do, and Hoover was a logical man.

There was nothing to do but give the hunt time to cool off, and at this thought the prospect of days of lurking in this room of right angles and horsehair-covered furniture, rose up before him like a black billow.

Then came the almost comforting thought, he could not lurk without creating suspicion on the part of Mrs. Henshaw. He would have to get out, somehow. The weather was glorious, and the strip of seaweed hanging by the mantelpiece dry as tinder. A sea-side visitor who sat all day in his room in the face of such weather, would create a most unhealthy interest in the mind of any sea-side landlady. No, whatever else he might do he could not lurk.

The most terrible things in dramatic situations are the little things that speak to one for once in their lives. The pattern of the carpet that tells you that there is no doubt of the fact that your wife has run away with all your money, and left you with seven children to look after, the form of the chair that tells you that Justice with a noose in her hand is waiting on the front door step. Jones, just now, was under the obsession of _the_ picture of the room, whose place was above the mantelpiece.

It was an oleograph of a gentleman in uniform, probably the Prince Consort, correct, sane, urbane--a terrible comparison for a man in an insane situation, for insanity is not confined to the brain of man or its productions--though heaven knows she has a fine field of movement in both.

A thundering rat-tat-tat at the hall door brought Jones to his feet. He heard the door answered, a voice outside saying "N'k you" and the door shut. It was some parcel left in. Then he heard Mrs. Henshaw descending the kitchen stairs and all was quiet. He turned to the bookcase, opened it, inspected the contents, and chose "Moths."

CHAPTER XXV

MOTHS

In ill-health or convalescence, or worry or tribulation, the ordinary mind does not turn to Milton or Shakespeare, or even to the sermons of Charles Haddon Spurgeon. There are few cla.s.sics that will stand the test of a cold in the head, or a fit of depression, or a worrying husband, or a minor tragedy. Here the writer of "light fiction" stands firm.

Jones had never been a great reader, he had read a cheap novel or two, but his browsings in the literary fields had been mainly confined to the uplands where the gra.s.s is improving.

Colour, poetry, and construction in fiction were unknown to him, and now--he suddenly found himself on the beach at Trouville.

On the beach at Trouville with Lady Dolly skipping before him in the sea.

He had reached the forced engagement of the beautiful heroine to the wicked Russian Prince, when the door opened and the supper tray entered, followed by Mrs. Henshaw. Left to honour and her own initiative she had produced a huge lobster, followed by cheese, and three little dull looking jam tarts on a willow pattern plate.

When Jones had ruined the lobster and devoured the tarts he went on with the book. The lovely heroine had become for him Teresa, Countess of Rochester, the Opera singer himself, and the Russian Prince Maniloff.

Then the deepening dusk tore him from the book. Work had to be done.

He rang the bell, told Mrs. Henshaw that he was going to the railway station to see after his luggage, took his cap, and went out. Strangely enough he did not feel nervous. The first flurry had pa.s.sed, and he had adapted himself to the situation, the deepening darkness gave him a sense of security, and the lights of the shops cheered him somehow.

He turned to the left towards the sea.

Fifty yards down the street he came across a Gentlemen's Outfitters, in whose windows coloured neckties screamed, and fancy s.h.i.+rts raised their discordant voices with Gent's summer waistcoats and those panama hats, adored in the year of this story by the river and sea-side youth.

Jones, under the hands of Rochester's valet, and forced by circ.u.mstances to use Rochester's clothes, was one of the best dressed men in London.

Left to himself in this matter he was lost. He had no idea of what to wear or what not to wear, no idea of the social d.a.m.nation that lies in tweed trousers not turned up at the bottom, fancy waistcoats, made evening ties, a bowler worn with a black morning coat, or dog-skin gloves. Heinenberg and Obermann of Philadelphia had dressed him till Stultz unconsciously took the business over. He was barely conscious of the incongruity of his present get-up topped by the tweed shooting cap of Hoover's, but he was quite conscious of the fact that some alteration in dress was imperative as a means towards escape from Sandbourne-on-Sea.

He entered the shop of Towler and Simpkinson, bought a six and elevenpenny panama, put it on and had the tweed cap done up in a parcel.

Then a flannel coat attracted him, a grey flannel tennis coat price fifteen s.h.i.+llings. It fitted him to a charm, save for the almost negligible fact that the sleeves came down nearly to his knuckles. Then he bought a night s.h.i.+rt for three and eleven, and had the whole lot done up in one parcel.

At a chemist's next door he bought a tooth brush. In the mirror across the counter he caught a glimpse of himself in the panama. It seemed to him that not only had he never looked so well in any other head gear, but that his appearance was completely altered.

Charmed and comforted he left the shop. Next door to the chemist's and at the street corner was a public house.

Jones felt certain from his knowledge of Hoover that the very last place to come across one of his a.s.sistants would be a public house. He entered the public bar, took a seat by the counter and ordered a gla.s.s of beer and a packet of cigarettes. The place was rank with the fumes of cheap tobacco and cigarettes and the smell of beer. Hard gas light shewed no adornment, nothing but pitch pine panelling, spittoons, bottles on shelves and an almanac. The barmaid, a long-necked girl with red hands, and cheap rings and a rose in her belt, detached herself from earnest conversation with a youth in a bowler inhabiting the saloon bar, pulled a handle, dumped a gla.s.s of beer before Jones and gave him change without word or glance, returning to her conversation with the bowlered youth. She evidently had no eyes at all for people in the public bar.

There are grades, even in the tavern.

Close to where Jones had taken his seat was standing a person in broken shoes, an old straw hat, a coat, with parcels evidently in the tail pockets, and trousers frayed at the heels. He had a red unshaven face, and was reading the _Evening Courier_.

Suddenly he banged the paper with the tips of the fingers of his right hand and cast it on the counter.

"Govinment! Govinment! nice sort of govinment, payin' each other four hundred a year for followin' Asquith and robbin' the landowners to get the money--G.o.d lumme."

He paused to light a filthy clay pipe. He had his eyes on Jones, and evidently considered him, for some occult reason, of the same way of political thinking as himself, and he addressed him in that impersonal way in which one addresses an audience.

"They've downed and outed the House o' Lords, an' now they're scraggin'

the Welsh Church, after that they'll go for the Landed Prepriotor and finish _him_. And who's to blame? the Radicals--no, they ain't to blame, no more than rats for their instincts; we're to blame, the Conservatives is to blame, we haven't got a fightin' man to purtect us.

The Radicals has got all the tallant--you look at the fight Bonna Lor's been makin' this week. Fight! A blind Tom cat with his head in an old t'marter tin would make a better fight than Bonna Lor's put up. Look at Churchill, that chap was one of us once, he was born to lead the cla.r.s.es, an' now look at him leadin' the ma.r.s.es, up to his neck in Radical dirt and pretendin' he likes it. He doesn't, but he's a man with an eye in his head and he knows what we are, a boneless lot without organisation. I say it myself, I said it only larst night in this here bar, and I say it again, for two pins I'd chuck my party. I would so.

For two pins I'd chuck the country, and leave the whole lot to stew in their own grease."