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diff --git a/23696-h/23696-h.htm b/23696-h/23696-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ef5c76c --- /dev/null +++ b/23696-h/23696-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1073 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + A Gentleman's Gentleman, by F. Hopkinson Smith + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +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 + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + A GENTLEMAN’S GENTLEMAN + </h1> + <h2> + By F. Hopkinson Smith <br /><br /> 1909 + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Lonnegan’s greeting was equally hearty and spontaneous, but it came with + less noise. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Lonnegan’s story ran thus: + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My turn came now: + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>roses!</i> Millions of roses! “Well, you + fellows just step up and look at ‘em.” + </p> + <p> + “And not a place to put your head,” said Mac. + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “They ought to be exterminated.” + </p> + <p> + “The spiders?” grumbled Lonnegan. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Who, for instance?” I asked. No millionaires with any such outfit had + thus far come my way. + </p> + <p> + “Lonnegan, for one,” answered Mac. + </p> + <p> + The architect raised his head and shot a long, horizontal glance at the + prostrate form of the painter. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Lonnegan, I am sorry to say,” continued Mac, his eyes fixed on the + yellow greens in the swaying tree-tops. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Behind his back or to his face?” spluttered Mac, tugging at his pipe. + </p> + <p> + “Give it up,” said Lonnegan, pulling his hat over his face to shield his + eyes from the sun. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + A movement on my right cut short my revery. + </p> + <p> + MacWhirter had lifted his big arms above his head, and was now twisting + his broad back as if for a better fulcrum. + </p> + <p> + “Lonny—” he cried, bringing his body once more to a sitting posture. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mac.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Think what, you obtuse duffer?” + </p> + <p> + “That he can be induced.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, grab that easel and let us go to luncheon.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Our luncheon over, we joined the circle, the curate making room for + Lonnegan, Mac stretching his big frame half over a settle. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When Mac had finished—and these Englishmen <i>let you finish</i>—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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Lonnegan looked at Mac curiously. The dear fellow must be talking through + his hat. + </p> + <p> + “Now, I got a sudden shock on the steamer on my way home last fall, and + from an <i>American gentleman</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + The toot-toot of an automobile cut short the discussion. + </p> + <p> + The American millionaire had arrived! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Who do you think the big man is, Mac?” Lonnegan asked. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t know, and don’t want to know.” + </p> + <p> + “Lambert.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Saw Logs?” + </p> + <p> + “The same, and—yes—by Jove! That little fellow with the wraps + is Tommy.” + </p> + <p> + A moment later Tommy reappeared and made straight for the barmaid. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>is</i> + a surprise!” Neither the mill-owner nor the curate came within range of + his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Cynthia</i>—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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + No! There were no buds or blossoms—nothing of any kind, for that + matter—out of Tommy’s reach! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Mac grimly; “<i>a gentleman’s gentleman</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “They’ve gone!” he cried. “Scooted! Saw Logs, Mrs. Saw, the piece of + kindling and her maid in the first car, and—” + </p> + <p> + He was doubled up like a jack-knife. + </p> + <p> + “And left Tommy behind!” we both cried. + </p> + <p> + “Behind!” Mac was verging on apoplexy now. “Behind! Not much. He was + tucked away in the other car with the valet!” + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s A Gentleman’s Gentleman, by F. 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