 Chapter 1 OF THE TOWN TRAVELER Moggy, the general, knocked at Mr. Gammon's door and was answered by a sleepy, Hello? Mrs. Bub wants to know if you know what time it is, sir, because it's half past eight and more. All right, sounded cheerfully from within. Any letters for me? Yes, sir, a eep. Bring them up and put them under the door. Until Mrs. Bub I'll have breakfast in bed. You can put it down outside and shout. And I say, Moggy, ask somebody to run across and get me a police news and clippings and the kennel. Understand? Two eggs, Moggy, and three rashers, toasted crisp. Understand? As the girl turned to descend, a voice called to her from another room on the same floor. A voice very distinctly feminine, rather shrill, and a trifle imperative. Moggy, I want my hot water, sharp. Eight-eight-nine yet, Miss, answered Moggy, in a tone of remonstrance. I know that, none of your cheek. If you come up here hollering at people's doors, how can anyone sleep? Bring the hot water at once, and mind it is hot. You'll have to wait till it gets hot, Miss. Shall I? If it wasn't too much trouble, I'd come out and smack your face for you dirty little wretch. The servant, she was about sixteen and no dirtier than became her position, scampered down the stairs, burst into the cellar kitchen, and in a high, tearful wail, complained to her mistress of the indignity she had suffered. There was no living in the house with that Miss Sparks, who treated everybody like dirt under her feet. Smack her face, would she? What next? And all because she said the water would have to be odded. And Mr. Gammon wanted his breakfast in bed, and—and why there now it had all been drove out of her mind by that Miss Sparks? Mrs. Bub, the landlady, was frying some sausages for her first-floor lodgers, as usual at this hour she wore, presumably over some invisible clothing. A large shawl and a petticoat. Her thin hair, black streaked with gray, knotted and pinned into a ball on the top of her head. Here and there about the kitchen ran four children who were snatching a sort of picnic breakfast whilst they made ready for school. They looked healthy enough, and gabbled, laughed, sang without heed to the elder folk. Their mother, healthy too, and with no ill-natured face, a slow, dull, sluggishly mirthful woman of a common London type, heard Moggy out and shook up the sausages before replying. Never you mind Miss Sparks, I'll give her a talking to when she comes down. What was it as Mr. Gammon wanted? Breakfast in bed? And what else? I never see such a girl for forgetting. Well, didn't I tell you as my Edd had never closed the top? Urged Moggy in a plaintiff key. How can I help myself? Here, take them letters up to him and ask again. And if Miss Sparks is anything, don't give her no answer, see? Billy, fill the big kettle and put it on before you go. Sally, you ain't a go into school without brushing your air. Do see after your sister Janie, and don't let her look such a slap-cappage? Beatrice, stop that, Ollerin, it fair, mesmerizes me. Having silently thrust five letters under Mr. Gammon's door, Moggy gave a very soft tap, and half whispered a request that the lodger would repeat his orders. Mr. Gammon did so with perfect good humor. As soon as his voice had ceased, that of Miss Sparks sounded from the neighboring bedroom. Is that the water? For the pleasure of the thing Moggy stood to listen, an angry grin on her flushed face. Moggy, I'll give that little beast what for? Are you there? The girl made a quick motion with both her hands as if clawing in enemy's face, then coughed loudly and went away with the sound of stamping on the thinly carpeted stairs. One minute later Miss Sparks' door opened, and Miss Sparks herself rushed forth, a startling vision of wild auburn hair about a warm complexion, and a small brisk figure girded in a flowery dressing gown. She called at the full pitch of her voice for Mrs. Bub. Do you hear me? Mrs. Bub, have the kindness to send me up my hot water immediately. This moment, if you please? There came an answer but not from the landlady. It sounded so near to Miss Sparks that she sprang back into her room. Patience Polly, all in good time, my dear. Wrong foot out of bed this morning? Her door slammed, and there followed a lazy laugh from Mr. Gammon's chamber. In due time the can of hot water was brought up, and soon after it came a tray for Mr. Gammon, on which, together with his breakfast, laid the three newspapers he had bespoken. Polly Sparks, throughout her leisurely toilette, was moved to irritation and curiosity by the sound of frequent laughter on the other side of the party wall, up rarious peels, long chucklings in a falsetto key, staccato bursts of mirth. That is the comic stuff in clippings, she said to herself, with an involuntary grin, what a fool he is! And why is he staying in bed this morning? Got his holiday, I suppose? I'd make better use of it than that. She came forth presently in such light and easy costume as befitted a young lady of much leisure on a hot morning of June, meaning to pass an hour or two in quarrelling with Mrs. Bub, she had arrayed herself thus early with more care than usual, that her colors and perfumes might throw contempt upon the draggletailed landlady whom, by the by, she had known since her childhood. On the landing where she paused for a moment, she hummed an air with the foreseen result that Mr. Gammon called out to her. Polly? She vouchsafe no answer. Miss Sparks? Well? Will you come with me to see my bow-wows this fine day? No, Mr. Gammon, I certainly will not. Thank you, Polly. I felt a bit afraid you might say yes. The tone was not offensive, whatever the words might be, and the laugh that came after would have softened any repartee with its undernote of good humor and harmless gaiety. Biting her lips to preserve the dignity of silence, Polly passed downstairs. Sunshine through a landing window illumined the dust floating thickly about the staircase and heated the familiar blend of lodging-house smells, the closeness of small rooms that are never cleansed, the dry rot of wallpaper, plaster and old wood, the fussiness of clogged carpets trodden thin, the ever-rising vapors from a sluttish kitchen. As Moggy happened to be wiping down the front steps the door stood open, affording a glimpse of trams and omnibuses, cabs and carts, with pedestrians bobbing past in endless variety, the life of Kennington Road, all dust and sweat under a glaring summer sun. To Miss Sparks a cheery and inviting spectacle for the whole day was before her, to lounge or ramble until the hour which summoned her to the agreeable business of selling programs at a fashionable theatre. The employment was precarious, even with luck in the way of tips it meant nothing very brilliant, but something had happened lately which made Polly indifferent to this view of the matter. She had a secret and enjoyed it all the more because it enabled her to excite not envy alone, but dark suspicions in the people who observed her. Mrs. Bub, for instance, who so far presumed upon old acquaintance as to ask blunt questions and offer homely advice, plainly thought she was going astray. It amused Polly to encourage this misconception and to take offense on every opportunity. As she went down into the kitchen she fingered a gold watch chain that hung from her blouse to a little pocket at her waist. Mrs. Bub would spy it at once, and in course of the quarrel about this morning's hot water, would be sure to allude to it. It turned out one of the finest phrase Polly had ever enjoyed, and it was still rich in possibilities. When at something past eleven the kitchen door suddenly opened and there entered Mr. Gammon. End of Chapter 1. Recording by Arnold Banner, Mount Arie, North Carolina. Chapter 2 of The Town Traveler by George Gissing This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 2. A Missing Uncle He glanced at Mrs. Bub at the disorderly remnants of breakfast on the long deal table, then at Polly, whose face was crimson with the joy of combat. Don't let me interrupt you, ladies, blaze away. If I may so express myself, it does a man good to see such energy on a warm morning. I said all I'm going to say, exclaimed Mrs. Bub, as she mopped her forehead with a greasy apron. I've warned her, that's all, and I mean her well, little as she deserves it. Now you, Moggy, don't stay and gaff in there. Get them breakfast things washed up, can't you? It'll be tea time again before the beds is made. And what's come to you this morning? She addressed Mr. Gammon, who had seated himself on a corner of the table as if to watch and listen. It was a short, thick-set man with dark, wiry hair, roughened into innumerable curls, and similar whiskers, ending in a clean razor line halfway down the cheek. His eyes were blue and had a wondering innocence, which seemed partly the result of facetious affectation, as also was the peculiar curve of his lips ever ready for a joke or laughter. Yet the broad mobile countenance had lines of shrewdness and of strength, plain enough whenever it relapsed into gravity, and the rude shaping of jaw and chin might have warned anyone disposed to take advantage of the man's good nature. He wore a suit, of course, tweed, a brown bowler hat, a blue cotton shirt with white stock and horseshoe pin, rough brown leggings, tan boots, and in his hand was a dog whip. This costume signified that Mr. Gammon felt at leisure, contrasting as strongly as possible with the garb in which he was wont to go about his ordinary business, that of commercial traveler. He had a liking for dogs and kept a number of them in the back premises of an inn at Dollidge, whether he usually repaired on Sundays. When at Dollidge Mr. Gammon fancied himself in completely rural seclusion. It seemed to him that he had shaken off the dust of cities, that he was far from the clamor of the crowd, amid peace and simplicity. Hence his rustic attire, in which he was fond of being photographed with dogs about him. A true-born child of town he would have found the real country quite unendurable. In his doggie rambles about Dollidge he always preferred in northerly direction and was never so happy as when sitting in the inn parlor amid a group of friends whose voices rang the purest cockney. Even in his business he disliked engagements which took him far from London. His specialty, as he would have said, was town travel, and few men had had more varied experience in that region of enterprise. I'm going to have a look at the bow-wows, he replied to Mrs. Bub. Polly won't come with me. I'm kind of her, ain't it? Mr. Gammon remarked the young lady with a severe glance. I'll thank you not to be so familiar with my name. If you don't know any better, let me tell you it's very ungentleminly. He rose, doffed his hat, bowed profoundly, and begged her pardon in acknowledgement of which Polly gave a toss of the head. Miss Sparks was neither beautiful nor stately, but her appearance had the sort of distinction which corresponds to these qualities in the society of Kennington Road. She filled in appreciable space in the eyes of Mr. Gammon. Her abundance of auburn hair, her high color, her full lips, and excellent teeth, her finely developed bust, and the freedom of her poses, which always appeared to challenge admiration and anticipate impertinence, had their effectiveness against a kitchen background, and did not entirely lose it when she flitted about the stalls at the theatre selling programs. She was but two and twenty. Mr. Gammon had reached his fortieth year. In general, his tone of intimacy passed without rebuke. At moments it had seemed not unacceptable. But Polly's temper was notoriously uncertain, and her frankness never left people in doubt as to the prevailing mood. Would you like a little bullpup, Miss Sparks? He pursued in a conciliatory tone. A lovely little button here. There's a new litter. Say the word and I'll bring you one. Thank you. I don't care for dogs. No. But I'm sure you would if you kept one. Now, I have a cobbly little fox terrier, just the dog for a lady. No? Or a sweet little black and tan, just turning fifteen pounds with a lovely neck and kissing spots on both cheeks. I wouldn't offer her to everybody. Very good of you, replied Miss Sparks contemptuously. Why ain't you a-going to business, asked the landlady? I'll tell you. We had a little difference of opinion yesterday. The governors have been disappointed about a new line in the fancy leather. It wouldn't go, and I told them the reason, but that wasn't good enough. They hinted that it was my fault. Of course I said nothing, I never do in such cases, but this morning I had breakfast in bed. He spoke with eyes half closed and an odd vibration of the upper lip, then broke into a laugh. You're an independent party, you are, said Mrs. Bub, eyeing him with admiration. It was always more than I could do to stand a hint of that kind. Not so long ago I used to lose my temper, but I've taken pattern by Polly, I mean Miss Sparks, and now I do it quietly. That reminds me, his look changed to seriousness. Do you know anyone of the name of Quaddling? Polly, to whom he spoke, answered with a dry negative. Sure? Try and think if you ever heard your uncle speak of the name. The girl's eyes fell as if, for some reason, she felt a momentary embarrassment. It passed, but in replying she looked away from Mr. Gammon. Quaddling? Never heard of it. Why? Why there's a man called Quaddling who might be your uncle's twin brother, he looks so like him. I caught sight of him in the city and tracked him till I got to know his place of business and his name. For a minute or two I thought I'd found your uncle, I really did. Gosh, I said to myself, there's Clover at last. I wonder I didn't pin him like a bull terrier. But as you know, I'm cautious. That's how I've made my fortune, Polly. Miss Sparks neither observed the joke nor resented the name. She was listening with a preoccupied air. You'll never find him, said Mrs. Bub, shaking her head. Don't be so sure of that. I shan't lose sight of this man, Quaddling. It's the strangest likeness I ever saw, and I shan't be satisfied till I've got to know if he has any connection with the name of Clover. It ain't easy to get at, but I'll manage it somehow. Now, if I had Polly to help me, I mean Miss Sparks. With a muttering of impatience the girl rose, in the same moment she drew from her belt a gold watch and deliberately consulted it. Observing this, Mrs. Bub looked toward Mr. Gammon, who also observant returned the glance. I shan't want dinner, Polly remarked in an offhand way as she moved towards the door. Going to see Mrs. Clover, Gammon inquired. I'm sick of going there. It's always the same talk. Wait till your husband runs away from you and stays away for five years, said Mrs. Bub, with a renewal of anger, and then see what you find to talk about. Polly laughed and went away humming. If it wasn't that I feel afraid for her, continued Mrs. Bub in a lower voice, I'd give that young woman notice to quit. Her cheeks getting past everything. Did you see her gold watch and chain? Yes I did. Where did it come from? That's more than I can tell you, Mr. Gammon. I don't want to think ill of the girl, but there's jolly queer goings on. And she's so brazen about it, I don't know what to think. Gammon knitted his brows and gazed round the kitchen. I think Polly's straight. He observed at length. I don't seem to notice anything wrong with her, except her cheek and temper. She'll have to be taken down a peg one of these days. But I don't envy the man that'll have the job. It won't be me for certain, he added with a laugh. Moggy came into the room bringing a telegram. For me, said Gammon, just what I expected. Reading he broadened his visage into a grin of infinite satisfaction. Please explain absence. Hope nothing wrong. How kind of them, ain't it? Yesterday they chucked me. Now they're polite. Reply paid too. Very considerate. They shall have their reply. He laid the blank form on the table and wrote upon it in pencil, every letter beautifully shaped as in a first-class commercial hand. Go to Bath and get your heads shaved. You ain't going to send that, exclaimed Mrs. Bub, when he had held the message to her for perusal. It'll do them good. They're like Polly, want taking down a peg. Moggy ran off with the paper to the waiting boy, and Mr. Gammon laughed for five minutes uproariously. Would you like a little bullpup, Mrs. Bub? He asked at length. Not me, Mr. Gammon. I've enough pups of my own, thank you all the same. End of chapter 2, recording by Arnold Banner, Mount Airy, North Carolina. Chapter 3 of The Town Traveler by George Gissing. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 3. The China Shop. Mr. Gammon took his way down Kennington Road, walking at a leisurely pace, smiting his leg with his doubled dog whip, and looking about him with his usual wide awake, contented air. He had in perfection the art of living for the moment. No art in his case, but a natural characteristic, for which it never occurred to him to be grateful. Indeed, it is a common characteristic in the world to which Mr. Gammon belonged. He and his leg take what the heavens send them, grumbling or rejoicing, but never reflecting upon their place in the sum of things. To Mr. Gammon life was a wonderfully simple matter. He had his worries and his desires, but so long as he suffered neither from headache nor stomach ache, these things interfered not at all with his enjoyment of a fine morning. He was in no hurry to make for Dulloch as he walked along his thoughts began to turn in a different direction, and on reaching the end of Upper Kennington Lane he settled the matter by striking towards Vauxhall Station. A short railway journey and another pleasant saunter brought him to a street off Battersea Park Road and to a china shop over which stood the name of Clover. In the window hung a card with an inscription in bold letters, glass, china, and every kind of fashionable ornament for the table for hire on moderate terms. Mr. Gammon read this with an appreciative smile, which, accompanied by a nod, became a greeting to Mrs. Clover, who was aware of him from within the shop. He entered. How does it go? Two teas and a supper yesterday, a wedding breakfast this morning. Bravo! What did I tell you? You'll want a bigger place before the end of the year. The shop was well stocked. The window well laid out. Everything indicated a flourishing, though as yet a small business. Mrs. Clover, a neat, comely, and attractive woman, with a complexion as clear as that of her own best china, chatted vivaciously with the visitor, whilst she superintended the unpacking of a couple of crates by a muscular youth and a young lady, to use the technical term, her shop assistant. Why are you off today, she inquired presently, after moving to the doorway for more private talk. Mr. Gammon made his explanation with spirit and humor. You're a queer man, if ever there was one, Mrs. Clover remarked after watching him for a moment and averting her eyes as soon as they were met by his. You know your own business best, but I should have thought. It was a habit of hers to imply a weighty opinion by suddenly breaking off, a form of speech known to the grammarians by a name which would have astonished Mrs. Clover. Few women of her class are prone to this kind of emphasis. Her friendly manner had a quietness, a reserve in its cordiality, which suited well with the frank, pleasant features of a matron not yet past her prime. It's all right, he replied, more submissively than he was wont to speak. I shall do better next time. I'm looking out for a permanency. So you have been for ten years, to my knowledge. They laughed together. At this point came an interruption in the shape of a customer who drove up in a handsome, a loudly dressed woman who, on entering the shop, conversed with Mrs. Clover in the lowest possible voice, and presently returned to her vehicle with uneasy glances left and right. Mr. Gammon, who had walked for some twenty yards, sauntered back to the shop, and his friend met him on the threshold. That's the sort, she whispered with a merry eye. Eight roomed-outs near Queen's Road Station. Wants things for an at-home. Teaspoons as well. Couldn't I make it nine pints the two dozen? That's the kind of place where there'll be breakages. But they pay well, the breakages do. Well, I won't keep you now, said Gammon. I'm going to have a peep at the bow-wows. Could I look in after closing? Mrs. Clover turned her head away, pretending to observe the muscular youth within. Fact is, he pursued, I want to speak to you about Polly. What about her? Nothing much. I'll tell you this evening. Without more words, he nodded and went off. Mrs. Clover stood for a moment with an absent expression on her comely face, then turned into the shop and gave the young man in shirt sleeves a bit of her mind about the time he was taking over his work. She was anything but a bad tempered woman. Her rating had no malice in it, and only signified that she could not endure laziness. Hot is it? Of course it's hot. What do you expect in June? You don't mind the heat when you're playing cricket, I know. No, Mum, replied the young giant with a grin. How many runs did you make last Saturday? Fifty-three, Mum, and caught out. Then don't go talking to me about the heat. Finish that job and run off with this filter to Mrs. Govins. Her life had not lacked variety. Married at eighteen after a month's courtship to a man of whom she knew next to nothing, she lived for a time in Liverpool, where her husband, older by ten years, pursued various callings in the neighborhood of the docks. After the birth of her only child, a daughter, they migrated to Glasgow and struggled with great poverty for several years. This period was closed by the sudden disappearance of Mr. Clover. He did not actually desert his wife and child. At regular intervals, letters and money arrived from him, addressed to the care of Mrs. Clover's parents, who kept a china shop at Islington. Beyond the post marks which indicated constant travel in England and abroad, these letters, always very affectionate, gave no information as to the writer's circumstances. When Mrs. Clover had lived with her parents for about three years, she was summoned by her husband to Dulwich, where the man had somehow established himself as a cab proprietor. He explained his wanderings as the result of mere restlessness, and with this cold comfort Mrs. Clover had to be content. By degrees they settled into a not unhappy life. The girl, Minnie, was growing up, the business might have been worse. Everything seemed to promise unbroken domestic tranquility, when one fine day Mr. Clover was again missing. Again he sent letters and money. The former written in a strangely mangled mood of grief and hopefulness, the remittance varying from half a sovereign to a ten-pound note. This time the letters were invariably posted in London, but in different districts. Clover declared that he was miserable away from home, and without offering any reason for his behavior, promised that he would soon return. Six years had since elapsed. To afford herself occupation, Mrs. Clover went into the glass and china business assisted by her parents' experience, and by the lively interest of her friend Mr. Gammon. Minnie Clover, a pretty and interesting girl, was now employed at Dalton's Potteries. All would have been well, but for the harassing mystery that disturbed their lives. Clover's letters were still posted in London, money still came from him, sometimes in remittances of as much as twenty pounds. But handwriting and composition often suggested that the writer was either ill or intoxicated. The letters seemed not unlikely, for Clover had always inclined to the bottle. His wife no longer distressed herself. The first escapade she had forgiven, the second estranged her. She had resolved, indeed, that if her husband did again present himself, his home should not be under her roof. The shop closed at eight. At a quarter past, the house bell rang, and a small servant admitted Mr. Gammon, who came along the passage and into the back parlor, where Mrs. Clover was wont to sit. As usual at this hour her daughter was present. Minnie sat reading. She rose for a moment to greet the visitor, spoke a word or two very modestly, even shyly, and let her eyes fall again upon the book. Considering the warmth of the day was not unnatural that Mr. Gammon showed a very red face, shining with moisture, but his decided hilarity, his tendency to hum tunes and beat time with his feet, his noisy laughter and expansive talk could hardly be attributed to the same cause. Having taken a seat near Minnie, he kept his looks steadily fixed upon her, and evidently discorsed with a view of affording her amusement. Not altogether successfully it appeared, for the young girl, she was but seventeen, grew more and more timid, less and less able to murmur replies. She was prettier than her mother had ever been, and spoke with a better accent. Her features suggested a more delicate physical inheritance than Mrs. Clover's comeliness could account for. As a matter of fact she had her father's best traits, though Mrs. Clover frequently thanked goodness that in character she by no means resembled him. Mr. Gammon was in the midst of a vivid description of a rat-hunt in which a young terrier had displayed astonishing metal when his hostess abruptly interposed. Minnie, I wish you'd put your hat on and run around to Mrs. Walker's for me. I'll give you a message when you're ready. Very willingly the girl rose and left the room. Mr. Gammon, whose countenance had fallen, turned to the mother with jocular remonstrance. Now I call that too bad. What did you want to go sending her away for? What does it matter, was Mrs. Clover's reply, uttered good humoredly, but with some impatience the child doesn't want to hear about rats and terriers. Child? I don't call her a child. Besides, you'd only to give me a hint to talk of something else. He leaned forward and softened his voice to a note of earnest entreaty. She won't be long, will she? Oh, I dare say not. I'll I tap at the door called Mrs. Clover away. She whispered outside with Minnie and returned smiling. Have you told her to be quick? Mrs. Clover did not answer the question. Sitting with her arms on the round table she looked Mr. Gammon steadily in the face and said with decision, Never you come here again after you've been to Dulwich? Why not? Never mind, I don't want to have to speak plainer, if ever I have to. Mrs. Clover made her great effect of the pregnant pause. The listener, who had sobered wonderfully, sad gazing at her, his blue eyes comically rueful. She isn't coming back at all, fell from his lips. Of course she isn't. Well, I'm blessed if I thought you could be so unkind, Mrs. Clover. She was silent for three ticks of the clock, and odd hardness having come over her face, then fleshing just a little as if after an effort she smiled again and spoke in her ordinary tone. What had you to say about Polly? Polly? Polly be hanged. I have to believe Polly's no better than she should be. The flesh on Mrs. Clover's face deepened, and she spoke severely. What do you mean by saying such things? I didn't mean to exclaim Gammon with hasty penitence. Look here, I really didn't, but you put me out. She had some presents given her, that's all. I know it, said Mrs. Clover. She's been here today, called this afternoon. Polly did? Yes, and behaved very badly, too. I don't know what's coming to the girl. If I had a temper like that, I'd... What Mrs. Clover would do, remain conjectural. It's a good thing, remarked the other laughing. Trust Polly to take care of herself. She cheeked you, did she? They discussed Miss Sparks very thoroughly. There had been a battle-royal in the afternoon, for the girl came only to show off, and make herself generally offensive. Mrs. Clover desired to be friendly with her sister's daughter, but would stand no cheek, and had said so. Polly's all right, remarked Mr. Gammon, finally. Don't you fret about her, she ain't that kind. I know him. Then why did you say just now? Because you riled me, sending many away. Again Mrs. Clover reflected, and again she looked her friend steadily in the face. Why did you want her to stay? Mr. Gammon's heated visage glowed with incredible fervor. He shrugged his shoulders, shuffled his feet, and at length burst out with... Well, I should think you know. It isn't the first time I've showed it, I should think. Then I'm very sorry. I'm real sorry. The words fell gently, and one might have thought that Mrs. Clover was softening the rejection of a tender proposal made to herself. You mean it's no good? said the man. Not the least, not a bit, and never could be. Mr. Gammon nodded several times, as if calculating the force of the blow, and nerving himself to bear it. Well, if you say it, he replied at length, I suppose it's a fact, but I call it hard lines. Ever since I was old enough to think of marrying, I've been looking out for the right girl, always looking out, and now I thought I'd found her. Hanged if it isn't hard lines, I could have married scores, scores. But do you suppose I'd have a girl that showed you was only waiting for me to say the word? Not me. That's what took me in many. She's the first of that kind I ever knew, the only one. But I say, do you mean that you won't let me try? You surely don't mean that, Mrs. Clover. Yes, I do. I mean just that, Mr. Gammon. Why, because I haven't got a permanency? Oh, no. Because I go to Delage? No. Why, then? I can't tell you why, and I don't know why, but I mean it. And what's more? Her eyes sparkled. If ever you say such a word to many, you never pass my door again. This seemed to take Mr. Gammon's breath away. After a rather long silence he looked about for his hat, then for his dog whip. I'll say good night, Mrs. Clover. Hot. Isn't it, hottest day yet? I say you're not riled with me. That's all right. See you again before long. He did not make straight for home, but rambled in a circuit for the next hour. When darkness had fallen he found himself again near the china shop and paused for a moment only by the door. On the opposite side of the street stood a man who had also paused in a slow walk. But Mr. Gammon went his way without so much as a glance at that dim figure. End of Chapter 3. Recording by Arnold Banner, Mount Erie, North Carolina. Chapter 4 of The Town Traveler by George Gissing. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 4 of The Town Traveler by George Gissing. Chapter 4. Polly and Mr. Parish. Two first-rate quarrels in one day put Polly's sparks into a high good humor. When leaving her aunt's house in the afternoon she strolled into Battersea Park and there treated herself to tea and cakes at a little round table in the open air. Mrs. Clover, though the quarrel was prolonged until four o'clock, had offered no refreshments, which seemed to miss sparks a very gross instance of meanness and inhospitality. At a table near to her sat two girls, for some reason taking a holiday, who conversed in a way which proved them to be mantle hands, and Polly listened and smiled. Did she not well remember the day when the poverty of home sent her, a little girl, to be trotter in a workroom? But she soon found her way out of that. A sharp tongue, a bold eye, and a brilliant complexion helped her on, step by step, or jump by jump, till she had found much more agreeable ways of supporting herself. All unimpeachable, for Polly was fiercely virtuous, and put a very high value indeed upon such affections as she had to dispose of. The girls were appraising her costume. She felt their eyes and enjoyed the envy in them. Her hat, with its immense bunch of poppies, her blouse of shot silk in green and violet, her gold watch carelessly drawn out in return to its pocket. Now what do you think I am, a real lady, I'll bet? She caught a whisper about her hair. Red indeed! Didn't they wish they had anything like it? Polly could have told them that, at a ball she graced with her presence not long ago, her hair was done up with no less than seventy-two pins. Think of that, seventy-two pins. She munched a cream-tard and turned her back upon the envious pair. Back to Kennington Road by Omnibus, riding outside, her eyes and hair doing execution upon a young man in a very high collar, who was, she saw, terribly tempted to address her, but happily for himself could not pluck up courage. Polly liked to be addressed by strange young men. Experience had made her so skillful in austere rebuke. She rested in her bedroom as stuffy and disorderly a room as could have been found in all Kennington Road. Maggy, the general, was only allowed to enter it in the occupants' presence, otherwise who knew what prying and filching might go on. She paid a very low rent, thanks to Mrs. Bub's good nature, but the strained relations between them made it possible that she would have to leave, and she had been thinking today that she could very well afford a room in a better neighborhood. Not that, all things considered, she desired to quit this house. But Mrs. Bub took too much upon herself. Mrs. Bub was the widow of a police officer. One of her children was in the police orphanage at Twickenham, and for the support of each of the others she received half a crown a week. This to be sure justified the good woman in a certain spirit of pride, but when it came to calling names and making unpleasant insinuations, if a young lady cannot have a harmless and profitable secret, what is the use of being a young lady? On the way to her duties at the theater, about seven o'clock, she entered a little stationer's shop in an obscure street and asked with a smile whether any letter had arrived for her. Yes, there was one addressed in a careless hand to Miss Robinson. This, in another obscure street, hard by, she opened. On half a sheet of note paper was printed with pen and ink the letters W-S-T. That was all. Polly had no difficulty in interpreting this cipher. She tore up envelope and paper and walked briskly on. There was but a poor house this evening. Commission on programs would amount to very little indeed, but the young gentleman with the weak eyes who came evening after evening, and must have seen the present piece a hundred times or so, gave her half a crown, weeping copiously from nervousness as he touched her hand. He looked about seventeen, and Polly, who always greeted him with a smile of sportive condescension, wondered how his parents or guardians could allow him to live so recklessly. She left half an hour before the end of the performance, with a girl who accompanied her a short way, talking and laughing noisily. Along the crowded pavement they were followed by a young man of whose proximity Miss Sparks was well aware, though she seemed not to have noticed him. A slim, narrow-shouldered, high-hatted figure, with a commonest of well-meaning faces, set just now in a tremulously eager, pursuing look. When Polly's companion made a dart for an omnibus, this young man, suddenly red with joy, took a quick step forward, and Polly saw him beside her in an attitude of respectful accost. Offly jolly to meet you like this. Sure you haven't been waiting, she asked, with good humor. Well, I—you said you didn't mind, you know, didn't you? Oh, I don't mind, she laughed. If you've nothing better to do, there's my bus. Oh, I say, don't be in such a hurry. I was going to ask you, he panted, if you'd come and have just a little supper, if you wouldn't mind. Nonsense! You know you can't afford it. Oh, yes I can, quite well. It would be awfully kind of you. Polly laughed at careless acceptance, and they pressed through the roaring traffic of crossways toward an electric glare. In a few minutes they were seated amid plush and marble, mirrors and gilding, in a savory and aromatic atmosphere. Nothing more delightful to Polly who drew off her gloves and made herself thoroughly comfortable, whilst the young man, his name was Christopher Parrish, nervously scanned a bill of fare. As his bearing proved Mr. Parrish was not quite at home amid these splendors. As his voice and costume indicated, he belonged to the great order of minor clerks, and would probably go dinnerless on the morrow to pay for this evening's festival. The waiter overawed him, and after a good deal of bungling with anxious consultation of his companion's appetite, he ordered something, the nature of which was but dimly suggested to him by its name. Having accomplished this feat, he at once became hilarious and began to eat large quantities of dry bread. Quite without false modesty in the matter of eating and drinking, Polly made a hearty supper. Christopher ate without consciousness of what was before him, and talked ceaselessly of his good fortune in getting a birth at Swetnam's, the great house of Swetnam brothers, tea merchants. An enormous place, simply enormous. What do you think they pay in rent? Three thousand eight hundred pounds a year. Could you believe it? Three thousand eight hundred pounds. And how many people do you think they employ? Now just guess, do, just make a shot at it. How do I know? To her three hundred, I'd say. Christopher's face shone with triumph. One thousand three hundred and forty two. Could you believe it? Oh, I'd say, Polly replied, with her mouth full. Enormous, isn't it? Why, it's like a town in itself. Had his own name been Swetnam, he could hardly have shown more pride in these figures. When Polly inquired how much they made a year, he was unable to reply with exactitude, but the mere thought of what such a total must be all that overcame him. Personally he profited by his connection with the great firm to the extent of two pounds a week, in advance of ten shillings on what he had hitherto earned. And his prospects, why, they were limitless, once let a fellow get into Swetnam's. You're not doing so bad for a single man, remarked Polly with facetious malice in her eye, but it wouldn't run to a supper like this very often. Oh, well, not often, of course. His voice quavered into sudden despondency. Just now and then, you know. Absent cheese? Don't mind. Gorgonzola. He paid the bill right bravely and added sixpence for the waiter, though it cost him as great a pang as the wrenching of a double tooth. A rapid calculation told him that he must dine at the aerated bread shop for several days to come. Willsty was thus computing Polly drew out her gold watch. It caught his eye. He stood transfixed, and his stare rose from the watch to Polly's face. Just after eleven, she remarked airily, and began to hum. Christopher had but a silver watch, an heirloom of considerable antiquity, and the chain was jet. Sunk of a sudden, in profoundest gloom, he led the way to the exit, walking like a shame-faced plebeian who had got into the room by mistake. Polly's spirits were higher than ever. Just beyond the electric glare, she thrust her arm under that of her mute companion. You don't want me to get run over, do you? Parrish had a thrill of satisfaction, but with difficulty he spoke. Let's get out of this crowd, beastly, isn't it? I don't mind a crowd. I like it when I have someone to hang on by. Oh, I don't mind it. I like just what you like. What time did you say it was, Miss Sparks? Just eleven. Time I was getting home. There'll be a bus at the corner. I hope you are going to walk, urged Christopher, timidly. Suppose I might just as well, if you'll take care of me. It was a long time since Polly had been so gracious, so mild. All the way down White Hall across the bridge and into Kennington Road, she chatted of a hundred things, but never glanced at the one which held complete possession of Christopher's mind. Many times he brought himself all but to the point of mentioning it. It his courage invariably failed. The risk was too great. It needed such a trifling provocation to disturb Polly's good humor. He perspired under the warmth of the night and from the tumult of his feelings. You mustn't meet me again for a week, said Polly, when her dwelling was within sight. Why not? Because I say so. That's enough, ain't it? I say, Polly. I told you you're not to say Polly, she interrupted archly. You're awfully good, you know, but I wish. What? Never mind. Tell me next time. Ta-ta! She ran off and Christopher had no heart to detain her. For five minutes he hung over the parapet at Westminster, watching the black flood and asking what was the use of life. On the whole Mr. Parrish found life decidedly agreeable. And after a night's rest, a little worry notwithstanding, he could go to the city in the great morning procession, one of the myriads exactly like him, and would hopefully dip his pen in the ink pots of sweating them, brothers. Moggy, the general, was just coming from the public house with two foaming jugs, one for Mrs. Bub, the other for Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseman, her first-floor lodgers. Miss Sparks passed her disdainfully and entered with the aid of a latch-key. From upstairs sounded a banjo, prelooting, then the sound of Mr. Cheeseman's voice chanting a popular refrain. Come where the booze is cheaper, come where the pot's old more, come where the boss is a bit of a joss, come to the pub next door. Polly could not resist this invitation. She looked in at the Cheeseman's sitting-room and enjoyed half an hour of friendly gossip before going to bed. End of Chapter 4. Recording by Arnold Banner, Mount Airy, North Carolina. Chapter 5 of The Town Traveler by George Gissing. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 5. A Nondescript. Scarcely had quiet fallen upon the house. It was half an hour after midnight, when at the front door sounded a discreet but resolute knocking. Mrs. Bub, though she had retired to her chamber, was not yet wholly unpresentable. Reluctantly and with wonder, she went to answer the untimely visitor. After a short parlay through the gap of the chain door, she ascended several flights and sought to arouse Mr. Gammon. No easy task. What's up? shouted her lodger in a voice of half-remembered conviviality. House on fire? I hope not indeed. There wouldn't have been much chance for you if it was. It's your friend, Mr. Greenacre, as says he must see you for a minute. All right, sent him up, please. What the dickens can he want at this time of night? Mr. Gammon, having promised to see his visitor out again, with due attention to the house door, the landlady showed a light whilst Mr. Greenacre mounted the stairs. The gas jet in his friend's bedroom displayed him as a gaunt, ill-dressed man of about 40, with a long, unwholesome face, like hair and prominent eyes. He began with elaborate apologies, phrased and uttered with more refinement than his appearance would have led one to expect. No, he would on no account be seated. Under the circumstances he could not dream of staying more than two or at the most three minutes. He felt really ashamed of himself for such a flagrant breach of social custom. But if his friend would listen patiently for one minute, nay for less. I know what you're driving at, broke in Gammon good-humoredly, as he sat in bed with his knees up. You've nowhere to sleep, ain't that it? No, no, I assure you no, exclaimed the other with unfailing politeness. I have excellent lodgings in the parish of St. Martin's and the fields. Besides, you don't imagine I should disturb you after midnight for such a trivial cause. You have heard of the death of Lord Balsever? Never knew he was living, cried Gammon. Nonsense, you are an incorrigible joker. The poor fellow died nearly a week ago. Of course I must attend his funeral tomorrow down at Hitchin. I really couldn't neglect to attend his funeral. And here comes my difficulty. At present I'm driving a saponeria van, and I shall have to provide a substitute, you see. I thought I had found one, a very decent fellow called Rovener, who declares by the buy that he can trace his connection with the aristocratic house. Interesting, isn't it? But Rovener has got into trouble today. Something about passing a bad half-crown. A mere mistake, I'm quite sure. Now I've been trying to find somebody else, not an easy thing. And as I must have a substitute by nine tomorrow I came in despair to you. I'm sure in your wide acquaintance, my dear Gammon. Hold on, what sapon area? A new washing-powder only started a few days. Big vans painted vermilion and indigo going about town and suburbs distributing hand-bills and so on. I see, but look here, Greenacre, what's all this rod about Lord Balzover? My dear Gammon, protested the other, I really can't allow you to speak in that way. I make all allowance for the hour and the circumstances, but when it comes to the death of a dear friend. How the devil commute to be his friend, or he yours, shouted Gammon in comical exasperation. Why, surely you have heard me speak of him? Yet perhaps not. It was rather a painful subject. The fact is, I once gave the poor fellow a severe thrashing. It was before he succeeded to the title. I was obliged to do it. Poor Balzover confessed afterward that he had behaved badly. There was a lady in the case. But it put an end to our intimacy. And now he's gone. And the least I can do is to attend his funeral. That reminds me, Gammon, I fear I shall have to borrow a sovereign if it's quite convenient to you. There's the hire of the black suit you see, and the fare to hitchen. Do you think you could? He paused delicately, whereupon Gammon burst into a roar of laughter which echoed through the still house. You're the queerest devil I know, was the remark that followed. It's no use trying to make out what you're really up to. I have stated the case in very clear terms, replied Greenacre solemnly. The chief thing is to find a substitute to drive the sapon area van. What sort of animal is in the shafts? Two. A pair of welch cobs. Good little goers. I, Jingo, shouted Gammon, I'll tool him round myself. I'm off for tomorrow, and a job of that kind would just suit me. Greenacre's face brightened with relief. He began to describe the route which the sapon area van had to pursue. It's the southeast suburbs tomorrow, the main thoroughfares of Greenage, Blackheath, Lewisam, and all around there. There are certain shops to call at to drop bills and samples. No order taking. Here's the list. At likely places you throw out a shower of these little blue cards. Best is near a board school when the children are about. I'm greatly obliged to you, Gammon. I never thought you'd be able to do it yourself. Could you be at the stable just before nine? I'd meet you and give you a send-off. Bay that. Where is it? He consulted the notebook. Yes, Prince of Wales' feathers, Catford Bridge. No money out of pocket, all settled in the plan of campaign. Rest the cobs for an hour or so. Get round to the stables again about five, and I'll be there. It's very kind of you. I'm very greatly obliged. And if you could, without inconvenience? His eyes fell upon Gammon's clothing, which lay heaped on a chair. On the part of the man in bed there was a moment's hesitation, but Gammon had never refused a loan which it was in his power to grant. In a few minutes he fulfilled his promise to Mrs. Bub, seeing Greenacre safely out of the house and making fast the front door again. Then he turned in and slept soundly till seven o'clock. All went well in the morning. The sun shone and there was a pleasant northwest breeze. In high spirits Gammon mounted the big but light van, which seemed to shout in its brilliancy of red and blue paint. It was some time since he had had the pleasure of driving a pair. Greenacre had not overpraised the cobs. Their start promised an enjoyable day. He was not troubled by any sense of indignity. Unfailing humor and a vast variety of experience preserved him from such thoughts. As always he threw himself into the business of the moment with conscientious gusto. He had sap an area at heart, and was as anxious to advertise the new washing powder as if the profits were all his own. At one spot where a little crowd chanced together about the van he delivered an address, a fervid eulogy of sap an area, declaring his conviction, based on private correspondence, that in a week or two it would be exclusively used in all the laundries of the royal family. At one shop where he was instructed to call he found a little trap waiting, and as he entered there came out a man whom he knew by sight, evidently a traveller, who mounted the trap and drove off. The shopkeeper was in a very disagreeable mood, and returned Gammon's greeting roughly. Something wrong, asked Gammon with his wanted cheeriness. Saw that chap in the white hat? I've just told him stright that if he come into this shop again I'll kick him. I told him stright, see. Did you? I'd like to hear a man talk like that. It shows there's something in him. Who is the fellow? I seem to remember him somehow. Gwadling's traveller, and he's lost them my orders. And I shall write and tell him so. I never did like that chap, but when he come in here with his white hat, telling me how to manage my own business in Larfin, yes, Larfin, I have done with him, and I told him stright, etc. Gwadling's, eh? said Gammon reflectively. They're likely to be wanting a new traveller, I should say. They will if they take my advice, replied the shopkeeper, and that I shall give him, odd and strong. As he drove on Gammon mused over this incident. The oil and colour business was not one of his specialties, but he knew a good deal about it, and could easily learn what remained. The name of Gwadling interested him, being that of the man in the city who so strikingly resembled Mr. Clover, who, moreover, was probably connected in some way with the oil and colour firm. It might be well to keep an eye on Gwadling's, a substantial concern, likely to give one a chance of the permanency which was on the whole desirable. He had a boy with him to hold the horses, a sharp lad whose talk gave him amusement when he was tired of thinking. They found a common interest in dogs. Gammon invited the youngster to come and see his bow-wows at Dulwich, and promised him his choice out of the litter of bull terriers. With animation he discoursed upon the points of this species of dog. The pure white coat, the long, lean, punishing head, flat above. The breadth behind the ears, the strength of back. He warned his young friend against the wiles of the faker, who had been known to pike-clay a modelled animal and deceive the amateur. Altogether the day proved so refreshing that Gammon was sorry when its inn drew near. Greenacre was late for his appointment at the stables. He came in a suit of black, imperfectly fitting, and a chimney-pot hat, some years old, looking very much like an undertaker's man. His appearance seemed to prove that he really had attended a funeral, which renewed Gammon's wonder. As a matter of course they repaired to the nearest eating-house to have a meal together, an eating-house of the old fashion, known also as a coffee-shop, which Gammon greatly preferred to any kind of restaurant. There on the narrow seats with high wooden backs, as uncomfortable as sitting as could be desired, with food before him of worse quality and worse cooked than any but English-speaking mortals would endure, he always felt at home and was pleasantly reminded of the days of his youth, when a supper of eggs and bacon, at some such resort, rewarded him for a long week's toil and pinching. Sweet to him were the rancid odours, delightfully familiar the dirty knives, the twisted forks, the battered teaspoons, not unwelcome the day's newspaper, splashed with brown coffee and spots of grease. He often lamented that this kind of establishment was growing rare, passing away with so many other features of old London. Morpheus Didias, green-acre, could have wished his eggs some six months fresher, and his drink less obviously a concoction of rinsings. But he was a guest, and his breeding did not allow him to complain. Of the funeral he shrank from speaking, but the few words he dropped were such as would have befitted a genuine grief. Gammon even heard him murmur unconsciously, poor Balsever. Having eaten they wended their way to a little public house with a parlor known only to the favored few, where green-acre, after a glass or two of rum, a choice for which he thought it necessary to apologize, began to discourse upon a topic peculiarly his own. I couldn't help thinking today, Gammon, what a strange assembly there would be if all a man's relatives came to his funeral. Nearly all of us must have such a lot of distant connections that we know nothing about. Now a man like Balsever, an aristocrat with 50 or more acknowledged relatives in good position, think how many more there must be in out-of-the-way places, poor and unknown. I, and some of them not so very distant, kinsfolk, either. Think of the hosts of illegitimate children, for instance, some who know who they are, and some who don't. This was said so significantly that Gammon wondered whether it had a personal application. It's a theory of mine, pursued the other, his prominent eyes fixed on some far vision, that every one of us, however poor, has some wealthy relative, if he could only be found. I mean a relative within reasonable limits, not a cousin 50 times removed. That's one of the charms of London to me. A little old man used to cobble my boots for me a few years ago in Balsepond Road. He had an idea that one of his brothers, who went out to New Zealand, and was no more heard of, had made a great fortune. Said he dreamt about it again and again, and couldn't get rid of the fancy. Well now, the house in which he lived took fire, and the poor old chap was burnt in his bed, and so his name got into the newspapers. A day or two after I heard that his brother, the one he spoke of, had been living for some years scarcely a mile away at Stoke Newington, a man rolling in money, a director of the British and colonial bank. Rummy go, remarked Gammon. When I was a lad, pursued the other, after sipping at his refilled glass, I lived just by an old church in the city, and I knew the verger, and he used to let me look over the registers. I think that's what gave me my turn for genealogy. I believe there are fellows who get a living by hunting up pedigrees, that would just suit me, if I only knew how to start in the business. Gammon looked up and asked abruptly, Know anybody called Quadling? Quadling? No one personally, but there's a firm of Quadling, brushmakers or something. Oil and color men? Yes, to be sure. Quadling. Now I come to think of it, why do you ask? There's a man in the city called Quadling, a silk broker, for private reasons I should like to know something about him. Green anchor gazed absently at his friend, like one who tries to piece together old memories. Lost it, he muttered at length in a discontented tone. Something about a Mrs. Quadling and a lawsuit. Big lawsuit that used to be talked about when I was a boy. My father was a lawyer, you know. Was he? It's the first time you ever told me, replied Gammon with a chuckle. Nonsense, I must have mentioned it many a time. I've often noticed, Gammon, how very defective your memory is. You should use a mnemonic system. I made a splendid one some years ago. It helped me immensely. I could have felt sure, said Gammon, that you once told me your father was a coal merchant. Why so he was, later on? Am I to understand, Gammon, that you accuse me of distorting facts? With the end of his third tumbler there had come upon Green anchor a tendency to model indignity and sensitiveness. He laid a hand on his friend's arm and looked at him with pained reproach. Gammon, I was never inclined to mendacity, though I confess to mendacity I have occasionally fallen. To you, Gammon, I could not lie. I respect you, I admire you, in spite of the great distance between us in education and habits of mind. If I thought you accused me of falsehood, my dear Gammon, it would distress me deeply. Assure me that you don't. I am easily put out today. The death of poor Balzover, my friend before he succeeded to the title. And that reminds me, but for a mere accident I might myself at this moment have borne a title. My mother, before her marriage, refused the offer of a man who rose to wealth and honors, and only a year or two ago died a baronet. Well, well, the chances of life, the accidents of birth. He shook his head for some minutes, murmuring in articulate regrets. I think I'll have just one more, Gammon. I think not, old boy. Where did you say you lived? Oh, that's all right. Most comfortable lodgings in the parish of Saint Martin's in the fields. If you have the slightest doubt of my feracity, leave me, Gammon. I beg you, leave me. I, in fact, have an appointment with a gentleman I met at poor Balzover's funeral. With no little difficulty Gammon led him away, and by means of an omnibus landed him at length near Saint Martin's Church. No entreaty could induce the man to give his address. He protested that a few minutes' walk would bring him home, and as he seemed to have sobered sufficiently, Gammon left him sitting on the church steps, a strange object in his borrowed suit of mourning and his antiquated top hat. End of Chapter 5. Recording by Arnold Banner, Mount Erie, North Carolina. Chapter 6 of The Town Traveler by George Gissing. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6. The Headwaiter at Chaffey's. Polly Sparks had a father. That Mr. Sparks still lived was not known to the outer circles of Polly's acquaintance. She never spoke of her family, and it was not easy to think of Polly in the filial relation. For some years she had lived in complete independence, now and then exchanging a letter with her parent, but seeing him rarely. Not that they were on ill terms, unpleasantness of that kind had been avoided by their satisfaction in living apart. Polly sometimes wished she had a father to be proud of, a sufficiently intelligible phrase on Polly's lips, but for the rest she thought of him with tolerance, as a good, silly sort of man who couldn't help himself. That is to say, could not help being what he was. And Mr. Sparks was a waiter, had been a waiter for some thirty years, and would probably pursue the calling as long as he was fit for it. In this fact he saw nothing to be ashamed of. It had never occurred to him that anyone could or should be ashamed of the position. Nevertheless Mr. Sparks was a disappointed, even an embittered man, and that for a subtle reason which did credit to his sensibility. All his life he had been employed at Chaffee's. As a boy of ten he joined Chaffee's in the capacity of plate washer. Zeal and conduct promoted him, and seniority made him at length head waiter. In those days Chaffee's was an eating-house of the old kind, one long room with boxes, beef, its stapled dish, its drink, a sound porter, a two pence of pint. How many thousand times had Mr. Sparks shouted the order, one alley mode? The chief, almost the only variant, was one odd, which signified a cut from the boiled round, served of course with carrots and potatoes, remarkable for their excellence. Midday dinner was the only meal recognized at Chaffee's. From twelve to half past two the press of business kept everyone breathless and perspiring. Before and after these hours little if anything was looked for, and at four o'clock the establishment closed its doors. But it came to pass that the proprietor of Chaffee's died, and the business fell into the hands of a young man with new ideas. Within a few months Chaffee's underwent a transformation. It was pulled down, rebuilt, enlarged, beautified, nothing left of its old self but the name. In place of the homely eating-house there stood a large hall, painted and gilded and set about with mirrors, furnished with marble tables and cane-bottom chairs. To all appearances a restaurant on the France-Italian pattern. Yet Chaffee's remained English, flagrantly English, in its vions and its waiters. The new proprietor aimed at combining foreign glitter with the prices and the entertainment acceptable to a public of small means. Moreover he prospered. The doors were now open from nine o'clock in the morning to twelve at night. There was a bar for the supply of alcoholic drinks. The traditional porter had always been fetched from a neighboring house, and frivolities such as tea and coffee were in constant demand. The change told grievously upon Mr. Sparks. At the first mention of it he determined to resign, but the weakness in his character shrank from such a decided step, and he allowed himself to be drawn into a painfully false position. The proprietor did not wish to lose him. Mr. Sparks was a slim, upright, grave-featured man whose deportment had its market value. His side whiskers and shaven lip gave him a decidedly clerical aspect, which, together with long experience and a certain austerity of command, well fitted him for superintending the younger waiters. His salary was increased. His tips represented a much larger income than heretofore. At the old chaffies every diner gave him a penny, whilst at the new he often received tuppence, and customers were much more numerous. But every copper he pouched cost Mr. Sparks a pang of humiliation. His, thank you, sir, had the urbanity which had become mechanical, but more often than not he sneered inwardly, despising himself and those upon whom he waited. To one person alone did he exhibit all the bitterness of his feelings, and that was Mrs. Clover, the sister of his deceased wife. With her he occasionally spent a Sunday evening in the parlor behind the china shop, and there would speak the thoughts that oppressed him. It isn't that I have any quarrel with the foreign restaurants, Louisa, they're all right in their way. They suit a certain public and they charge certain prices. But what I do think is mean and low, mean and low, is to be neither one thing nor the other, to make a sort of show, as if he was eye-closs, and then have it known as you're the cheapest of the cheap. Potatoes, that I should lift to see chaffies handing out such potatoes. They're more like food for pigs, and I've known the day when chaffies would have thrown them at the end of anybody as delivered them such awful. It isn't a place for a self-respecting man, and I feel it more and more. If a shop boy wants to take out his sweetheart and make a pretense of doing it grand, where does he go to? Why to chaffies? He couldn't afford a real restaurant, but chaffies looks the same and chaffies is cheap. To hear him ordering roast fowl and camembert cheese to follow? It fair sickens me. Roast fowl. A old inn as wouldn't be good enough for a real restaurant to make inter-soup. And the camembert? I've got my private idea, Louisa, about what that camembert is made of, and when I think of the cheshire and the cheddar we used to top up with, it's art-breaking. From a speaker with such accountants all this was very impressive. Mrs. Clover shook her head and wondered what England was coming to. In return she would tell of the people who came to her shop to hire cups and saucers just to make a show when they had a friend to tea with them. There is much of the right spirit in both these persons, for they sincerely despised chams, though they were not above profiting by the snobberies of others. But Mrs. Clover found amusement in the state of things, whereas Mr. Sparks grew more despondent the more he talked, and always added with a dullful self-reproach, if I had been half a man I should have left. They'd have taken me on at Simpkins. I know they would, or at the old city chothouse, if I'd waited for a vacancy. Who'd take me on now? Why, they'd throw it in my face that I came from Chaffee's, and I shouldn't have half a word to say for myself. It was very seldom that he received a written invitation from his sister-in-law, but he heard from her in these hot days of June that she particularly wished to see him as soon as possible. The message, he thought, must have some reference to Mrs. Clover's husband, whose reappearance at any moment would have been no great surprise, even after an absence of six years. Mr. Sparks had a strong objection to mysterious persons. He was all for peace and comfort and a familiar routine, and for his own part had often hoped that the man Clover was by this time dead and buried. Responding as soon as possible to Mrs. Clover's summons, he found that she wished to speak to him about his daughter. Mrs. Clover showed herself seriously disturbed by Polly's recent behavior. She told of the newly acquired jewelry of the dresses in which Mrs. Sparks went flaunting of the girl's scornful refusal to answer natural inquiries. The long and the short of it is, Ebenezer, you ought to see her and find out what's going on. There may be nothing wrong, and I don't say there is, but that watch and chain of hers wasn't bought under twenty pounds. That I'll answer for, and it's a very queer thing to say the least of it. What business was it of mine, she asked? I shouldn't wonder if she says the same to you, but it's your plain duty to have a talk with her, don't you think so now? To have a talk with Polly, especially on such a subject, was no easy or pleasant undertaking for Mr. Sparks, who had so long resigned all semblance of parental authority. But as a conscientious man he could not stand aside when his only surviving daughter seemed in peril. After an exchange of postcards a meeting took place between them on the embankment below Waterloo Bridge, for neither father nor child had anything in the nature of a home beyond the indispensable bedroom, and their only chance of privacy was in the open air. Having no desire to quarrel with her parent, it would have been so very one-sided and uninspiriting. Polly began in a conciliatory tone. Aunt Louise has been making a bother, hasn't she? Just like her. Don't you listen to her fussing, dad? What's all the row about? I've had a present given to me. Well, what of that? You can look at it for yourself. I can't tell you who gave it to me, because I promised I wouldn't. But you'll know some day, and then you'll laugh. It ain't nothing to fret your gizzard about, so there. I'm old enough to look after myself, and if I ain't, I never shall be, so there. This did not satisfy Mr. Sparks. He saw that the watch and chain were certainly valuable, and he could not imagine how the girl had become honorably possessed of them, save as the gift of an admirer. But the mere fact of such an admirer's exacting secrecy implied a situation of danger. I don't like the look of it, Polly, he remarked, with a nervous attempt to be severe. All right, dad, then don't like the look of it. The watch is good enough for me. It took Mr. Sparks two or three minutes to understand this joke. Whilst he was reflecting upon it, a thought suddenly passed through his mind, which startled him by its suggestiveness. Polly? Well? It ain't your uncle Clover, is it? The girl laughed loudly as if at a preposterous question. Him? Why, I've as good as forgot there was such a man. What do you mean? Why, I shouldn't know him if I saw him. What made you think of that? Oh, I don't know. Who knows when and where he may turn up or what he'll do. That's a gooden. My uncle Clover indeed. Whatever put that into your head. Her ejaculations of wonder and disdain continued until the close of the interview, and Mr. Sparks went his way, convinced that Polly was being pursued by some wealthy man, probably quite unprincipled, the kind of man who frequents proper restaurants and sits in the stalls at the theaters, where doubtless Polly had made his acquaintance. After brooding a day or two on this idea, he procured a sheet of the cheapest note paper and sat down in his bedroom, high up at Chaffee's, to compose a letter for his daughter's behoof. Dear Polly, I write you these few lines to say that the more I think about you and your way of carrying on, the less I like the look of it, and the sooner I make that plane to you, the better for both of us, and I'm sure you'll think the same. You are that strong-headed my girl, but listen to the warnings of experience who have seen a great deal of the wicked world, and cannot hope to see much more of it at my present age. There will come a day when you will wish that you could hear of me by a note to Chaffee's, but such will not be. Before it's too late I take up the pen to say these few words, which is this. I have always been a respectable and a saving man, which I hope to be until I am no more. What I mean to say is this. Chaffee's is not what it used to be, but I have laid by, and when it comes to the solemn hour, then Mr. Walker has promised to make my will. All I want to say is that there may be more than you think for, and if you are respectable, I think it most likely all will be yours. But listen to this. If you disgrace yourself my girl, not one half-penny, nor yet one six-penny piece will you receive from your affectionate father, Ebenezer Sparks. P.S. this is wrote in a very serious mind. This epistle at once pleased an angry Polly. Though a greedy, she was not a mercenary young woman. She had little cunning, and her vulgar ambitions were consistent with a good deal of honest feeling. To do her justice she had never considered the possibility that her father might have money to bequeath. His disclosure surprised her and caused her to reflect for the first time that Chaffee's head-waiter had long held a tolerably lucrative position. Wills' expenses must have been trivial. So much the better for her. On the other hand, she strongly resented his suspicions and warnings. In the muddled obscurity of Polly's consciousness there was a something which stood for womanly pride. She knew very well what dangers perpetually surrounded her, and she contrasted herself with the girls who weakly or recklessly threw themselves away. Divided thus between injury and gratitude, she speedily answered her father's letter, writing upon a sheet of scented grass-green note-paper deeply ribbed, which made her pen blot, splutter, and sprawl far more than it would have done on a smooth surface. Dear Dad, in reply to yours what I have to say is Aunt Louisa and Mrs. Bub are nasty cats, and I don't thank them for making a bother. It is very kind of you about your will, though I'm sure if you believe me I don't want yet to see you in your grave. And what I do think is you might have a better opinion of your daughter, and I think all the bad things you can turn your mind to. And if it is me that dies first, you will be sorry for the wrong you've done me, so I will say no more, dear Dad, from your loving Polly. End of Chapter 6, Recording by Arnold Banner, Mount Erie, North Carolina Chapter 7 of The Town Traveler by George Gissing This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 7, Polly's Wrath Polly posted her letter on the way to the theater. This evening she had a private engagement for ten o'clock, and on setting forth to the appointed place, she looked carefully about her to make sure that no one watched or followed her. Christopher Parrish was not the only young man who had a habit of standing to wait for her at the theater door. Upon him she could lay her commands with some assurance that they would be observed, but others were less submissive, and at times had given her trouble. To be sure she could always get rid of important persons by the use of her special gift, that primitive sarcasm which few cared to face for more than a minute or two. But with admirers Polly wished to be as far as possible gracious, never coming to extremities with one of them until she was quite certain that she thoroughly disliked him. Finding the coast clear, which after all slightly disappointed her, she walked sharply into another street where she hailed a passing handsome and was driven to Lincoln's inn fields. Here, on the private pavement, shadowed by the College of Surgeons, she lingered in expectancy. Ten was striking, but she looked in vain for the figure she would recognize, that of a well-dressed middle-aged man with a white silk comforter about his neck and drawn up so as to hide his mouth. Twice she had met him here, and on each occasion he was waiting for her when she arrived. Five minutes passed, ten minutes, she grew very impatient, and as a necessary consequence, very angry. To avoid unpleasant attention from the few people who walked by, she had to pace backwards and forwards as if going about her business. When the clocks chimed the first quarter, Polly was in a turmoil of anger, blended with disappointment and apprehension. She could not have made a mistake. The message she had received was WST, which meant Wednesday same time. Some accident must have interfered. At twenty minutes past ten she had lost all hope. She must go home and wait for a possible communication on the morrow. Swinging her skirts, clenching her fists, and talking silently at a great rate, she walked in the direction of Chancery Lane. At a corner, someone going in the opposite direction caught sight of her and stopped. Polly was so preoccupied that she would not have noticed the figure had it merely passed. By stopping it drew her attention, and she beheld Christopher Parish. Why miss Sparks? He held out his hand but to no purpose. Polly had her eyes fixed upon him and they flashed with hostility. What do you mean by it? Mean by what? The young man was astonished. His hand dropped and he trembled before her. How dare you spy after me, nasty little wretch! Spy after you, miss Sparks? Why, I hadn't the least idea of anything of the kind. I swear I hadn't. I was just taking a walk. Oh yes, of course. You're always taking a walk, aren't you? And you always come just this way because it's nice and convenient for Lambeth Road, ain't it? I have a good mind to call a policeman and give you in charge for stopping me in the street. Well, did ever anybody hear such a thing as this? exclaimed Mr. Parish, faint in voice and utterly at a loss for protestations at all effective. I tell you I was only taking a walk. That's to say I've been with a friend. A friend? Oh yes, of course. What friend? It's somebody you don't know. His name? Oh, of course. I don't know him. And I don't know you either after tonight, so just remember that, Mr. Parish. The idea. If I can't take two steps without being followed and spied upon, and you call yourself a gentleman, get out of my way, please. If you want to follow and spy, you're quite at liberty to do so. Perhaps it'll ease your nasty little mind. Don't talk to me. What business have you got to stop me in the street? I'd like to know. If you're not, careful I shall send a complaint to your employers, and then you'll have plenty of time to go taking walks. She turned from him and pursued her way, but not so quickly as before. Christopher, limp with misery, tried to move off in another direction, but in spite of himself he was drawn after her. By chanceery lane and along the strand he kept her in sight, often with difficulty, for he durst not drawn nearer than some twenty yards. At sharing cross she stopped, and by her movements showed that she was looking for an omnibus. Parish longed to approach, quivered with the ever-recurrent impulse, but his fear prevailed. In a more lucid state of mind he would probably have remarked that Polly allowed a great many omnibuses to go by, and that she was surely waiting much longer than she need have done. But at length she jumped in and disappeared, whereupon Mr. Parish spent all the money he had with him on a large brandy and soda, hoping it would make him drunk. The door of the house in Kennington Road stood open. In the passage Mr. Gammon and Mr. Cheesman were conversing genially. They nodded to Polly, but did not speak. Passing them to the head of the kitchen stairs she called to Mrs. Bub, and that lady's voice summoned her to descend. Are you alone? asked Miss Sparks sharply. There's only Mrs. Cheesman. Polly went down into the kitchen where Mrs. Cheesman, a stout woman of slatternly appearance, was sitting with her legs crossed and a plate of shrimps in her lap. Have a shrimp, Polly? began Mrs. Bub, anxious to dismiss the memory of recent discord. Thank you, Mrs. Bub. If I have a fancy for shrimps I can afford to buy them myself. Well, you are a nasty. Ain't she a real obstropolis, Mrs. Cheesman? I never knew a nastier tempered girl in all my life that I never did. This actually no living with her. Now, set down Polly, urged the stout woman in an unctuous voice, set down due and tight things easy. You were at your sweet self to death before you're many years older if you go on like this? I'm much obliged to you, Mrs. Cheesman, answered Polly, holding herself very stiff. But I didn't come here to set down nor to talk, neither. But I'm glad you're here because you'll be a witness to what I say. I've come to give Mrs. Bub a week's notice. She's often enough told me that she wants to keep her house respectable, and I'm sure she'll be glad to get rid of people as don't suit her. It's the first time I was ever told that I'd disgrace the house, and I hope it'll be the last time too. When I pay my rent tomorrow morning, you'll please to understand, Mrs. Bub, that I've given a week's notice. I may be a disgrace, but I dare say there's people as won't be ashamed to let me a room. And that's what I come to say. And now I've said it, and Mrs. Cheesman is a witness. This was spoken so rapidly that it left Polly breathless and with a very high color. The elder women looked at each other, and Mrs. Cheesman, with a shrimp in her mouth, resumed the attempted pacification. Now see here, Polly, you're a young gal, my dear, and a handsome gal, as we all know. And you've only one fault, which there ain't no need to mention it. And we're all fond of you, Polly, that's the fact. Ain't we all fond of her, Mrs. Bub? Oh yes, she's very fond of me, exclaimed the girl, and so is my Aunt Louisa. And to show it, they go telling everybody that I ain't respectable, that I'm a disgrace to a decent house. Do you think I'll stand it? Have a sudden she changed from irony to fierceness. What do you mean by it, Mrs. Bub? Did you never ear of people being prosecuted for taking away people's characters? Just you mind what you're about, Mrs. Bub? I give you fair warning, and that's all I have to say to you. Having relieved her feelings with these and a few more verbal missiles, Polly ran up the kitchen steps. In the passage the two men were still conversing. At sight of Polly they stopped within abruptness which did not escape her observation. No doubt, she said to herself, they had been talking about her. No doubt, too, they had their reasons for letting her go by as before, without a word. Only when she was halfway up the first flight of stairs did Mr. Cheeseman call to her a good night, Miss Bargs, to which she made no reply, whatever. On the morrow she called at the little stationer's shop, but no letter awaited her. She decided to be again at the rendezvous that evening, lest there should have been some mistake in her cipher message, but she lingered near the College of Surgeons in vain. Polly's heart sank as she went home. For tonight there was no one to quarrel with. Mrs. Bub and all the lodgers had shown that they meant to hold aloof. Not even Maggie would look at her or speak a word. It was quite an unprecedented state of things, and Polly found it disagreeable. There was only one consolation, and that a poor one. She had received a letter from Christopher Parrish, a letter of abject remonstrance and entreaty. He groveled at her feet. He talked frantically of poison and the river. If she would but meet him and hear him in his own defense, and Polly quite meaning to do so gave herself the pleasure of appearing obdurate for a couple of days. At the theatre she examined every row of spectators in stalls and dress-circle, having her own reason for thinking that she might discover a certain face. But no such fortune befell her, and still no letter came. At home she suffered increasing discomfort. For one thing she had to seek her meals in the nearest coffee shop instead of going down into Mrs. Bub's kitchen and gossiping as she ate at the family deal table amid the dirt and disorder which Custom had made pleasant. When in the house she locked herself in her bedroom, reading the kind of print that interested her, or lying in sullen idleness on the bed. Numerous as were her acquaintances elsewhere, they did not compensate her for the loss of domestic habit. As the week drew on she bethought herself that she must look for new lodgings. In giving notice to Mrs. Bub she had not believed for a moment that it would come to this. She felt sure that her old friend would make up the quarrel and persuade her to stay. Nothing of the kind. For once she was taken most literally at her word. There were moments when Polly felt disposed to cry. It faxed her much more than she would have thought to miss the Jaco's greetings of her neighbor, Mr. Gammon. As usual he sang in his bedroom of a morning. As usual he shouted orders and questions to Maggie. But for her he never had a word. She listened for him as he came out of the room. And once so far humbled herself as to affect a cough in his hearing. Mr. Gammon paid no attention. Then she raged at him, of course, so to vote she. Many were the phrases of abuse softly hurled at him as he passed her door. The worst of it was that none of them seemed really applicable. Her vision of the man defeated all such contumely. She had never disliked Mr. Gammon. Oddly enough she seemed to think of him with a more decided friendliness, now that his conduct demanded her enmity. She asked herself whether he really believed any harm of her. It looked very much as if he did, and the thought sometimes kept her awake for fully a quarter of an hour. It was the last day but one of her week. Tomorrow she must either submit to the degradation of begging Mrs. Bub's leave to remain or pack her boxes and have them removed before nightfall. Worry had ended by giving her a slight headache, a very rare thing indeed. Moreover it rained, and breakfast was only obtainable by walking some distance. Oh, the beasts! Polly exclaimed to herself as she pulled on her boots, meaning the inhabitants of the house altogether. Mr. Gammon opened his door and shouted down the staircase, Moggy, fry me three eggs this morning with the bacon, do you hear me? Three eggs, fried with bacon, and all comfortably set out at the end of the kitchen table, and to think that she might be going down to breakfast at the same time with Mr. Gammon's jokes for a relish. Oh, the wretches! The mean selfish brutes! She stamped about the floor to ease her nerves as she put on a common hat and an old jacket. She unlocked her door with violence, banged it open, and slammed it to again. From the staircase window she saw that the rain was falling more heavily, and she could not wait for she felt hungry after hearing about those three eggs. If she met anyone down below. And as Chance had it she met Mrs. Cheeseman just coming up to her room from the kitchen with a dish of sausages. The woman grinned and turned her head away. Polly had never been so tempted to commit an assault. She thought with a burning brain how effective would be one smart stroke on the dish of sausages with the handle of her umbrella. Still hot from this encounter in the passage she came face to face with Mrs. Bub. The landlady seemed to hesitate, but before Polly had gone by she addressed her with exaggerated politeness. Good morning, Miss Sparks. I suppose we're losing you tomorrow. Yes, you are, Polly replied, from a parched throat glaring at her enemy. Oh, then I'll put the card up. Do! I wouldn't lose no time about it, and listen to this, Mrs. Bub. Next time you see your friend Mrs. Clover you may tell her that if she wants to know where her precious husband is she's not to ask me, because I wouldn't let her know not if she was on her deathbed. Having uttered this surprising message with point and emphasis worthy of its significance, Polly hastened from the house, and Mrs. Bub stood looking after her in bewilderment. End of Chapter 7. Recording by Arnold Banner, Mount Airy, North Carolina. Chapter 8 of The Town Traveler by George Gissing. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 8. Mr. Gammons Resolve. Convinced that his life was blighted, Mr. Gammons sang and whistled with more than usual vivacity as he dressed each morning. It was not in his nature to despond. He had received many a knock-down blow, and always came up fresher after it. Mrs. Clover's veto upon his tender hopes with regard to Minnie had not only distressed but greatly surprised him. For during the last few months he had often said to himself that, whether Minnie favored his suit or not, her mother's good will was a certainty. His advances had been of the most delicate. No word of distinct wooing had passed his lips. But he thought of Minnie a great deal, and came to the decision that in her the hopes of his life were centered. It might be that Minnie had no inkling of his intentions. She was so modest, so unlike the everyday girls who tittered and ogled with every marriageable man, on that very account he had made her his ideal. And Mrs. Clover would help him, as a mother best knows how. The shock of learning that Mrs. Clover would do no such thing utterly confused his mind. He still longed for Minnie, yet seemed of a sudden hopelessly remote from her. He could not determine whether he had given her up or not. He did not know whether to bow before Mrs. Clover or to protest and persevere. He liked Mrs. Clover far too much to be angry with her. He respected many far too much to annoy her by an unwelcome courtship. He wished, in fact, that he had not made a fool of himself that evening and wanted things to be as they were before. In the meantime he occupied himself in looking out for a new engagement. Plenty were to be had, but he aimed at something better than had satisfied him hither too. He must get a permanency. At his age it was time he settled into a life of respectable routine. But for his foolish habit of living from hand to mouth, now in this business, now in that, indulging his taste for variety, Mrs. Clover would never, he felt sure, have put her foot down in that astonishing way. The best thing he could do was to show himself in a new light. Thanks to his good nature, his practicality, and the multitude of his acquaintances, all manner of shiftless or luckless fellows were in the habit of looking to him for advice and help. As soon as they found themselves adrift they turned to gammon. Every day he had a letter asking him to find a berth or a billet for some out-at-elbow's friend, and in a surprising number of cases he was able to make a useful suggestion. It would have paid him to start an employment agency. As it was, instead of receiving fees, he very often supplied his friends immediate necessities out of his own pocket. The more he earned the more freely he bestowed, so that his occasional strokes of luck in commerce were of no ultimate benefit to him. No man in his position had a larger credit. For weeks at a time he could live without cash expenditure, but this was seldom necessary. By a mental freak which was characteristic of him, he nursed the thought of connecting himself with Messer's quaddling and sun, oil and color merchants. There's was a large and sound business, both in town and country. It might not be easy to become traveler to such a firm, but his ingenious mind tossed and turned the possibilities of the case, and after a day or two spent in looking up likely men, which involved a great deal of drinking and a variety of public resorts, he came across an elderly traveler who had represented quaddlings on a northern circuit, and who boasted a certain acquaintance with quaddling the senior. Thus were things set in train. At a second meeting with the venerable bag-man, who had a wonderful head for whiskey, Gammon acquired so much technical information that oil and colors might fairly be set down among his numerous specialties. Moreover, his friend promised to speak a word for him in the right quarter when opportunity offered. By the way, Gammon remarked carelessly, are these quaddlings any relation to quaddling the silk broker in the city? His companion smiled over the rim of a deep tumbler and continued to smile through a long draft. Why do you ask? No particular reason happened to know the other man by sight. Their brothers, quaddling senior and the broker. What's the joke? asked Gammon, as the other still smiled. All joke, very old joke. The two men just as unlike as they could be. In face, I mean. I never took the trouble to inquire about it, but I've been told there was a lawsuit years ago, something to do with the will of Lord or somebody, who left money to old Mrs. Quaddling, who wasn't old then. Don't know the particulars, but I'm told that something turned on the lightness of the younger boy to the man who made the will, see? Ah! Oh! muttered Gammon, reflectively. An upish high-notion fellow, quaddling the broker, won't have anything to do with his brother. He's nothing much himself, went through the court not very long ago. Gammon promised himself to look into this story when he had time. That it could in any way concern him he did not seriously suppose, but he liked to track things out. Someday he would have another look at quaddling the broker, who so strongly resembled Mrs. Clover's husband. Both of them it seemed more a lightness to some profligate aristocrat. Just the kind of thing to interest that queer fish greenacre. In the height of the London season nothing pleased Gammon more than to survey the streets from an omnibus. Being just now a man of leisure, he freely indulged himself, spending an hour or two each day in the liveliest thoroughfares. It was a sure way of forgetting his cares. Sometimes he took a box-place and chatted with the driver, or he made acquaintances, male and female, on the cozy cross-seats just broad enough for two. The London panorama under a sky of June feasted his laughing eyes. Now he would wave a hand to a friend on the pavement, or borne past on another bus. Now he would chuckle at a bit of comedy in real life. Huge hotels and brilliant shops vividly impressed him, though he saw them for the thousandth time. A new device in advertising won his ungrudging admiration. Above all he liked to find himself in the strand at that hour of the day when east and west showed a double current of continuous traffic. Tight wedged in the narrow street, moving at a mere foot pace, every horse's nose touching the back of the next vehicle. The sun could not shine too hotly. It made colors brighter and gave a new beauty to the glittering public houses, where names of cooling drinks seemed to cry aloud. He enjoyed a block and was disappointed unless he saw the policeman at Wellington Street holding up his hand whilst the cross-traffic from north and south rolled grandly through. It always reminded him of the Bible story, Moses parting the waters of the Red Sea. He wasn't the full enjoyment of this spectacle when an odour of clothes breathed across his face and a voice addressed him. Isn't that you, Mr. Gammon? Well, if I didn't think so. The speaker was a young woman who, with a male companion, had just mounted the bus and seated herself at Gammon's back. Facing round he recognized her as a friend of Polly Sparks, Miss Waghorn by name, who adorned a refreshment bar at the theatre where Polly sold programs. With a marked display of interesting embarrassment Miss Waghorn introduced him to her companion, Mr. Nibbie, who showed himself cordial. I've often heard talk of you, Mr. Gammon. Glad to meet you, sir. I think it's Berlin Wools, isn't it? Well, it was, sir, but it's been fancy leather goods lately, and now it's going to be something else. You are the gilling-water burners, I believe, sir. Mr. Nibbie betrayed surprise. And may I ask you how you know that? Oh, I have a good memory for faces. I traveled with you on the underground not very long ago and saw the name on some samples you had. Now that's what I call smart observation, Carrie, said the gilling-water burners, beaming upon Miss Waghorn. Oh, we all know that Mr. Gammon's more than seven, replied the young lady with a throaty laugh, and her joke was admirably received. Business good, sir? asked Gammon. Not bad for the time of year, sir. Is it true, do you know, that Milligan of Bishopsgate has burst up? I heard so yesterday. Not surprised. Business very badly managed. Great shame, too, for I know he got it very cheap, and there was a fortune in it. Two years ago I could have bought the whole concern for a couple of thousand. You don't say so. Mr. Gammon was often heard to remark that he could have bought this, that, or the other thing for something paltry, such as a couple of thousands. It was not idle boasting. Such opportunities had indeed come in his way, and with his generous optimism he was content to ignore the fact that only the money was wanting. What's wrong with Polly Sparks? inquired the young lady presently, again sending a waft of clothes into Gammon's face. That's what I want to know, he answered facetiously. She's often cut up about something. I thought you were sure to know what it was, Mr. Gammon. She says a lot of you has been using her shameful. Oh, she does, does she? You should hear her talk. Now it's her landlady. Now it's her aunt. Now it's, I don't know who. To hear her she's been used chimeful. She says she's been drove out of the house. I didn't think it of you, Mr. Gammon. At the moment the bus was drawing slowly near to a popular wine shop. Mr. Nibby whispered to Miss Waghorn, who dropped her eyes and looked a mirror, whereupon he addressed Gammon. What do you say to a glass of dry sherry, sir? Right you are, sir. So the omnibus was stopped to allow Miss Waghorn to alight, and all three turned into the wine shop. Try sherry not being to Miss Waghorn's taste, she chose sweet port, drinking it as to one of the manor born, and talking the while in horse whispers, with now and then an outburst of shrill laughter. The dark narrow space before the counter or bar was divided off with wooden partitions, as at a pawnbroker's. Each compartment had a high stool for the luxuriously inclined, and along the wall ran a bare wooden bench. Not easily could a less inviting place of refreshment have been constructed, but no such thought occurred to its frequenters, who at this hour were numerous. Squeezed together in a stifling atmosphere of gas and alcohol, with nothing to look at but the row of great barrels once the wine was drawn, these merry folk quenched their mid-summer thirst, and gave their wits a jog, and drank good fellowship with merciless ill-usage of the Queen's English. Miss Waghorn talked freely of Polly's parks, repeating all the angry things that Polly had said, and persistingly wanting to know what the bother was all about. It's for her own good, said Gammon, with significant brevity. He did not choose to say more or to ask any questions which might turn to Polly's disadvantage. For his own part he seldom gave a thought to the girl, and was far from imagining that she cared whether he kept on friendly terms with her or not. At his landlady suggestion he had joined in the domestic plot for sending Polly to Coventry, a phrase by the by which would hardly have been understood in Mrs. Bub's household. He argued that it might do her good, and that in any case some such demonstration was called for by her outrageous temper. If Polly could not get on with people who were sincerely her friends and had always wished her well, let her go elsewhere and exercise her ill-humour on strangers. Gammon did not believe that she would go. Day after day he expected to hear that the quarrel was made up, and that Polly had cleared her reputation by a few plain words. But this was the last day save one of Polly's week, and as yet she had given no sign. On coming down into the kitchen to discuss his fried eggs and bacon he saw at once that Mrs. Bub was seriously perturbed. With huffings and cuffings, a most unusual thing, she had just dispatched her children to school, and was now in conflict with Moggy about a broken pie dish which the guilty general had concealed in the back yard. A prudent man in the face of such tempers, Gammon sat down without speaking, and fell to on the vions which Mrs. Bub, also silent, set before him. In a minute or two, having got rid of Moggy and closed the kitchen door, Mrs. Bub came nearer and addressed him in a subdued voice. What do you think? It's her uncle. It's Clover. Eh, what is? Why it's him as has been given her things? Has she said so? Asked Gammon with eager interest. I met her as she was coming down just now, and she was in a tear in rage, and she says to me, she says, When you see my aunt, she says, You tell her I know all about her husband, and that I wouldn't tell her anything, not if she went down on her bended knees, there now. The uneducated man made her chance repeat with exactness something that has been said to him or in his hearing. For the uneducated woman such accuracy is impossible. Mrs. Bub meant to be strictly truthful, but in the nature of things she would have gone astray, even had Polly's message taken a much simpler form than wrathful sarcasm gave to it. However, she conveyed the spirit of Polly's words, and Gammon was so excited by the report that he sprang up overturning his cup of coffee. Oh, cuss it! Never mind, most's gone on to my trousers. She said that? And to think we never thought of it. Where is she? When will she be back? I don't know, but she says she's going to leave tomorrow and looks as if she meant it too. Hadn't I better send to Mrs. Clover? Gammon reflected, I tell you what, send and ask her to come here tonight, say it's very important. We'll have them face to face, by jerks we will. Polly mayn't be home before half past ten or eleven. Never mind, I tell you we'll have them face to face. If it comes to that I'll pay for a cab for Mrs. Clover to go home in. Tell her to be here at eight. Stop, you mustn't have the trouble. I can very well go round myself. Yes, I'll go myself and arrange it. It may be a lie, remarked Mrs. Bub. So it may be, but somehow I don't think so. The rummiest thing that never came into my head. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if Clover ain't living in Belgrave Square or some such place. Just the kind of thing that happens with these mysterious Johnny's. She'll have come across him somewhere and he bribed her to keep it dark, see? What a gooseberry! I was never to think of it. We'll have them face to face. Suppose Polly won't. Won't? Gosh, but she shall. If I have to carry her downstairs, she shall. Think we're going to let her keep a thing like this to herself? You just wait and see. Leave it to me, that's all. Lucky there's only friends in the house. Polly likes a row, and by Jarex she shall have one. End of Chapter 8. Recording by Arnold Banner, Mount Arie, North Carolina.