 Part 1 of The Club of Queer Trades This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Club of Queer Trades by G.K. Chesterton. Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. 1. The Tremendous Adventures of Major Brown Rabele, or his wild illustrator Gustave Doré, must have had something to do with the designing of the things called flats in England and America. There is something entirely gargantuan in the idea of economising space by piling houses on top of each other, front doors and all. And in the chaos and complexity of these perpendicular streets anything may dwell or happen. And it is in one of them, I believe, that the inquirer may find the offices of the Club of Queer Trades. It may be thought at the first glance that the name would attract and startle the passer-by, but nothing attracts or startles in these dim, immense hives. The passer-by is only looking for his own melancholy destination, the Montenegro Shipping Agency or the London Office of the Rutland Sentinel, and passes through the twilight passages as one passes through the twilight corridors of a dream. If the thugs set up a stranger's assassination company in one of the great buildings in Norfolk Street and sent in a mild man in spectacles to answer inquiries, no inquiries would be made. And the Club of Queer Trades reigns in a great edifice hidden like a fossil in a mighty cliff of fossils. The nature of this society, such as we afterwards discovered it to be, is soon and simply told. It is an eccentric and bohemian club of which the absolute condition of membership lies in this, that the candidate must have invented the method by which he earns his living. It must be an entirely new trade. The exact definition of this requirement is given in the two principal rules. First, it must not be a mere application or variation of an existing trade. Thus, for instance, the Club would not admit an insurance agent simply because instead of insuring men's furniture against being burned in a fire, he insured, let us say, their trousers against being torn by a mad dog. The principal, as Sir Bradcock Burnaby Bradcock, in the extraordinarily eloquent and soaring speech to the Club on the occasion of the question being raised in the Stormby Smith Affair, said Wittily and Keenley, is the same. Secondly, the trade must be a genuine commercial source of income, the support of its inventor. Thus the Club would not receive a man simply because he chose to pass his days collecting broken sardine tins, unless he could derive a roaring trade in them. Professor Chick made that quite clear, and when one remembers what Professor Chick's own new trade was, one doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. The discovery of this strange society was a curiously refreshing thing. To realise that there were ten new trades in the world was like looking at the first ship or the first plough. It made a man feel what he should feel, that he was still in the childhood of the world. That I should have come at last upon so singular a body was, I may say without vanity, not altogether singular, for I have a mania for belonging to as many societies as possible. I may be said to collect clubs, and I have accumulated a vast and fantastic variety of specimens ever since in my audacious youth I collected the Athenaeum. At some future day, perhaps, I may tell tales of some of the other bodies to which I have belonged. I will recount the doings of the Dead Man's Shoes Society, that superficially immoral but darkly justifiable communion. I will explain the curious origin of the Cat and Christian, the name of which has been so shamefully misinterpreted, and the world shall know at last why the Institute of Typewriters coalesced with the Red Tulip League. Of the ten teacups, of course, I dare not say a word. The first of my revelations at any rate shall be concerned with the club of queer trades, which, as I have said, was one of this class, one that I was almost bound to come across sooner or later, because of my singular hobby. The wild youth of the metropolis call me facetiously the king of clubs. They also call me the cherub, an allusion to the rosate and youthful appearance I have presented in my declining years. I only hope the spirits in the better world have as good dinners as I have. But the finding of the club of queer trades has one very curious thing about it. The most curious thing about it is that it was not discovered by me. It was discovered by my friend Basil Grant, a star-gazer, a mystic, and a man who scarcely stirred out of his attic. Very few people know anything of Basil, not because he was in the least unsociable, for if a man out of the street had walked into his room he would have kept him talking till morning. Few people knew him, because, like all poets, he could do without them. He welcomed a human face as he might welcome a sudden blend of colour in a sunset. But he no more felt the need of going out to parties than he felt the need of altering the sunset clouds. He lived in a queer and comfortable garret in the roofs of Lambeth. He was surrounded by a chaos of things that were in odd contrast to the slums around him. Old fantastic books, swords, armour, the whole dust-hole of romanticism. But his face, amid all these quicksotic relics, appeared curiously keen and modern, a powerful, legal face. And no one but I knew who he was. Long ago as it is, everyone remembers the terrible and grotesque scene that occurred in—when one of the most acute and forcible of the English judges suddenly went mad on the bench. I had my own view of that occurrence. But about the facts themselves there is no question at all. For some months, indeed for some years, people had detected something curious in the judge's conduct. He seemed to have lost interest in the law, in which he'd been beyond expression brilliant and terrible as a K.C., and to be occupied in giving personal and moral advice to the people concerned. He talked more like a priest or a doctor. And a very outspoken one at that. The first thrill was probably given when he said to a man who had attempted a crime of passion, I sentence you to three years imprisonment under the firm and solemn and God-given conviction that what you require is three months at the seaside. He accused criminals from the bench not so much of their obvious legal crimes, but of things that had never been heard of in a court of justice—monstrous egoism, lack of humour, and morbidity deliberately encouraged. Things came to a head in that celebrated diamond case in which the Prime Minister himself, that brilliant patrician, had to come forward gracefully and reluctantly to give evidence against his valet. After the detailed life of the household had been thoroughly exhibited, the judge requested the Premier again to step forward, which he did with quiet dignity. The judge then said in a sudden grating voice, Get a new soul! That thing's not fit for a dog! Get a new soul! All this, of course, in the eyes of the sagacious, was premonitory of that melancholy and farcical day when his wits actually deserted him in open court. It was a libel case between two very eminent and powerful financiers against both of whom charges of considerable defalcation were brought. The case was long and complex. The advocates were long and eloquent, but at last, after weeks of work and rhetoric, the time came for the great judge to give a summing-up. And one of his celebrated masterpieces of lucidity and pulverising logic was eagerly looked for. He had spoken very little during the prolonged affair, and he looked sad and lowering at the end of it. He was silent for a few moments, and then burst into a stentorian song. His remarks, as reported, were as follows, Oh, Rowty-Alty-Tiddly, alty-tiddly, alty-tiddly, alty-hitey-itey-tiddly, itey-tiddly-itey-ow! He then retired from public life and took the garret in Lambeth. I was sitting there one evening, about six o'clock, over a the glass of that gorgeous burgundy which he kept behind a pile of black letter-folios. He was striding about the room, fingering, after a habit of his, one of the great swords in his collection. The red glare of the strong fire struck his square features and his fierce grey hair. His blue eyes were even unusually full of dreams, and he'd opened his mouth to speak dreamily. When the door was flung open and a pale, fiery man with red hair and a huge, furred overcoat swung himself, panting into the room. "'Sorry to bother you, Basil,' he gasped. I took a liberty, made an appointment here for a man, a client. In five minutes I beg your pardon, sir,' and he gave me a bow of apology. Basil smiled at me. "'You didn't know,' he said, that I had a practical brother. This is Rupert Grant, Esquire, who can and does all there is to be done. Just as I was a failure at one thing, he is a success at everything. I remember him as a journalist, a house agent, a naturalist, an inventor, a publisher, a schoolmaster. What are you now, Rupert?' "'I am, and have been for some time,' said Rupert, with some dignity, a private detective. And there's my client.' A loud rap at the door had cut him short, and on permission being given, the door was thrown sharply open, and a stout dapper man walked swiftly into the room, set his silk hat with a clap on the table, and said, Good evening, gentlemen, with a stress on the last syllable, which somehow marked him out as a martinet, military, and social. He had a large head, streaked with black and grey, and an abrupt black moustache, which gave him a look of fierceness, which was contradicted by his sad, sea-blue eyes. "'Bazzle,' immediately said to me, let us come into the next room, gully,' and was moving towards the door, but the stranger said, not at all, friends remain, assistant possibly. The moment I heard him speak, I remembered who he was, a certain Major Brown I had met years before, in Basil's society. I had forgotten altogether the black, dandified figure and the large, solemn head, but I remembered the peculiar speech, which consisted of only saying about a quarter of each sentence, and that sharply, like the crack of a gun. I do not know, it may have come from giving orders to troops. Major Brown was a VC, and an able and distinguished soldier, but he was anything but a warlike person. Like many among the iron men who recovered British India, he was a man with the natural beliefs and tastes of an old maid. In his dress he was dapper, and yet demure. In his habits he was precise to the point of the exact adjustment of a teacup. One enthusiasm he had, which was of the nature of a religion, the cultivation of pansies. And when he talked about his collection, his blue eyes glittered like a child's at a new toy, the eyes that had remained untroubled when the troops were roaring victory around Roberts at Kandahar. Well, Major, said Rupert Grant, with a loud heartiness, flinging himself into a chair, what is the matter with you? Yellow pansies, call-seller, PG Northover, said the Major, with righteous indignation. We glanced at each other with inquisitiveness. Basil, who had his eyes shot in his abstracted way, said simply, I beg your pardon. Fact is, street, you know, man, pansies, on wall, death to me, something preposterous. We shook our heads gently. Bit by bit, and mainly by the seemingly sleepy assistance of Basil Grant, we pieced together the Major's fragmentary but excited narration. It would be infamous to submit the reader to what we endured. Therefore I will tell the story of Major Brown in my own words. But the reader must imagine the scene. The eyes of Basil closed as in a trance after his habit, and the eyes of Rupert and myself getting rounder and rounder as we listened to one of the most astounding stories in the world, from the lips of the little man in black, sitting bolt upright in his chair and talking like a telegram. Major Brown was, as I have said, a successful soldier, but by no means an enthusiastic one. So far from regretting his retirement on half-pay, it was with delight that he took a small, neat villa, very like a doll's house, and devoted the rest of his life to pansies and weak tea. The thought that battles were over when he had once hung up his sword in the little front hall, along with two patent stew-pots and a bad water-colour, and betaken himself instead to wielding the rake in his little sunlit garden, was to him, like having come into a harbour in heaven. He was dotch-like and precise in his taste in gardening, and had perhaps some tendency to drill his flowers like soldiers. He was one of those men who are capable of putting four umbrellas in the stand rather than three, so that two may lean one way and two another. He saw life like a pattern in a freehand drawing-book, and assuredly he would not have believed, or even understood, any one who had told him that within a few yards of his brick paradise he was destined to be caught in a whirlpool of incredible adventure, such as he had never seen or dreamed of in the horrible jungle or the heat of battle. One certain bright and windy afternoon, the Major, attired in his usual faultless manner, had set out for his usual constitutional. In crossing from one great residential thoroughfare to another, he happened to pass along one of those aimless-looking lanes, which lie along the back-garden walls of a row of mansions, and which in their empty and discoloured appearance give one an odd sensation, as of being behind the scenes of a theatre. But mean and soul-key as the scene might be in the eyes of most of us, it was not altogether so in the majors. For along the coarse gravel footway was coming a thing which was to him what the passing of a religious procession is to a devout person. A large, heavy man with fish-blue eyes and a ring of irradiating red beard was pushing before him a barrow, which was ablaze with incomparable flowers. There were splendid specimens of almost every order, but the Major's own favourite pansies predominated. The Major stopped and fell into conversation and then into bargaining. He treated the man after the manner of collectors and other madmen. That is to say, he carefully, and with a sort of anguish, selected the best roots from the less excellent, praised some, disparaged others, made a subtle scale ranging from a thrilling worth and rarity to a degraded insignificance, and then bought them all. The man was just pushing off his barrow when he stopped and came close to the Major. I'll tell you what, sir," he said, if you're interested in them things, you just get on that wall. On the wall, cried the scandalised Major, whose conventional soul quailed within him at the thought of such fantastic trespass, finally show of pansies in England in that there garden, sir. It's the tempter. I'll help you up, sir. How it happened, no one will ever know, but that positive enthusiasm of the Major's life triumphed over all its negative traditions, and with an easy leap and swing that showed that he was in no need of physical assistance, he stood on the wall at the end of the strange garden. The second after, the flapping of the frockcoats at his knees made him feel inexpressibly a fool. But the next instant all such trifling sentiments were swallowed up by the most appalling shock of surprise the old soldier had ever felt in all his bold and wandering existence. His eyes fell upon the garden, and there, across a large bed in the centre of the lawn, was a vast pattern of pansies. They were splendid flowers, but for once it was not their horticultural aspects that Major Brown beheld, for the pansies were arranged in gigantic capital letters, so as to form the sentence, death to Major Brown. A kindly-looking old man with white whiskers was watering them. Brown looked sharply back at the road behind him, the man with the barrow had suddenly vanished. Then he looked again at the lawn with its incredible inscription. Another man might have thought that he'd gone mad, but Brown did not. When romantic ladies gushed over his VC and his military exploits he sometimes felt himself to be a painfully prosaic person, but by the same token he knew he was incurably sane. Another man, again, might have thought himself a victim of a passing practical joke, but Brown could not easily believe this. He knew from his own quaint learning that the garden arrangement was an elaborate and expensive one. He thought it extravagantly improbable that any one would pour out money like water for a joke against him. Having no explanation whatever to offer, he admitted the fact to himself, like a clear-headed man, and waited, as he would have done in the presence of a man with six legs. At this moment the stout old man with white whiskers looked up, and the watering can fell from his hand, shooting a swirl of water down the gravel path. "'Who on earth are you?' he gasped, trembling violently. "'I am Major Brown,' said that individual, who was always cool in the hour of action. The old man gaped helplessly like some monstrous fish. At last he stammered wildly. "'Come down, come down here,' said the Major, and lighted at a bound on the grass beside him, without disarranging his silk hat. The old man turned his broad back, and set off at a sort of waddling run towards the house, followed with swift steps by the Major. His guide led him through the back passages of a gloomy but gorgeously appointed house, until they reached the door of the front room. Then the old man turned with a face of apoplectic terror, dimly showing in the twilight. "'For heaven's sake,' he said, "'don't mention jackals.'" Then he threw open the door, releasing a burst of red-lamp light, and ran downstairs with a clatter. The Major stepped into a rich glowing room, full of red copper, and peacock and purple hangings, hat in hand. He had the finest manners in the world, and though mystified, was not in the least embarrassed to see that the only occupant was a lady, sitting by the window, looking out. "'Madam,' he said, bowing simply, "'I am Major Brown.'" "'Sit down,' said the lady, but she did not turn her head. She was a graceful, unclad figure, with fiery red hair, and a flavour of Bedford Park. "'You have come,' I suppose,' she said mournfully, "'to tax me about the hateful title-deeds.' "'I have come, Madam,' he said, "'to know what is the matter, to know why my name is written across your garden, not amicably either.'" He spoke grimly, for the thing had hit him. It is impossible to describe the effect produced on the mind by that quiet and sunny garden scene, the frame for a stunning and brutal personality. The evening air was still, and the grass was golden in the place where the little flowers he studied cried to heaven for his blood. "'You must know I must not turn round,' said the lady. "'Every afternoon till the stroke of six I must keep my face turned to the street.'" Some queer and unusual inspiration made the prosaic soldier resolute to accept these outrageous riddles without surprise. "'It is almost six,' he said, and even as he spoke the barbaric copper clock upon the wall clanged the first stroke of the hour. At the sixth the lady sprang up and turned on the mage, or one of the queerest and yet most attractive faces he had ever seen in his life, open and yet tantalising, the face of an elf. "'That makes the third year I have waited,' she cried. "'This is an anniversary. The waiting almost makes one wish the frightful thing would happen once and for all.'" And even as she spoke, a sudden rending cry broke the stillness. From low down on the pavement of the dim street, it was already twilight, a voice cried out with a raucous and merciless distinctness. "'Major Brown, Major Brown, where does the jackal dwell?' Brown was decisive and silent in action. He strode to the front door and looked out. There was no sign of life in the blue gloaming of the street, where one or two lamps were beginning to light their lemon sparks. On returning he found the lady in green trembling. "'It is the end,' she cried with shaking lips. "'It may be death for both of us, whenever.'" But even as she spoke, her speech was cloven by another horse proclamation from the dark street, again horribly articulate. "'Major Brown, Major Brown, how did the jackal die?' Brown dashed out of the door and down the steps, but again he was frustrated. There was no figure in sight, and the street was far too long and empty for the shouters of runaway. Even the rational Major was a little shaken as he returned in a certain time to the drawing-room. Scares he had he done so, then the terrific voice came. "'Major Brown, Major Brown, where did—' Brown was in the street almost at a bound, and he was in time, in time to see something which at first glance froze the blood. The cries appeared to come from a decapitated head resting on the pavement. The next moment the pale Major understood. It was the head of a man thrust through the call-hole in the street. The next moment again it had vanished, and Major Brown turned to the lady. "'Where's your call-seller?' he said, and stepped out into the passage. She looked at him with wild grey eyes. "'You will not go down,' she cried alone, into the dark hall with that beast.' "'Is this the way?' replied Brown, and descended the kitchen stairs, three at a time. He flung open the door of a black cavity and stepped in, feeling in his pocket for matches. As his right hand was thus occupied a pair of great, slimy hands came out of the darkness, hands clearly belonging to a man of gigantic stature, and seized him by the back of the head. They forced him down, down in the suffocating darkness, a brutal image of destiny. But the Major's head, though upside down, was perfectly clear and intellectual. He gave quietly under the pressure, until he had slid down almost to his hands and knees. Then, finding the knees of the invisible monster within a foot of him, he simply put out one of his long bony and skillful hands, and gripping the leg by a muscle, pulled it off the ground and laid the huge living man with a crash along the floor. He strove to rise, but Brown was on top like a cat. They rolled over and over. Big as the man was, he had evidently now no desire but to escape. He made sprawls hither and thither to get past the Major to the door, but that tenacious person had him hard by the coat collar and hung with the other hand to a beam. At length there came a strain in holding back this human ball, a strain under which Brown expected his hand to rend and part from the arm, but something else rent and parted, and the dim fat figure of the giant vanished out of the cellar, leaving the torn coat in the Major's hand, the only fruit of his adventure, and the only clue to the mystery. For when he went up and out at the front door, the lady, the rich hangings, and the whole equipment of the house had disappeared. It had only bare boards and whitewashed walls. The lady was in the conspiracy, of course, said Rupert nodding. Major Brown turned brick red. I beg your pardon, he said. I think not. Rupert raised his eyebrows and looked at him for a moment, but said nothing. When next he spoke he asked, Was there anything in the pockets of the coat? There was seven-pence-hape-nin'-coppers and a thriftly bit, said the Major carefully. There was a cigarette-holder, a piece of string, and this letter. And he laid it on the table. It ran as follows. Dear Mr. Plover, I am annoyed to hear that some delay has occurred in the arrangement's re-major Brown. Please see that he is attacked as per arrangement's to-morrow. The call-seller, of course. Yours faithfully, P. G. Northover. Rupert Grant was leaning forward, listening, with hawk-like eyes. He cut in. Is it dated from anywhere? No. Oh, yes, replied Brown, glancing upon the paper. Fourteen tanners caught North. Rupert sprang up and struck his hands together. Then why are we hanging here? Let's get along. Basil, lend me your revolver. Basil was staring into the embers like a man in a trance, and it was some time before he answered, I don't think you'll need it. Perhaps not, said Rupert, getting his fur coat. One never knows. But going down a dark court to see criminals. Do you think they are criminals? asked his brother. Rupert laughed stoutly, giving orders to a subordinate to strangle a harmless stranger in a call-seller may strike you as a very blameless experiment, but do you think they wanted to strangle the major? asked Basil, in the same distant but monotonous voice. My dear fellow, you've been asleep. Look at the letter. I am looking at the letter, said the mad judge calmly, though as a matter of fact he was looking at the fire. I don't think it's the sort of letter one criminal would write to another. My dear boy, you are glorious, cried Rupert, turning round with laughter in his blue bright eyes. Your methods amaze me. Why, there is the letter. It is written, and it does give orders for a crime. You might as well say that Nelson's column was not at all the sort of thing that was likely to be set up in Trafalgar Square. Basil Grant shook all over with a sort of silent laughter, but did not otherwise move. That's rather good, he said, but of course, logic like that's not what it's really wanted. It's a question of spiritual atmosphere. It's not a criminal letter. It is. It's a matter of fact, cried the other, in an agony of reasonableness. Facts, murmured Basil, like one mentioning some strange far-off animals. How facts obscure the truth. I may be silly, even fact I'm off my head, but I never could believe in that man. What's his name in those capital stories? Sherlock Holmes. Every detail points to something, certainly, but generally to the wrong thing. Facts point in all directions, it seems to me, like the thousands of twigs on a tree. It's only the life of the tree that has unity and goes up. Only the green blood that springs like a fountain at the stars. But what the due cells can the letter be but criminal? We have eternity to stretch our legs in, replied the mystic. It can be an infinity of things. I haven't seen any of them. I've only seen the letter. I look at that and say it's not criminal. Then what's the origin of it? I haven't the vaguest idea. Then why don't you accept the ordinary explanation? Basil continued for a little to glare at the coals, and seemed collecting his thoughts in a humble and even painful way. Then he said, Suppose you went out into the moonlight. Suppose you passed through silent, silvery streets and squares, until you came into an open and deserted space, set with a few monuments, and you beheld one dressed as a ballet girl dancing in the Argent glimmer. And suppose you looked, and saw it was a man disguised. And suppose you looked again, and saw it was Lord Kitchener. What would you think? He paused a moment and went on. You could not adopt the ordinary explanation. The ordinary explanation of putting on singular clothes is that you look nice in them. You would not think that Lord Kitchener dressed up like a ballet girl, out of ordinary personal vanity. You would think it much more likely that he inherited a dancing madness from a great grandmother, or had been hypnotized as a seance, or threatened by a secret society with death if he refused the ordeal. With Baden Powell, say, it might be a bet, but not with Kitchener. I should know all that, because in my public days I knew him quite well. So I know that letter quite well, and criminals quite well. It's not a criminal's letter. It's all atmosphere's. And he closed his eyes, and passed his hand over his forehead. Rupert and the Major were regarding him with a mixture of respect and pity. The former said, well, I'm going anyhow, and shall continue to think, until your spiritual mystery turns up, that a man who sends a note recommending a crime, that is actually a crime that is actually carried out, at least tentatively, is in all probability a little casual in his moral tastes. Can I have that revolver? Certainly, said Basil, getting up, but I'm coming with you. And he flung an old cape or cloak around him, and took a sword-stick from the corner. You, said Rupert, with some surprise, you scarcely ever leave your hole to look at anything on the face of the earth. Basil fitted on a formidable old white hat. I scarcely ever, he said, with an unconscious and colossal arrogance, hear of anything on the face of the earth that I do not understand at once without going to see it. And he led the way out into the purple night. We four swung along the flaring Lambeth streets across Westminster Bridge, and along the embankment in the direction of that part of Fleet Street which contained Tanner's Court. The erect black figure of Major Brown, seen from behind, was a quaint contrast to the hound-like stoop and flapping mantle of young Rupert Grant, who adopted, with childlike delight, all the dramatic poses of the detective of fiction. The finest among his fine qualities was his boyish appetite for the colour and poetry of London. Basil, who walked behind, with his face turned blindly to the stars, had the look of a somnambulist. Rupert paused at the corner of Tanner's Court, with a quiver of delight at danger, and gripped Basil's revolver in his great coat pocket. Shall we go in now? he asked. Not get police? asked Major, glancing sharply up and down the street. I'm not sure, answered Rupert, knitting his brows. Of course it's quite clear the thing's all crooked, but there are three of us, and— I shouldn't get the police? said Basil, in a queer voice. Rupert glanced at him and stared hard. Basil, he said, you're trembling. What's the matter? Are you afraid? Cold, perhaps, said the Major, eyeing him. There was no doubt that he was shaking. At last, after a few moments' scrutiny, Rupert broke into a curse. You're laughing, he cried. I know that confounded, silent, shaky laugh of yours. What the deuce is the amusement, Basil? Here we are, all three of us, within a yard of a den of Ruffians. But I shouldn't call the police, said Basil. We four heroes are quite equal to a host, and he continued to quake with his mysterious mirth. Rupert turned with impatience, and strode swiftly down the court, the rest of us following. When he reached the door of Number Fourteen, he turned abruptly, the revolver glittering in his hand. Stand close, he said, in the voice of a commander. The scoundrel may be attempting an escape at this moment. We must fling open the door and rush in. The four of us cowered instantly under the archway, rigid, except for the old judge and his convulsion of merriment. Now, hissed Rupert Grant, turning his pale face and burning eyes, suddenly over his shoulder, when I say four, follow me with a rush. If I say hold him, pin the fellows down, whoever they are. If I say stop, stop. I shall say that if there are more than three. If they attack as I shall empty my revolver on them. Basil, have your sword stick ready. Now, one, two, three, four. With the sound of the word, the door burst open, and we all fell into the room like an invasion, only to stop dead. The room, which was an ordinary and neatly appointed office, appeared at the first glance to be empty. But on the second and more careful glance, we saw seated behind a very large desk with pigeon-halls and drawers of bewildering multiplicity, a small man, with a black waxed moustache, and the air of a very average clerk, writing hard. He looked up as we came to a standstill. Did you knock? he asked pleasantly. I'm sorry if I did not hear. What can I do for you? There was a doubtful pause, and then, by general consent, the Major himself, the victim of the outrage, stepped forward. The letter was in his hand, and he looked unusually grim. Is your name P.G. Northover? he asked. That is my name, replied the other, smiling. I think, said the Major, with an increase in the dark glow of his face, that this letter was written by you. And with a loud clap, he struck open the letter on the desk with his clenched fist. The man called Northover, looked at it with unaffected interest, and merely nodded. Well, sir, said the Major, breathing hard, what about that? What about it, precisely, said the man with the moustache? I am Major Brown, said the gentleman sternly. Northover bowed. Pleased to meet you, sir. What have you to say to me? Say! cried the Major, losing a sudden tempest. Why, I want this confounded thing settled. I want— Certainly, sir, said Northover, jumping up with a slight elevation of his eyebrows. Will you take a chair for a moment? And he pressed an electric bell just above him, which thrilled and tinkled in a room beyond. The Major put his hand on the back of the chair offered him, but stood chafing and beating the floor with his polished boot. The next moment, an inner-glass door was opened, and a fair, weedy young man in a frock coat entered from within. Mr. Hobson, said Northover, this is Major Brown. Will you please finish that thing for him I gave you this morning and bring it in? Yes, sir, said Mr. Hobson, and vanished like lightning. You will excuse me, gentlemen, said the egregious Northover with his radiant smile. If I continue to work until Mr. Hobson is ready, I have some books that must be cleared up before I get away on my holiday tomorrow. But we all like a whiff of the country, don't we? Ha-ha! the criminal took up his pen with a child-like laugh, and a silence ensued. A placid and busy silence on the part of Mr. P. G. Northover, a raging silence on the part of everybody else. At length the scratching of Northover's pen in the stillness was mingled by a knock at the door, almost simultaneous with the turning of the handle, and Mr. Hobson came in again with the same silent rapidity, placed a paper before his principal, and disappeared again. The man at the desk pulled and twisted his spiky moustache for a few moments, as he ran his eye up and down the paper presented to him. He took up his pen with a slight, instantaneous frown, and altered something muttering careless. And then he read it again with the same impenetrable reflectiveness, and finally handed it to the frantic brown, whose hand was beating the devil's tattoo on the back of the chair. I think you'll find that all right, Major, he said briefly. The Major looked at it, whether he found it all right or not will appear later, but he found it like this. Major Brown to P. G. Northover, Pounds, Shilling's Pence. January 1st to account rendered five hundred and sixty pounds. May 9th to potting and embedding two hundred pans is two hundred pounds. To cost of trolley with flowers one hundred and fifty pounds. To hiring of man with trolley fifty pounds. To hire of house and garden for one day one hundred pounds. To furnishing of room in peacock curtains, copper ornaments, etc., three hundred pounds. To salary of Miss Jameson one hundred pounds. To salary of Mr. Plover one hundred pounds. Total one thousand four hundred and sixty pounds. A remittance will oblige. What, said Brown, after a dead pause and with eyes that seemed slowly rising out of his head, what in heaven's name is this? What is it? Repeated Northover, cocking his eyebrow with amusement. It's your account, of course. My account! The Major's ideas appeared to be in a vague stampede. My account! And what have I got to do with it? Well, said Northover, laughing outright, naturally I prefer you to pay it. The Major's hand was still resting on the back of the chair as the words came. He scarcely stirred otherwise, but he lifted the chair bodily into the air with one hand and hurled it at Northover's head. The legs crashed against the desk so that Northover only got a blow on the elbow as he sprang up with clenched fists, only to be seized by the united rush of the rest of us. The chair had fallen clattering on the empty floor. Let me go, you scamps, he shouted. Let me stand still, cried Rupert authoritatively. Major Brown's action is excusable. The abominable crime you have attempted. A customer has a perfect right, said Northover hotly, to question and allege it overcharge, but confound it all not to throw furniture. What in God's name do you mean by your customers and overcharges? shrieked Major Brown, whose keen feminine nature, steady in pain or danger, became almost hysterical in the presence of a long and exasperating mystery. Who are you? I have never seen you or your insolent tomfool bills. I know one of your cursed brutes tried to choke me. Mad, said Northover, gazing blankly all around, all of them mad. I didn't know they'd travelled in quartets. Enough of this prevarication, said Rupert. Your crimes are discovered. A policeman is stationed at the corner of the court, though only a private detective myself. I will take the responsibility of telling you that anything you say. Mad, repeated Northover with a weary air. And at this moment, for the first time, they're stroking among them the strange, sleepy voice of Basil Grant. Major Brown, he said, may I ask you a question? The Major turned his head with an increased bewilderment. You, he cried, certainly, Mr. Grant. Can you tell me, said the mystic, with sunken head and lowering brow, as he traced a pattern in the dust with his sword-stick, can you tell me what was the name of the man who lived in your house before you? The unhappy Major was only faintly more disturbed by this last and futile irrelevancy, and he answered vaguely, yes, I think so, a man named Gurney something, a name with a hyphen. Gurney Brown, that was it. And when did the house change hands? said Basil, looking up sharply. His strange eyes were burning brilliantly. I came in last month, said the Major. And at the mere word, the criminal Northover suddenly fell into his great office chair and shouted with a volleying laughter, oh, it's too perfect, it's too exquisite, he gasped, beating the arms with his fists. He was laughing deafeningly. Basil Grant was laughing voicelessly, and the rest of us only felt that our heads were like weathercocks in a whirlwind. Confound it, Basil, said Rupert Stamping. If you don't want me to go mad and blow your metaphysical brains out, tell me what all this means. Northover rose. Permit me, sir, to explain, he said. And first of all, permit me to apologise to you, Major Brown, for a most abominable and unpardonable blunder which has caused you menace and inconvenience, in which, if you will allow me to say so, you have behaved with astonishing courage and dignity. Of course, you need not trouble about the bill, we will stand the loss. And tearing the paper across, he flung the halves into the waste paper basket and bowed. Poor Brown's face was still a picture of distraction. But I don't even begin to understand, he cried, what bill, what blunder, what loss? Mr. P. G. Northover advanced in the centre of the room, thoughtfully, and with a great deal of unconscious dignity. On closer consideration there were apparent about him other things beside a screwed moustache, especially a lean, sallow face, hawk-like, and not without a care-worn intelligence. Then he looked up abruptly. Do you know where you are, Major? he said. God knows I don't, said the warrior, with fervour. You are standing, replied Northover, in the office of the Adventure and Romance Agency Limited. And what's that? blankly inquired Brown. The man of business leaned over the back of the chair and fixed his dark eyes on the other's face. Major said he, did you ever, as you walked along the empty street, upon some idle afternoon, feel the utter hunger for something to happen, something, in the splendid words of Walt Whitman, something pernicious and dread, something far removed from a puny and pious life, something unproved, something in a trance, something loosed from its anchorage and driving free. Did you ever feel that? Certainly not, said the Major shortly. Then I must explain with more elaboration, said Mr. Northover, with a sigh. The Adventure and Romance Society has been started to meet a great modern desire. On every side, in conversation and in literature, we hear of the desire for a larger theatre of events, for something to weigh layers and lead as splendidly astray. Now the man who feels this desire for a varied life pays a yearly or a quarterly sum to the Adventure and Romance Agency. In return, the Adventure and Romance Agency undertakes to surround him with startling and weird events. As a man is leaving his front door, an excited sweep approaches him and assures him of a plot against his life. He gets into a cab and is driven to an opium den. He receives a mysterious telegram, or a dramatic visit, and is immediately in a vortex of incidents. A very picturesque and moving story is first written by one of the staff of distinguished novelists who are at present hard at work in the adjoining room. Yours, Major Brown, designed by our Mr. Grigsby, I consider particularly forcible and pointed. It is almost a pity that you did not see the end of it. I need scarcely explain further, the monstrous mistake. Your predecessor in your present house, Mr. Gurney Brown, was a subscriber to our agency, and our foolish clerks, ignoring a like the dignity of the hyphen and the glory of military rank, positively imagined that Major Brown and Mr. Gurney Brown were the same person. Thus you were suddenly hurled into the middle of another man's story. How on earth does the thing work, said Rupert Grant, with bright and fascinated eyes? We believe we are doing a noble work, said Northover warmly. It has continually struck us that there is no element in modern life that is more lamentable than the fact that the modern man has to seek all artistic existence in a sedentary state. If he wishes to float into fairyland he reads a book. If he wishes to dash into the thick of battle he reads a book. If he wishes to soar into heaven he reads a book. If he wishes to slide down the bannisters he reads a book. We give him these visions, but we give him exercise at the same time, the necessity of leaping from wall to wall, a fighting strange gentleman, of running down long streets from pursuers, all healthy and pleasant exercise. We give him a glimpse of that great morning world of Robin Hood or the Night Serent, when one great game was played under the splendid sky. We give him back his childhood, that godlike time when we can act stories, be our own heroes, and at the same instant, dance and dream. Basil gazed at him curiously. The most singular psychological discovery had been reserved to the end, for as the little businessman ceased speaking he had the blazing eyes of a fanatic. Major Brown received the explanation, with complete simplicity and good humour. Of course, awfully dense, sir, he said, no doubt at all, the scheme excellent, but I don't think, he paused for a moment and looked dreamily out of the window, I don't think you will find me in it. Somehow when one's seen, seen the thing itself, you know, blood and men screaming, one feels about having a little house and a little hobby. In the Bible, you know, there remaineth a rest. Northover bowed, then after a pause, he said, gentlemen, may I offer you my card, if any of the rest of you desire, at any time to communicate with me, despite Major Brown's view of the matter. I should be obliged for your card, sir, said the Major, in his abrupt but curtest voice, pay for chair. The agent of romance and adventure handed his card, laughing. It ran, PG Northover, BA, CQT, Adventure and Romance Agency, 14 Tanner's Court, Fleet Street. What on earth is CQT? asked Rupert Grant, looking over the Major's shoulder. Don't you know, return Northover, haven't you ever heard of the Club of Queer Trades? There seems to be a confounded lot of funny things we haven't heard of, said the Major reflectively. What's this one? The Club of Queer Trades is a society consisting exclusively of people who have invented some new and curious way of making money. I was one of the earliest members. You deserve to be, said Basil, taking up his great white hat with a smile and speaking for the first time that evening. When they passed out, the adventure and romance agent wore a queer smile as he trod down the fire and locked up his desk. A fine chap that Major, when one hasn't a touch of the poet, one stands some chance of being a poem. But to think of such a clockwork little creature of all people getting into the nets of one of Grigsby's tales, and he laughed out loud in the silence. Just as the laugh echoed away, there came a sharp knock at the door. An owlish head with dark moustaches was thrust in, with deprecating and somewhat absurd inquiry. What, back again, Major? Cried Northover in surprise. What can I do for you? The Major shuffled feverishly into the room. It's horribly absurd, he said. Something must have got started in me that I never knew before, and upon my soul I feel the most desperate desire to know the end of it all. The end of it all? Yes, said the Major, jackals and the title deeds and death to the Major. The agent's face grew grave, but his eyes were amused. I'm terribly sorry, Major, said he, but what you ask is impossible. I don't know anyone I would sooner oblige than you, but the rules of the agency are strict. The adventures are confidential. You are an outsider. I am not allowed to let you know an inch more than I can help. I do hope you understand. There is no one, said Brown, who understands discipline better than I do. Thank you very much. Good night. And the little man withdrew for the last time. He married Miss Jamison, the lady with the red hair and the green garments. She was an actress employed, with many others, by the romance agency, and her marriage with the prim old veteran caused some stir in her languid and intellectualised set. She always replied very quietly that she had met scores of men who acted splendidly in the charades provided for them by Northover, but that she had only met one man who went down into a coal cellar when he really thought it contained a murderer. The Major and she are living as happily as birds in an absurd villa. And the former has taken to smoking. Otherwise he is unchanged, except perhaps there are moments when, alert and full of feminine unselfishness as the Major is by nature, he falls into a trance of abstraction. Then his wife recognises with a concealed smile, by the blind look in his blue eyes, that he is wondering what were the title deeds, and why he was not allowed to mention jackals. But, like so many old soldiers, Brown is religious, and believes that he will realise the rest of those purple adventures in a better world. End of Part 1 The Tremendous Adventures of Major Brown Part 2 Of The Club of Queer Trades This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Club of Queer Trades by G.K. Chesterton Part 2 The Painful Fall of a Great Reputation Basil Grant and I were talking one day in what is perhaps the most perfect place for talking on earth, the top of a tolerably deserted tram-car. To talk on the top of a hill is superb, but to talk on the top of a flying hill is a fairy tale. The vast blank space of North London was flying by. The very pace gave us a sense of its immensity and its meanness. It was, as it were, a base infinitude, a squalid eternity, and we felt the real horror of the poor parts of London, the horror that is so totally missed and misrepresented by the sensational novelists who depict it as being a matter of narrow streets, filthy houses, criminals and maniacs, and dens of vice. In a narrow street, in a den of vice, you do not expect civilization, you do not expect order, but the horror of this was the fact that there was civilization, that there was order, but that civilization only showed its morbidity and order, only its monotony. No one would say, in going through a criminal slum, I see no statues, I notice no cathedrals. But here there were public buildings, only they were mostly lunatic asylums. Here there were statues, only they were mostly statues of railway engineers and philanthropists, two dingy classes of men united by their common contempt for the people. Here there were churches, only they were the churches of dim and erratic sects, agapemonites or ervingites. Here, above all, there were broad roads and vast crossings and tramway lines and hospitals and all the real marks of civilization, but though one never knew, in one sense, what one would see next, there was one thing we knew we should not see, anything really great, central of the first class, anything that humanity had adored. And with revulsion indescribable, our emotions returned, I think, to those really close and crooked entries, to those really mean streets, to those genuine slums which lie round the Thames and the city, in which nevertheless a real possibility remains that at any chance corner the great cross of the great Cathedral of Wren may strike down the street like a thunderbolt. But you must always remember also, said Grant to me, in his heavy, abstracted way, when I had urged this view, that the very vileness of the life of those ordered plebeian places bears witness to the victory of the human soul. I agree with you, I agree that they have to live in something worse than barbarism, they have to live in a fourth-rate civilization. But yet I am practically certain that the majority of people here are good people, and being good is an adventure far more violent and daring than sailing round the world. Besides, go on, I said. No answer came. Go on, I said, looking up. The big blue eyes of Basil Grant were standing out of his head, and he was paying no attention to me. He was staring over the side of the tram. What is the matter, I asked, peering over also. It is very odd, said Grant, at last grimly, that I should have been caught out like this at the very moment of my optimism. I said all these people were good, and there is the wickedest man in England. Where, I asked, leaning over further, where? Oh, I was right enough, he went on, in that strange, continuous, and sleepy tone which always angered his heroes at acute moments. I was right enough when I said all these people were good, they are heroes, they are saints. Now and then they may perhaps steal a spoon or two, they may beat a wife or two with the poker, but they are saints all the same. They are angels, they are robed in white, they are clad with wings and halos, at any rate, compared to that man. Which man, I cried again, and then my eye caught the figure at which Basil's bull's eyes were glaring. He was a slim, smooth person, passing very quickly among the quickly passing crowd, but though there was nothing about him sufficient to attract a startled notice, there was quite enough to demand a curious consideration when once that notice was attracted. He wore a black top hat, but there was enough in it of those strange curves whereby the decadent artist of the eighties tried to turn the top hat into something as rhythmic as an Etruscan vase. His hair, which was largely grey, was curled with the instinct of one who appreciated the gradual beauty of grey and silver. The rest of his face was oval, and I thought rather oriental. He had two black tufts of moustache. What has he done? I asked. I am not sure of the details, said Grant, but his besetting sin is a desire to intrigue to the disadvantage of others. Probably he has adopted some imposture or other to affect his plan. What plan? I asked. If you know all about him, why don't you tell me why he is the wickedest man in England? What is his name? Basil Grant stared at me for some moments. I think you've made a mistake in my meaning, he said. I don't know his name. I never saw him before in my life. Never saw him before, I cried, with a kind of anger. Then what in heaven's name do you mean by saying that he is the wickedest man in England? I meant what I said, said Basil Grant calmly. The moment I saw that man, I saw all these people stricken with a sudden and splendid innocence. I saw that while all ordinary poor men in the streets were being themselves, he was not being himself. I saw that all the men in these slums, cages, pickpockets, hooligans, are all in the deepest sense trying to be good, and I saw that that man was trying to be evil. But you never saw him before, I began. In God's name, look at his face, cried out Basil, in a voice that startled the driver. Look at the eyebrows. They mean that infernal pride which made Satan so proud that he sneered even at heaven when he was one of the first angels in it. Look at his moustaches, they are so grown as to insult humanity. In the name of the sacred heavens, look at his hair. In the name of God and the stars, look at his hat. I stirred uncomfortably. But, after all, I said, this is very fanciful, perfectly absurd. Look at the mere facts. You have never seen the man before. You oh, the mere facts, he cried out in a kind of despair, the mere facts. Do you really admit? Are you still so sunk in superstitions, so clinging to dim and prehistoric altars, that you believe in facts? Do you not trust an immediate impression? Well, an immediate impression maybe, I said, a little less practical than facts. Bosh, he said. On what else is the whole world run but immediate impressions? What is more practical? My friend, the philosophy of this world may be founded on facts. Its business is run on spiritual impressions and atmospheres. Why do you refuse or accept a clerk? Do you measure his skull? Do you read up his physiological state in a handbook? Do you go upon the facts at all? Not a scrap. You accept a clerk who may save your business. You refuse a clerk that may rob your till, entirely, upon those immediate mystical impressions under the pressure of which I pronounce, with a perfect sense of certainty and sincerity, that that man walking in that street beside us is a humbug and a villain of some kind. You always put things well, I said, but of course such things cannot immediately be put to the test. Basil sprang up straight and swayed with the swaying car. Let us get off and follow him, he said. I bet you five pounds it will turn out as I say. And with a scuttle, a jump and a run, we were off the car. The man with the curved silver hair and the curved eastern face walked along for some time, his long splendid frockcoat flying behind him. Then he swung sharply out of the great glaring road and disappeared down an ill-lit alley. We swung silently after him. This is an odd turning for a man of that kind to take, I said. A man of what kind? asked my friend. Well, I said, a man with that kind of expression and those boots. I thought it rather odd to tell the truth that he should be in this part of the world at all. Ah, yes, said Basil, and said no more. We tramped on, looking steadily in front of us. The elegant figure, like the figure of a black swan, was silhouetted suddenly against the glare of intermittent gas-light, and then swallowed again in night. The intervals between the lights were long, and a fog was thickening the whole city. Our pace, therefore, had become swift and mechanical between the lampposts. But Basil came to a standstill suddenly like a reigned horse. I stopped also. We had almost run into the man. A great part of the solid darkness in front of us was the darkness of his body. At first I thought he turned to face us, but though we were hardly a yard off he did not realise that we were there. He tapped four times on a very low and dirty door in the dark, crabbed street. A gleam of gas cut the darkness as it opened slowly. We listened intently, but the interview was short and simple and inexplicable as an interview could be. Our exquisite friend handed in what looked like a paper or a card, and said, at once, take a cab. A heavy, deep voice from inside said, Right you are. And with a click we were in the blackness again, and striding after the striding stranger through a labyrinth of London lanes, the lights just helping us. It was only five o'clock, but winter and the fog had made it like midnight. This is really an extraordinary walk for the patent leather boots, I repeated. I don't know, said Basil humbly. It leads to Barkley Square. As I tramped on, I strained my eyes through the dusky atmosphere and tried to make out the direction described. For some ten minutes I wandered and doubted. At the end of that I saw that my friend was right. We were coming to the great dreary spaces of fashionable London, more dreary one must admit, even than the dreary plebeian spaces. This is very extraordinary, said Basil Grant, as we turned into Barkley Square. What is extraordinary, I asked. I thought you said it was quite natural. I do not wonder, answered Basil, that he's walking through nasty streets. I do not wonder at his going to Barkley Square. But I do wonder at his going to the house of a very good man. What very good man, I asked with exasperation, the operation of time is a singular one, he said, with his imperturbable irrelevancy. It is not a true statement of the case to say that I have forgotten my career when I was a judge and a public man. I remember it all vividly. But it is like remembering some novel. But fifteen years ago I knew this square, as well as Lord Rosebury does, and a confounded long sight better than that man who is going up the steps of Old Beaumont's house. Who is Old Beaumont, I asked irritably. A perfectly good fellow, Lord Beaumont of Foxwood, don't you know his name? He is a man of transparent sincerity, a nobleman who does more work than a navvy, a socialist and anarchist. I don't know what. Anyhow, he's a philosopher and philanthropist. I admit he has the slight advantage of being, beyond all question, off his head. He has that real disadvantage which has arisen out of the modern worship of progress and novelty. And he thinks anything odd and new must be in advance. If you went to him and proposed to eat your grandmother, he would agree with you, so long as you put it on hygienic and public grounds, as a cheap alternative to cremation. So long as you progress fast enough, it seems a matter of indifference to him whether you are progressing to the stars or the devil. So his house is filled with an endless succession of literary and political fashions, men who wear long hair because it is romantic, men who wear short hair because it is medical, men who walk on their feet only to exercise their hands, and men who walk on their hands for fear of tiring their feet. But though the inhabitants of his salons are generally fools like himself, they are almost always, like himself, good men. I am really surprised to see a criminal enter there. My good fellow, I said firmly, striking my foot on the pavement. The truth of this affair is very simple. To use your own eloquent language, you have the slight disadvantage of being off your head. You see a total stranger in a public street. You choose to start certain theories about his eyebrows. You then treat him as a burglar because he enters an honest man's door. The thing is too monstrous. Admit that it is, Basil, and come home with me. Though these people are still having tea, yet with the distance we have to go, we shall be late for dinner. Basil's eyes were shining in the twilight, like lamps. I thought, he said, that I had outlived vanity. What do you want now, I cried. I want, he cried out, what a girl wants when she wears her new frock. I want what a boy wants when he goes in for a clanging match with a monitor. I want to show somebody what a fine fellow I am. I am as right about this man as I am about your having a hat on your head. You say it cannot be tested. I say it can. I will take you to see my old friend Beaumont. He's a delightful man to know. Do you really mean, I began. I will apologise, he said calmly, for I'm not being dressed for a call. And walking across the vast misty square, he walked up the dark stone steps and rang at the bell. A severe servant in black and white opened the door to us. On receiving my friend's name, his manner passed in a flash from astonishment to respect. We were ushered into the house very quickly, but not so quickly, but that our host, a white-haired man with a fiery face, came out quickly to meet us. My dear fellow, he cried, shaking Basil's hand again and again, I've not seen you for years. Have you been—he said rather wildly—have you been in the country? Not for all that time, answered Basil, smiling, I have long given up my official position, my dear Philip, and have been living in a deliberate retirement. I hope I do not come at an inopportune moment. An inopportune moment, cried the ardent gentleman, you come at the most opportune moment I could imagine. Do you know who is here? I do not, answered Grant, with gravity. Even as he spoke, a roar of laughter came from the inner room. Basil, said Lord Beaumont solemnly, I have wind-pawl here. And who is wind-pawl? Basil, cried the other, you must have been in the country, you must have been in the antipodes, you must have been on the moon. Who is wind-pawl? Who was Shakespeare? As to who Shakespeare was, answered my friend placidly, my views go no further than thinking that he was not bacon. More probably he was Mary Queen of Scots, but as to who wind-pawl is, and his speech was also cloven with a roar of laughter from within. Wind-pawl, cried Lord Beaumont, in a sort of ecstasy, haven't you heard of the great modern wit? My dear fellow, he has turned conversation. I do not say into an art, for that perhaps it always was, but into a great art, like the statuary of Michelangelo, an art of masterpieces. His repartees, my good friend, startle one like a man shot dead. They are final, they are. Again there came the hilarious roar from the room, and almost with the very noise of it, a big panting, apoplectic old gentleman, came out of the inner house, into the hall where we were standing. Now, my dear chap, began Lord Beaumont hastily, I tell you Beaumont, I will not stand it, exploded the large old gentleman, I won't be made game of by a topny literary adventurer like that, I won't be made a guy, I won't— Oh, come, come, said Beaumont feverishly, let me introduce you. This is Mr. Justice Grant, that is, Mr. Grant. Basil, I am sure you've heard of Sir Walter Chomley, who has not asked Grant and bowed to the worthy old Baronet, eyeing him with some curiosity. He was hot and heavy in his momentary anger, but even that could not conceal the noble, though opulent, outline of his face and body, the florid white hair, the Roman nose, the body, stalwart, though corpulent, the chin, aristocratic, though double. He was a magnificent courtly gentleman, so much of a gentleman that he could show an unquestionable weakness of anger, without altogether losing dignity, so much of a gentleman that even his faux pas were well bred. I am distressed beyond expression Beaumont, he said gruffly, to fail in respect to these gentlemen, and even more especially to fail in it in your house, but it is not you or they that are in any way concerned, but that flashy, half-caste jack-and-apes. At this moment a young man with a twist of red moustache and a somber air came out of the inner room. He also did not seem to be greatly enjoying the intellectual banquet within. I think you remember my friend and secretary, Mr. Drummond, said Lord Beaumont, turning to grant, even if you only remember him as a schoolboy. Perfectly, said the other. Mr. Drummond shook hands pleasantly and respectfully, but the cloud was still on his brow. Turning to Sir Walter Chomley, he said, I was sent by Lady Beaumont to express her hope that you were not going yet, Sir Walter. She said she has scarcely seen anything of you. The old gentleman still red in the face had a temporary internal struggle. Then his good manners triumphed, and with a gesture of obeisance and a vague utterance of, if Lady Beaumont, a lady of course, he followed the young man back into the salon. He had scarcely been deposited there half a minute before another peel of laughter told that he had, in all probability, been scored off again. Of course I can excuse dear old Chomley, said Beaumont, as he helped us off with our coats. He has not the modern mind. What is the modern mind? asked Grant. Oh, it's enlightened, you know, and progressive, and faces the facts of life seriously. At this moment another roar of laughter came from within. I only ask, said Basil, because of the last two friends of yours who had the modern mind. One thought it wrong to eat fishes, and the other thought it right to eat men. I beg your pardon, this way if I remember right. Do you know, said Lord Beaumont, with the sort of feverish entertainment as he trotted after us towards the interior, I can never make out which side you're on. Sometimes you seem so liberal, and sometimes so reactionary. Are you a modern basil? No, said Basil, loudly and cheerfully, as he entered the crowded drawing-room. This caused a slight diversion, and some eyes were turned away from our slim friend with the oriental face for the first time that afternoon. Two people, however, still looked at him. One was the daughter of the house, Muriel Beaumont, who gazed at him with great violet eyes and with the intense and awful thirst of the female upper class for verbal amusement and stimulus. The other was Sir Walter Chomley, who looked at him with a still and sullen but unmistakable desire to throw him out of the window. He sat there, coiled rather than seated on the easy chair. Everything from the curves of his smooth limbs to the coils of his silvered hair suggested the circles of a serpent, more than the straight limbs of a man. The unmistakable, splendid serpentine gentleman who had been walking in North London, his eyes shining with repeated victory. What I can't understand, Mr. Wimpole, said Muriel Beaumont eagerly, is how you can try to treat all this so easily. You say things quite philosophical and yet so wildly funny. If I thought of such things, I'm sure I should laugh outright when the thought first came. I agree with Miss Beaumont, said Sir Walter, suddenly exploding with indignation. If I had thought of anything so futile, I should find it difficult to keep my countenance. Difficult to keep your countenance, cried Mr. Wimpole, with an air of alarm. Oh, do keep your countenance, keep it in the British Museum. Everyone laughed up roriously, as they always do at an already admitted readiness. And Sir Walter, turning suddenly purple, shouted out, Do you know who you are talking to with your confounded Tom Fowleries? I never talk Tom Fowleries, said the other, without first knowing my audience. Grant walked across the room and tapped the red moustache secretary on the shoulder. The gentleman was leaning against the wall, regarding the whole scene with a great deal of gloom. But I fancied with very particular gloom, when his eyes fell on the young lady of the house, rapturously listening to Wimpole. May I have a word with you outside, Drummond? asked Grant. It's about business. Lady Beaumont will excuse us. I followed my friend, at his own request, greatly wandering to this strange external interview. We passed abruptly into a kind of side room out of the hall. Drummond, said Basil sharply, there are a great many good people, and a great many sane people here this afternoon. Unfortunately, by a kind of coincidence, all the good people are mad, and all the sane people are wicked. You are the only person I know of here, who is honest and has also some common sense. What do you make of Wimpole? Mr. Secretary Drummond had a pale face and red hair. But at this his face became suddenly as red as his moustache. I am not a fair judge of him, he said. Why not, asked Grant, because I hate him like hell, said the other, after a long pause and violently. Neither Grant nor I needed to ask the reason. His glances towards Miss Beaumont and the stranger were sufficiently illuminating. Grant said quietly, but before, before you came to hate him, what did you really think of him? I am in a terrible difficulty, said the young man, and his voice told us like a clear bell, that he was an honest man. If I spoke about him as I feel about him now, I could not trust myself, and I should like to be able to say that when I first saw him, I thought he was charming. But again, the fact is, I didn't. I hate him. That is my private affair. But I also disapprove of him. Really, I do believe I disapprove of him quite apart from my private feelings. When first he came, I admit he was much quieter. But I did not like, so to speak, the moral swell of him. Then that jolly old Sir Walter Chomley got introduced to us, and this fellow, by his cheap Jack Witt, began to score off the old man in the way he does now. Then I felt that he must be a bad lot. It must be bad to fight the old and the kindly. And he fights the poor old chap savagely, unceasingly as if he hated old age and kindliness. Take, if you want it, the evidence of a prejudice witness. I admit that I hate the man because a certain person admires him. But I believe that apart from that, I should hate the man because old Sir Walter hates him. This speech affected me with the genuine sense of esteem and pity for the young man. That is of pity for him because of his obviously hopeless worship of Miss Beaumont, and of esteem for him because of the direct, realistic account of the history of Wimpole which he had given. Still, I was sorry that he seemed so steadily set against the man, and could not help referring it to an instinct of his personal relations, however nobly disguised from himself. In the middle of these meditations Grant whispered in my ear what was perhaps the most startling of all interruptions. In the name of God, let's get away. I have never known exactly in how odd a way this odd old man affected me. I only know that for some reason or other he so affected me that I was within a few minutes in the street outside. This, he said, is a beastly but amusing affair. What is, I asked, boldly enough. This affair, listen to me, my old friend. Lord and Lady Beaumont have just invited you and me to a grand dinner party this very night, at which Mr. Wimpole will be in all his glory. Well, there is nothing very extraordinary about that. The extraordinary thing is that we are not going. Well, really, I said, it's already six o'clock, and I doubt if we could get home and dress. I see nothing extraordinary in the fact that we're not going. Don't you, said Grant? I'll bet you'll see something extraordinary in what we're doing instead. I looked at him blankly. Doing instead, I asked. What are we doing instead? Why, said he, we are waiting for one or two hours outside this house on a winter evening. You must forgive me. It is all my vanity. It is only to show you that I am right. Can you, with the assistance of this cigar, wait until both Sir Walter Chomley and the mystic Wimpole have left this house? Certainly, I said. But I do not know which is likely to leave first. Have you any notion? No, he said. Sir Walter may leave first in a glow of rage. Or again, Mr. Wimpole may leave first, feeling that his last epigram is a thing to be flung behind him like a firework. And so Walter may remain some time to analyse Mr. Wimpole's character. But they will both have to leave within reasonable time, for they will both have to get dressed and come back to dinner here to-night. As he spoke, the shrill, double whistle from the porch of the great house drew a dark cab to the dark portal. And then a thing happened that we really had not expected. Mr. Wimpole and Sir Walter Chomley came out at the same moment. They paused for a second or two opposite each other in a natural doubt. Then a certain geniality, fundamental perhaps in both of them, made Sir Walter smile and say, The night is foggy, pray take my cab. Before I could count twenty, the cab had gone rattling up the street with both of them. And before I could count twenty-three, Grant had hissed in my ear, run after the cab, run as fast as if you were running from a mad dog, run! We pelted on steadily, keeping the cab in sight through dark, mazy streets. God only, I thought, knows why we are running at all, but we are running hard. Fortunately, we did not run far. The cab pulled up at the fork of two streets, and Sir Walter paid the cab man, who drove away rejoicing, having just come in contact with the more generous among the rich. Then the two men talked together, as men do talk together after giving and receiving great insults, the talk that leads either to forgiveness or a duel, at least so it seemed, as we watched it from ten yards off. Then the two men shook hands heartily, and one went down one fork of the road, and another down another. Basil, with one of his rare gestures, flung his arms forward. Run after that scoundrel, he cried, let us catch him now. We dashed across the open space, and reached the juncture of two paths. Stop! I shouted wildly to Grant. That's the wrong turning. He ran on. Idiot, I howled. Sir Walter's gone down there. Wimple has slipped us. He's half a mile down the other road. You're wrong. Are you deaf? You're wrong. I don't think I am, he panted, and ran on. But I saw him, I cried. Look in front of you. Is that Wimple? It's the old man. What are you doing? What are we to do? Keep running, said Grant. Running soon brought us up to the broad back of the pompous old baronet, whose white whiskers shone silver in the fitful lamplight. My brain was utterly bewildered. I grasped nothing. Charlie, said Basil Horsley, can you believe in my common sense for four minutes? Of course, I said, panting. Then help me to catch that man in front and hold him down. Do it at once, when I say now. Now! We sprang on Sir Walter Chomley, and rolled that portly old gentleman on his back. He fought with a commendable valour, but we got him tight. I had not the remotest notion why. He had a splendid and full-blooded vigor. When he could not box, he kicked, and we bound him. When he could not kick, he shouted, and we gagged him. Then, by Basil's arrangement, we dragged him into a small court by the street side and waited. As I say, I had no notion why. I am sorry to incommod you, said Basil calmly, out of the darkness, but I have made an appointment here. An appointment, I said blankly. Yes, he said, glancing calmly at the apoplectic old aristocrat gagged on the ground, whose eyes were starting impotently from his head. I have made an appointment here with a thoroughly nice young fellow, an old friend, Jasper Drummond, his name is. You may have met him this afternoon at the Beaumonts. He can scarcely come, though, till the Beaumont's dinner is over. For I do not know how many hours we stood there calmly in the darkness. By the time those hours were over, I had thoroughly made up my mind that the same thing had happened that had happened long ago on the bench of a British court of justice. Basil Grant had gone mad. I could imagine no other explanation of the facts. With the portly purple-faced old country gentleman flung there, strangled on the floor like a bundle of wood. After about four hours, a lean figure in evening dress rushed into the court. A glimpse of gaslight showed the red moustache and white face of Jasper Drummond. Mr. Grant, he said blankly, the thing is incredible. You were right. But what did you mean? All through this dinner-party, where dukes and duchesses and editors of quarterlies had come especially to hear him, that extraordinary whimpole kept perfectly silent. He didn't say a funny thing. He didn't say anything at all. What does it mean? Grant pointed to the portly old gentleman on the ground. That is what it means, he said. Drummond, on observing a fat gentleman lying so calmly about the place, jumped back as from a mouse. What, he said weakly, what? Basil bent suddenly down and tore a paper out of Sir Walter's breast pocket. A paper that the baronet, even in his hampered state, seemed to make some effort to retain. It was a large, loose piece of white wrapping paper, which Mr. Jasper Drummond read with a vacant eye, and undisguised astonishment. As far as he could make out, it consisted of a series of questions and answers, or at least of remarks and replies, arranged in the manner of a catechism. The greater part of the document had been torn and obliterated in the struggle, but the termination remained. It ran as follows. C. says, Keep countenance. W. Keep. British Museum. C. No whom talk absurdities. W. Never talk absurdities. Without. What is it? cried Drummond, flinging the paper down in a sort of final fury. What is it? replied Grant, his voice raising in a kind of splendid chance. What is it? It is a great new profession, a great new trade. A trifle immoral, I admit, but still great, like piracy. A new profession, said the young man with the red moustache vaguely. A new trade. A new trade, repeated Grant, with the strange exultation. A new profession. What a pity it is immoral. But what the deuce is it? cried Drummond and I in a breath of blasphemy. It is, said Grant calmly, the great new trade of the organiser of repartee. This fat old gentleman lying on the ground strikes you, as I have no doubt, as very stupid and very rich. Let me clear his character. He is, like ourselves, very clever and very poor. He is also not really at all fat. All that is stuffing. He is not particularly old, and his name is not chomley. He is a swindler, and a swindler of a perfectly delightful and novel kind. He hires himself out at dinner parties to lead up to other people's repartees. According to a pre-conserted scheme, which you may find on that piece of paper, he says the stupid things he has arranged for himself, and his client says the clever things arranged for him. In short, he allows himself to be scored off for a guinea night. And this fellow wimp-hole, began Drummond with indignation, this fellow wimp-hole, said Basil Grant, smiling, will not be an intellectual rival in the future. He had some fine things, elegance and silvered hair and so on, but the intellect is with our friend on the floor. That fellow cried Drummond furiously. That fellow ought to be in jail. Not at all, said Basil indulgently. He ought to be in the club of queer trades. End of The Painful Fall of a Great Reputation