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diff --git a/23696-0.txt b/23696-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7d1d49a --- /dev/null +++ b/23696-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,906 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Gentleman’s Gentleman, by F. Hopkinson Smith + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Gentleman’s Gentleman + 1909 + +Author: F. Hopkinson Smith + +Release Date: December 3, 2007 [EBook #23696] +Last Updated: December 20, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A GENTLEMAN’S GENTLEMAN *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + + +A GENTLEMAN’S GENTLEMAN + +By F. Hopkinson Smith + +1909 + + + + +I + +I had left Sandy MacWhirter crooning over his smouldering wood fire the +day Boggs blew in with news of the sale of Mac’s two pictures at the +Academy, and his reply to my inquiry regarding his future plans (vaguely +connected with a certain girl in a steamer chair), “By the next steamer, +my boy,” still rang in my ears, but my surprise was none the +less genuine when I looked up from my easel, two months later, at +Sonning-on-the-Thames and caught sight of the dear fellow, with Lonnegan +by his side, striding down the tow-path in search of me. + +“By the Great Horn Spoon!” came the cry. And the next minute his big +arms were about my shoulders, his cheery laugh filling the summer air. + +Lonnegan’s greeting was equally hearty and spontaneous, but it came with +less noise. + +“He’s been roaring that way ever since we left London,” said the +architect. “Ever since we landed, really,” and he nodded at Mac. +“Awfully glad to see you, old man!” + +The next moment the three of us were flat on the grass telling our +experiences, the silver sheen of the river flashing between the +low-branched trees lining the banks. + +Lonnegan’s story ran thus: + +Mac had disappeared the morning after their arrival; had remained away +two weeks, reappearing again with a grin on his face that had frozen +stiff and had never relaxed its grip. “You can still see it; turn your +head, Mac, and let the gentleman see your smile.” Since that time he had +spent his nights writing letters, and his days poring aver the morning’s +mail. “Got his pocket full of them now, and is so happy he’s no sort of +use to anybody.” Mac now got his innings: + +Lonnegan’s airs had been insufferable and his ignorance colossal. What +time he could spare from his English tailor--“and you just ought to see +his clothes, and especially his checkerboard waistcoats”--had been spent +in abusing everything in English art that wasn’t three hundred years +old, and going into raptures over Lincoln Cathedral. The more he saw of +Lonnegan the more he was convinced that he had missed his calling. He +might succeed as a floorwalker in a department store, where his airs and +his tailor-made upholstery would impress the hayseeds from the country, +but, as for trying to be--The rest was lost in a gurgle of smothered +laughter, Lonnegan’s thin, white fingers having by this time closed over +the painter’s windpipe. + +My turn came now: + +I had been at work a month; had my present quarters at the White Hart +Inn, within a stone’s throw of where we lay sprawled with our faces +to the sun--the loveliest inn, by the way, on the Thames, and that was +saying a lot--with hand-polished tables, sleeve and trouser-polished +arm-chairs, Chippendale furniture, barmaids, pewter mugs, old and +new ale, tough bread, tender mutton, tarts--gooseberry and otherwise; +strawberries--two would fill a teacup--and _roses!_ Millions of +roses! “Well, you fellows just step up and look at ‘em.” + +“And not a place to put your head,” said Mac. + +“How do you know?” + +“Been there,” replied Lonnegan. “The only decent rooms are reserved +for a bloated American millionaire who arrives to-day--everything else +chock-a-block except two bunks under the roof, full of spiders.” + +Mac drew up one of his fat legs, stretched his arms, pushed his +slouch hat from his forehead--he was still on his back drinking in the +sunshine--and with a yawn cried: + +“They ought to be exterminated.” + +“The spiders?” grumbled Lonnegan. + +“No, millionaires. They throw their money away like water; they crowd +the hotels. Nothing good enough for them. Prices all doubled, everything +slimed up by the trail of their dirty dollars. And the saddest thing in +it all to me is that you generally find one or two able-bodied American +citizens kotowing to them like wooden Chinese mandarins when the great +men take the air.” + +“Who, for instance?” I asked. No millionaires with any such outfit had +thus far come my way. + +“Lonnegan, for one,” answered Mac. + +The architect raised his head and shot a long, horizontal glance at the +prostrate form of the painter. + +“Yes, Lonnegan, I am sorry to say,” continued Mac, his eyes fixed on the +yellow greens in the swaying tree-tops. + +“I was only polite,” protested the architect. “Lambert is a client of +mine; building a stable for him. Very level-headed man is Mr. Samuel +Lambert; no frills and no swelled head. It was Tommy Wing who was doing +the mandarin act 32 the other day at the Carlton--not me. Got dead +intimate with him on the voyage over and has stuck to him like a plaster +ever since. Calls him ‘Sam’ already--did to me.” + +“Behind his back or to his face?” spluttered Mac, tugging at his pipe. + +“Give it up,” said Lonnegan, pulling his hat over his face to shield his +eyes from the sun. + +Mac raised himself to a sitting posture, as if to reply, fumbled in his +watch-pocket for a match, instead; shook the ashes from his brier-wood, +filled the bowl with some tobacco from his rubber pouch, drew the +lucifer across his shoe, waited until the blue smoke mounted skyward and +resumed his former position. He was too happy mentally--the girl in the +steamer chair was responsible--and too lazy physically to argue with +anybody. Lonnegan rolled over on his elbows, and feasted his eyes on +the sweep of the sleepy river, dotted with punts and wherries, its +background of foliage in silhouette against the morning sky. The Thames +was very lovely that June, and the trained eye of the distinguished +architect missed none of its beauty and charm. I picked up my brushes +and continued work. The spirit of perfect camaraderie makes such +silences not only possible but enjoyable. It is the restless chatterer +that tires. + +Lonnegan’s outbreak had set me to thinking. Lambert I knew only by +reputation---as half the world knew him--a man of the people: lumber +boss, mill owner, proprietor of countless acres of virgin forest; many +times a millionaire. Then came New York and the ice-cream palace with +the rock-candy columns on the Avenue, and “The Samuel Lamberts” in the +society journals. This was all the wife’s doings. Poor Maria! She had +forgotten the day when she washed his red flannel shirts and hung them +on a line stretched from the door of their log cabin to a giant white +pine--one of the founders of their fortune. If Tommy Wing called him +“Sam” it was because old “Saw Logs,” as he was often called, was lonely, +and Tommy amused him. + +Tommy Wing--Thomas Bowditch Wing, his card ran--I had known for years. +He was basking on the topmost branches now, stretched out in the +sunshine of social success, swaying to every movement made by his +padrones. He was a little country squirrel when I first came across him, +frisking about the root of the tree and glad enough to scamper close to +the ground. He had climbed a long way since then. All the blossoms +and tender little buds were at the top, and Tommy was fond of buds, +especially when they bloomed out into yachts and four-in-hands, country +houses, winters in Egypt (Tommy an invited guest), house parties on Long +Island or at Tuxedo, or gala nights at the opera with seats in a first +tier. + +In the ascent he had forgotten his beginnings--not an unnatural thing +with Tommies: Son of a wine merchant--a most respectable man, too; then +“Importer” (Tommy altered the sign); elected member of an athletic club; +always well dressed, always polite;--invited to a member’s house to +dine; was unobtrusive and careful not to make a break. Asked again to +fill a place at the table at the last moment-accepted gracefully, not +offended--never offended at anything. Was willing to see that the young +son caught the train, or would meet the daughter at the ferry and escort +her safely to school. “So obliging, so trustworthy,” the mother said. +Soon got to be “among those present” at the Sherry and Delmonico balls. +Then came little squibs in the society columns regarding the movements +of Thomas Bowditch Wing, Esquire. He knew the squibber, and often gave +her half a column. Was invited to a seat in the coaching parade, saw +his photograph the next morning in the papers, he sitting next to the +beautiful Miss Carnevelt. He was pretty near to the top now; only a +little farther to where the choicest buds were bursting into flower; +too far up, though, ever to recognize the little fellows he had left +frisking below. There was no time now to escort school-girls or fill +unexpectedly empty seats unless they were exclusive ones. His excuse was +that he had accepted an invitation to the branch above him. The mother +of the school-girl now, strange to say, instead of being miffed, liked +him the better, and, for the first time, began to wonder whether she +hadn’t made too free with so important a personage. As a silent apology +she begged an invitation for a friend to the Bachelor Ball, Tommy being +a subscriber and entitled to the distribution of a certain number of +tickets. Being single and available, few outings were given without +him--not only week-ends (Weak Odds-and-Ends, Mac always called them), +but trips to Washington, even to Montreal in the winter. Then came the +excursions abroad--Capri, Tangier, Cairo. + +It was on one of these jaunts that he met “Saw Logs,” who, after sizing +him up for a day, promptly called him “Tommy,” an abbreviation instantly +adopted by Maria--so fine, you know, to call a fellow “Tommy” who knew +everybody and went everywhere. Sometimes she shrieked his name the +length of the deck. On reaching London it was either the Carlton or +the Ritz for Lambert. Tommy, however, made a faint demur. “Oh, hang the +expense, Tommy, you are my guest for the summer,” broke out Lambert. +What a prime minister you would have made, Tommy, in some kitchen +cabinet! + +There were no blossoms now out of his reach. Our little squirrel had +gained the top! To dazzle the wife and daughter with the priceless +value of his social position and then compel plain, honest, good-natured +Samuel Lambert to pay his bills, and to pay those bills, too, in such +a way, “by Heavens, sir, as not to wound a gentleman’s pride”: +that, indeed, was an accomplishment. Had any other bushy tail of his +acquaintance ever climbed so high or accomplished so much? + +A movement on my right cut short my revery. + +MacWhirter had lifted his big arms above his head, and was now twisting +his broad back as if for a better fulcrum. + +“Lonny--” he cried, bringing his body once more to a sitting posture. + +“Yes, Mac.” + +“In that humiliating and servile interview which you had a short time +ago with your other genuflector, the landlord of the White Hart Inn, +did you in any way gain the impression that every ounce of grub in +his shebang was reserved for the special use of his highness, Count +Kerosene, or the Earl of Asphalt, or the Duke of Sausage, or whatever +the brute calls himself?--or do you think he can be induced to--” + +“Yes, I think so.” + +“Think what, you obtuse duffer?” + +“That he can be induced.” + +“Well, then, grab that easel and let us go to luncheon.” + + + + +II + +I had not exaggerated the charm of the White Hart Inn--nobody can. I +know most of the hostelries up and down this part of the river--the +“Ferry” at Cookham, the “French Horn” across the Backwater, one or two +at Henley, and a lovely old bungalow of a tavern at Maidenhead; but this +garden of roses at Sonning has never lost its fascination for me. + +For the White Hart is like none of these. It fronts the river, of +course, as they all do--you can almost fish out of the coffee-room +window of the “Ferry” at Cookham--and all the life of the boat-houses, +the punts and wherries, with their sprawling cushions and bunches of +jack-straw oars, and tows, back and forth, of empty boats, goes on just +as it does at the other boat-landings, up and down the river; but, at +the White Hart, it is the rose garden that counts! Planted in rows, like +corn, their stalks straight as walking-sticks and as big; then a flare +of smaller stalks like umbrella ribs, the circle covered with Prince +Alberts, Cloth-of-Golds, Teas, Saffrons, Red Ramblers (the old gardener +knows their names; I don’t). And the perfume that sweeps toward you and +the way it sinks into your soul! Bury your face in a bunch of them, if +you don’t believe it. + +Then the bridge! That mouldy old mass of red brick that makes three +clumsy jumps before it clears the river, the green rushes growing about +its feet. And the glory of the bend below, with the fluff of elm, birch +and maple melting into the morning haze! + +Inside it is none the less delightful. Awnings, fronting the garden, +stretch over the flowerbeds; vines twist their necks, the blossoms +peeping curiously as you take your coffee. + +There is a coffee-room, of course, with stags’ heads and hunting prints, +and small tables with old-fashioned flowers in tiny vases, as well as a +long serving board the width of the room, where everything that can be +boiled, baked or stewed and then served cold awaits the hungry. + +It was at this long board that we three brought up, and it was not long +before Lonnegan and Mac were filling their plates, and with their own +hands, too, with thin cuts of cold roast beef, chicken and slivers of +ham, picking out the particular bread or toast or muffin they liked +best, bringing the whole out under the low awning with its screen of +roses, the swinging blossoms brushing their cheeks--some of them almost +in their plates. + +From where we sat over our boiled and baked--principally boiled--we +could see not only the suite of rooms reserved for the great man and +his party--one end of the inn, really, with a separate entrance--but +we could see, too, part of the tap-room, with its rows of bottles, and +could hear the laughter and raillery of the barmaid as she served the +droppers-in and loungers-about. We caught, as well, the small square +hall, flanked by the black-oak counter, behind which were banked bottles +of various shapes and sizes, rows of pewter tankards and the like, the +whole made comfortable with chairs cushioned in Turkey red, and never +empty--the chairs, I mean; the tankards always were, or about to be. + +This tap-room, I must tell you, is not a bar in the American sense, +nor is the girl a barkeeper in any sense. It is the open club of the +village, where everybody is welcome who is decent and agreeable. Even +the curate drops in--not for his toddy, perhaps (although “You can’t +generally sometimes almost always tell,” as Mac said), but for a word +with anybody who happens to be about. And so does the big man of the +village who owns the mill, and the gardener from Lord So-and-So’s +estate, and the lord himself, for that matter, the groom taking his +“bitter” from the side window, with one eye on his high stepper polished +to a piano finish. All have a word or a good-morning or a joke with the +barmaid. She isn’t at all the kind of a girl you think she is. Try it +some day and you’ll discover your mistake. It’s Miss Nance, or Miss +Ellen, or whatever else her parents fancied; or Miss Figgins, or +Connors, or Pugby--but it is never Nance or Nell. + +Our luncheon over, we joined the circle, the curate making room for +Lonnegan, Mac stretching his big frame half over a settle. + +“From the States, gentlemen, I should judge,” said the curate in a +cheery tone--an athletic and Oxford-looking curate, his high white +collar and high black waistcoat gripping a throat and chest that showed +oars and cricket bats in every muscle. Young, too--not over forty. + +I returned the courtesy by pleading guilty, and in extenuation, +presented my comrades to the entire room, Lonnegan’s graceful body +straightening to a present-arms posture as he grasped the outstretched +hand of a brother athlete, and Mac’s heartiness capturing every one +present, including the barmaid. + +Then some compounded extracts were passed over the counter and the talk +drifted as usual (I have never known it otherwise) into comparisons +between the two “Hands Across the Sea” people. That an Englishman will +ever really warm to a Frenchman or a German nobody who knows his race +will believe, but he can be entirely comfortable (and the well-bred +Englishman is the shyest man living) with the well-bred American. + +Lonnegan as chief spokesman, in answer to an inquiry, and with an +assurance born of mastery of his subject instantly recognized by the +listeners, enlarged on the last architectural horror, the skyscraper, +its cost, and on the occupations of the myriads of human bees who were +hived between its floors, all so different from the more modest office +structures around the Bank of England: adding that he had the plans of +two on his drawing table at home, a statement which confirmed the good +opinions they had formed of his familiarity with the subject. + +I floated in with some comparisons touching upon the technic of the +two schools of water-color painting, and, finding that the curate had a +brother who was an R.A., backed out again and rested on my oars. + +Mac, more or less concerned over the expected arrival, and anxious that +his listeners should not consider the magnate as a fair example of his +countrymen, launched out upon the absence of all class distinctions +at home-one man as good as another--making Presidents out of farmers, +Senators out of cellar diggers, every man a king--that sort of thing. + +When Mac had finished--and these Englishmen _let you finish_--the +mill-owner, a heavy, red-faced man (out-of-doors exercise, not +Burgundy), with a gray whisker dabbed high up on each cheek, and a +pair of keen, merry eyes, threw back the lapels of his velveteen coat +(riding-trousers to match), and answered slowly: + +“You’ll excuse me, sir, but I stopped a while in the States, and I can’t +agree with you. We take off our caps here to a lord because he is part +of our national system, but we never bow down to the shillings he keeps +in his strong box. You do.” + +The lists were “open” now. Mac fought valiantly, the curate helping him +once in a while; Lonnegan putting in a word for the several professions +as being always exempt--brains, not money, counting in their case--Mac +winning the first round with: + +“Not all of us, my dear sir; not by a long shot. When any of our people +turn sycophants, it is you English who have coached them. A lord with +you is a man who doesn’t have to work. So, when any of us come over +here to play--and that’s what we generally come for--everybody, to our +surprise, kotows to us, and we acknowledge the attention by giving a +shilling to whoever holds out his hand. Now, nobody ever kotows to us at +home. We’d get suspicious right away if they did and shift our wallets +to the other pocket; not that we are not generous, but we don’t like +that sort of thing. We do here--that is, some of us do, because it marks +the difference in rank, and we all, being kings, are tickled to death +that your flunkies recognize that fact the moment they clap eyes on us.” + +Lonnegan looked at Mac curiously. The dear fellow must be talking +through his hat. + +“Now, I got a sudden shock on the steamer on my way home last fall, +and from an _American gentleman_, too--one of the best, if he was in +tarpaulins--and I didn’t get over it for a week. No kotow about him, I +tell you. I wanted a newspaper the worst way, and was the first man to +strike the Sandy Hook pilot as he threw his sea-drenched leg over the +rail. ‘Got a morning paper?’ I asked. ‘Yes, in my bag.’ And he dumped +the contents on the deck and handed me a paper. I had been away from +home a year, mostly in England, and hadn’t seen anybody, from a curator +in a museum to the manager of an estate, who wouldn’t take a shilling +when it was offered him, and so from sheer force of habit I dropped a +trade dollar into his hand. You ought to have seen his face. ‘What’s +this for?’ he asked. ‘No use to me.’ And he handed it back. I wanted to +go out and kick myself full of holes, I was so ashamed. And, after all, +it wasn’t my fault. I learned that from you Englishmen.” + +The toot-toot of an automobile cut short the discussion. + +The American millionaire had arrived! + +Everybody now started on the run: landlord, two maids in blue dresses +with white cap strings flying, three hostlers, two garage men, four +dogs, all bowing and scraping--all except the dogs. + +“What did I tell you?” laughed Mac, tapping the curate’s broad chest +with the end of his plump finger. “That’s the way you all do. +With us a porter would help him out, a hotel clerk assign him a room, +and that would end it. The next morning the only man to do him reverence +would be the waiter behind his chair figuring for the extra tip. Look at +them. Same old kotow. No wonder he thinks himself a duke.” + +The party had disembarked now and were nearing the door of the private +entrance, the two women in Mother Hubbard veils, the two men in +steamer-caps and goggles--the valet and maid carrying the coats and +parasols. The larger of the two men shed his goggles, changed his +steamer-cap for a slouch hat which his valet handed him, and disappeared +inside, followed by the landlord. The smaller man, his hands and arms +laden with shawls and wraps, gesticulated for an instant as if giving +orders to the two chauffeurs, waited until both machines had backed +away, and entered the open door. + +“Who do you think the big man is, Mac?” Lonnegan asked. + +“Don’t know, and don’t want to know.” + +“Lambert.” + +“What! Saw Logs?” + +“The same, and--yes--by Jove! That little fellow with the wraps is +Tommy.” + +A moment later Tommy reappeared and made straight for the barmaid. + +“Get me some crushed ice and vermouth,” he said. “We carry our Hollands +with us. Why, Mr. MacWhirter! and Mr. Lonnegan! and--” (I was the +“and”--but he seemed to have forgotten my name.) “Well, this _is_ a +surprise!” Neither the mill-owner nor the curate came within range of +his eyes. + +“Where have I been? Well, I’ll have to think. We did London for a +week--Savoy for supper--Prince’s for luncheon--theatre every night--that +sort of thing. Picked up a couple of Gainsboroughs at Agnew’s and some +tapestries belonging to Lord--forget his name--had a letter.” (Here +Tommy fumbled in his pocket.) “No, I remember now, I gave it to Sam. +Then we motored to Ravenstock--looked over the Duke’s stables--spent the +night with a very decent chap Sam met in the Rockies last year-son of +Lord Wingfall, and--” + +The ice was ready now (it was hived in a keg and hidden in the cellar, +and took time to get at), and so was the vermouth and the glasses, all +on a tray. + +“No, I’ll carry it.” This to the barmaid, who wanted to call a waiter. +“I never let anybody attend to this for Sam but myself”--this to us. +“I’ll be back in a minute.” + +In a few moments he returned, picking up the thread of his discourse +with: “Where was I? Oh, yes, at Lord Wingfall’s son’s. Well, that’s +about all. We are on our way now to spend a few days with--” Here he +glanced at the curate and the mill-owner, who were absorbing every word +that fell from his lips. “Some of the gentry in the next county--can’t +think of their names--friends of Sam.” It became evident now that +neither Mac nor Lonnegan intended introducing him to either of the +Englishmen. + +The barmaid pushed a second tray over the counter, and Tommy drew up a +chair and waved us into three others. “Sam is so helpless, you know,” he +chatted on. “I can’t leave him, really, for an hour. Depends on me for +everything. Funny, isn’t it, that a man worth--well, anywhere from forty +to fifty millions of dollars, and made it all himself--should be that +way? But it’s a fact. Very simple man, too, in his tastes, when you +know him. Mrs. Lambert and Rosie” (Mac stole a look at Lonnegan at the +familiar use of the last name, but Tommy flowed on) “got tired of the +_Cynthia_--she’s a hundred and ninety feet over all, sixteen knots, and +cost a quarter of a million--and wanted Sam to get something bigger. +But the old man held out; wanted to know what I thought of it, and, of +course, I had to say she was all right, and that settled it. Just +the same way with that new house on the Avenue--you know it, Mr. +Lonnegan--after he’d spent one hundred and fifty thousand dollars +decorating the music-room--that’s the one facing the Avenue--she thought +she’d change it to Louis-Seize. Of course Sam didn’t care for the money, +but it was the dirt and plaster and discomfort of it all. By the way, +after dinner, suppose you and Mr. Lonnegan, and you, too”--this to +me--“come in and have a cigar with Sam. We’ve got some good Reina +Victorias especially made for him--glad to have you know him.” + +Mac gazed out of the open door and shut his teeth tight. Lonnegan looked +down into the custard-pie face of the speaker, but made no reply. Tommy +laid a coin on the counter, shot out his cuffs, said: “See you later,” + and sauntered out. + +No! There were no buds or blossoms--nothing of any kind, for that +matter--out of Tommy’s reach! + +The mill-owner rose to his feet, straightened his square shoulders, made +a movement as if to speak, altered his mind, shook Mac’s hand warmly, +and with a bow to the tap-room, and a special nod to the barmaid, +mounted his horse and rode off. The curate looked up and smiled, his +gaze riveted on Mac. + +“One of your American gentlemen, sir?” he asked. The tone was most +respectful--not a trace of sarcasm, not a line visible about the corners +of his mouth; only the gray eyes twinkled. + +“No,” answered Mac grimly; “_a gentleman’s gentleman_.” + +The next morning at sunrise Mac burst into our room roaring with +laughter, slapping his pajama-incased knee with his fat hand, the tears +streaming from his eyes. + +“They’ve gone!” he cried. “Scooted! Saw Logs, Mrs. Saw, the piece of +kindling and her maid in the first car, and--” + +He was doubled up like a jack-knife. + +“And left Tommy behind!” we both cried. + +“Behind!” Mac was verging on apoplexy now. “Behind! Not much. He was +tucked away in the other car with the valet!” + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s A Gentleman’s Gentleman, by F. 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