5
In these days of cheap books of instruction on every subject under the
sun, we most of us know how to behave in the majority of life's little
crises. We have only ourselves to blame if we are ignorant of what to do
before the doctor comes, of how to make a dainty winter coat for baby
out of father's last year's under-vest and of the best method of coping
with the cold mutton. But nobody yet has come forward with practical
advice as to the correct method of behaviour to be adopted when a
lift-attendant starts crying. And Sally and her companion, as a
consequence, for a few moments merely stared at each other helplessly.
"Poor darling!" said Sally, finding speech. "Ask him what's the
matter."
The young man looked at her doubtfully.
"You know," he said, "I don't enjoy chatting with this blighter. I mean
to say, it's a bit of an effort. I don't know why it is, but talking
French always makes me feel as if my nose were coming off. Couldn't we
just leave him to have his cry out by himself?"
"The idea!" said Sally. "Have you no heart? Are you one of those fiends
in human shape?"
He turned reluctantly to Jules, and paused to overhaul his vocabulary.
"You ought to be thankful for this chance," said Sally. "It's the only
real way of learning French, and you're getting a lesson for nothing.
What did he say then?"
"Something about losing something, it seemed to me. I thought I caught
the word perdu."
"But that means a partridge, doesn't it? I'm sure I've seen it on the
menus."
"Would he talk about partridges at a time like this?"
"He might. The French are extraordinary people."
"Well, I'll have another go at him. But he's a difficult chap to chat
with. If you give him the least encouragement, he sort of goes off like
a rocket." He addressed another question to the sufferer, and listened
attentively to the voluble reply.
"Oh!" he said with sudden enlightenment. "Your job?" He turned to
Sally. "I got it that time," he said. "The trouble is, he says, that if
we yell and rouse the house, we'll get out all right, but he will lose
his job, because this is the second time this sort of thing has
happened, and they warned him last time that once more would mean the
push."
"Then we mustn't dream of yelling," said Sally, decidedly. "It means a
pretty long wait, you know. As far as I can gather, there's just a
chance of somebody else coming in later, in which case he could let us
out. But it's doubtful. He rather thinks that everybody has gone to
roost."
"Well, we must try it. I wouldn't think of losing the poor man his job.
Tell him to take the car down to the ground-floor, and then we'll just
sit and amuse ourselves till something happens. We've lots to talk
about. We can tell each other the story of our lives."
Jules, cheered by his victims' kindly forbearance, lowered the car to
the ground floor, where, after a glance of infinite longing at the keys
on the distant desk, the sort of glance which Moses must have cast at
the Promised Land from the summit of Mount Pisgah, he sagged down in a
heap and resumed his slumbers. Sally settled herself as comfortably as
possible in her corner.
"You'd better smoke," she said. "It will be something to do."
"Thanks awfully."
"And now," said Sally, "tell me why Scrymgeour fired you."
Little by little, under the stimulating influence of this nocturnal
adventure, the red-haired young man had lost that shy confusion which
had rendered him so ill at ease when he had encountered Sally in the
hall of the hotel; but at this question embarrassment gripped him once
more. Another of those comprehensive blushes of his raced over his face,
and he stammered.
"I say, I'm glad... I'm fearfully sorry about that, you know!"
"About Scrymgeour?"
"You know what I mean. I mean, about making such a most ghastly ass of
myself this morning. I... I never dreamed you understood English."
"Why, I didn't object. I thought you were very nice and complimentary.
Of course, I don't know how many girls you've seen in your life, but..."
"No, I say, don't! It makes me feel such a chump."
"And I'm sorry about my mouth. It is wide. But I know you're a
fair-minded man and realize that it isn't my fault."
"Don't rub it in," pleaded the young man. "As a matter of fact, if you
want to know, I think your mouth is absolutely perfect. I think," he
proceeded, a little feverishly, "that you are the most indescribable
topper that ever..."
"You were going to tell me about Scrymgeour," said Sally.
The young man blinked as if he had collided with some hard object while
sleep-walking. Eloquence had carried him away.
"Scrymgeour?" he said. "Oh, that would bore you."
"Don't be silly," said Sally reprovingly. "Can't you realize that we're
practically castaways on a desert island? There's nothing to do till
to-morrow but talk about ourselves. I want to hear all about you, and
then I'll tell you all about myself. If you feel diffident about
starting the revelations, I'll begin. Better start with names. Mine is
Sally Nicholas. What's yours?"
"Mine? Oh, ah, yes, I see what you mean."
"I thought you would. I put it as clearly as I could. Well, what is
it?"
"Kemp."
"And the first name?"
"Well, as a matter of fact," said the young man, "I've always rather
hushed up my first name, because when I was christened they worked a
low-down trick on me!"
"You can't shock me," said Sally, encouragingly. "My father's name was
Ezekiel, and I've a brother who was christened Fillmore."
Mr. Kemp brightened. "Well, mine isn't as bad as that... No, I don't
mean that," he broke off apologetically. "Both awfully jolly names, of
course..."
"Get on," said Sally.
"Well, they called me Lancelot. And, of course, the thing is that I
don't look like a Lancelot and never shall. My pals," he added in a more
cheerful strain, "call me Ginger."
"I don't blame them," said Sally.
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind thinking of me as Ginger?'' suggested the
young man diffidently.
"Certainly."
"That's awfully good of you."
"Not at all."
Jules stirred in his sleep and grunted. No other sound came to disturb
the stillness of the night.
"You were going to tell me about yourself?" said Mr. Lancelot (Ginger)
Kemp.
"I'm going to tell you all about myself," said Sally, "not because I
think it will interest you..."
"Oh, it will!"
"Not, I say, because I think it will interest you..."
"It will, really."
Sally looked at him coldly.
"Is this a duet?" she inquired, "or have I the floor?"
"I'm awfully sorry."
"Not, I repeat for the third time, because I think It will interest you,
but because if I do you won't have any excuse for not telling me your
life-history, and you wouldn't believe how inquisitive I am. Well, in
the first place, I live in America. I'm over here on a holiday. And it's
the first real holiday I've had in three years--since I left home, in
fact." Sally paused. "I ran away from home," she said.
"Good egg!" said Ginger Kemp.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I mean, quite right. I bet you were quite right."
"When I say home," Sally went on, "it was only a sort of imitation home,
you know. One of those just-as-good homes which are never as
satisfactory as the real kind. My father and mother both died a good
many years ago. My brother and I were dumped down on the reluctant
doorstep of an uncle."
"Uncles," said Ginger Kemp, feelingly, "are the devil. I've got an...
but I'm interrupting you."
"My uncle was our trustee. He had control of all my brother's money and
mine till I was twenty-one. My brother was to get his when he was
twenty-five. My poor father trusted him blindly, and what do you think
happened?"
"Good Lord! The blighter embezzled the lot?"
"No, not a cent. Wasn't it extraordinary! Have you ever heard of a
blindly trusted uncle who was perfectly honest? Well, mine was. But the
trouble was that, while an excellent man to have looking after one's
money, he wasn't a very lovable character. He was very hard. Hard! He
was as hard as--well, nearly as hard as this seat. He hated poor
Fill..."
"Phil?"
"I broke it to you just now that my brother's name was Fillmore."
"Oh, your brother. Oh, ah, yes."
"He was always picking on poor Fill. And I'm bound to say that Fill
rather laid himself out as what you might call a pickee. He was always
getting into trouble. One day, about three years ago, he was expelled
from Harvard, and my uncle vowed he would have nothing more to do with
him. So I said, if Fill left, I would leave. And, as this seemed to be
my uncle's idea of a large evening, no objection was raised, and Fill
and I departed. We went to New York, and there we've been ever since.
About six months' ago Fill passed the twenty-five mark and collected his
money, and last month I marched past the given point and got mine. So it
all ends happily, you see. Now tell me about yourself."
"But, I say, you know, dash it, you've skipped a lot. I mean to say,
you must have had an awful time in New York, didn't you? How on earth
did you get along?"
"Oh, we found work. My brother tried one or two things, and finally
became an assistant stage-manager with some theatre people. The only
thing I could do, having been raised in enervating luxury, was ballroom
dancing, so I ball-room danced. I got a job at a place in Broadway
called 'The Flower Garden' as what is humorously called an
'instructress,' as if anybody could 'instruct' the men who came there.
One was lucky if one saved one's life and wasn't quashed to death."
"How perfectly foul!"
"Oh, I don't know. It was rather fun for a while. Still," said Sally,
meditatively, "I'm not saying I could have held out much longer: I was
beginning to give. I suppose I've been trampled underfoot by more fat
men than any other girl of my age in America. I don't know why it was,
but every man who came in who was a bit overweight seemed to make for me
by instinct. That's why I like to sit on the sands here and watch these
Frenchmen bathing. It's just heavenly to lie back and watch a two
hundred and fifty pound man, coming along and feel that he isn't going
to dance with me."
"But, I say! How absolutely rotten it must have been for you!"
"Well, I'll tell you one thing. It's going to make me a very
domesticated wife one of these days. You won't find me gadding about in
gilded jazz-palaces! For me, a little place in the country somewhere,
with my knitting and an Elsie book, and bed at half-past nine! And now
tell me the story of your life. And make it long because I'm perfectly
certain there's going to be no relief-expedition. I'm sure the last
dweller under this roof came in years ago. We shall be here till
morning."
"I really think we had better shout, you know."
"And lose Jules his job? Never!"
"Well, of course, I'm sorry for poor old Jules' troubles, but I hate to
think of you having to..."
"Now get on with the story," said Sally.
