CHAPTER XVIII

TONY AT WORK AND AT PLAY

If the telephone had been in the vicar's study Mrs. Peters might have watched in vain; for to acquire accurate information through a keyhole needs practise or unusually keen ears. But the vicar wanted perfect quiet to prepare his sermons, and it was agreed that the instrument should be placed in the dining-room. This suited Mrs. Peters admirably, for there was a dumb-waiter between that room and the pantry. Standing on the other side of the hatch (which she raised with caution a couple of inches) she could hear all that passed, secure in the reflection that a screen concealed the hatch and butler's tray. This is what she heard as soon as the vicar had left the room.

"Mr. Wild, I told you that I would rather not——"

"Duty, Bangs, duty! Remember that! You've allowed your unhappy wife to mourn——"

"No, no! I thought it better not to write just yet, in case——"

"Pure funk, and nothing else. No, Bangs; you ought to let her know—you ought to have let her know before this. Besides, there's no danger: she can't spot where you are."

("Then there is a mystery!" reflected Mrs. Peters, warm with the satisfaction of a justified eavesdropping. "He has left his wife!")

"N—no ... but ..."

"Seriously, Bangs, you must telephone. Every day you delay brings a possible pursuit closer. Come now! Shall I ring up?"

"No, no! Wait half a minute while I think of something to say. How shall I begin? Shall I——"

"Oh, the usual sort of greeting from a husband to a wife: 'Good morning, little bunch of fluff!' Or, 'Cheeroh, beloved armful!' Any pet name—look here, you'd better let me——"

A confused sound hinted to Mrs. Peters that a struggle for the receiver was in progress. It ended speedily in a victory for Mr. Bangs. His voice quavered a number—"Bloomsbury, 843B." Mrs. Peters made a mental note.

"Hello ... hello ... are you 843B? Yes?... Who's that? Hello! Who's that? Oh, it's you, Jane ... tell your mistress—hello! You silly girl, it is me." ("She's had a fright, Mr. Wild. I ought to have broken the news more gently.") "What? Do speak up ... yes ... yes ... you've sat down on the porcelain bowl on the hall table? Confound!... what for? What for, you clumsy ... oh! I frightened you ... oh ... oh ... I see.... Well, go on.... Yes ... no, perhaps it wasn't altogether your fault ... yes.... All right ... all right, that's quite enough. I know you're sorry ... yes.... Tell your mistress I want to speak to her.... She's in the kitchen? Well, go and fetch her. Don't hang the receiver up. Yes ... yes....

"She's gone to fetch her, Mr. Wild!"

"The plot thickens, Bangs, I say, shall I take the receiver and telephone? Rather a lark, you know, your wife expecting you and hearing me instead."

"No, no!"

"I won't address her in terms of affection, if that's all you're afraid of. Besides, I should rather like to hear what she says to her peccant husband."

"Not for anything, Mr. Wild.... Hush! here she is.... Is that you, Alicia? Wheeee! Wheee!... I'm exceedingly sorry, my dear ... no, I wasn't laughing—something wrong with the wire.... Well, how are you?... That's good ... I do hope you haven't been worrying.... What?... Oh ... oh ... ah...." ("She says I'm not worth worrying about!" "Cover it UP, you fool! She'll hear you!") ... "Eh?... no ... nobody else here, my love ... quite alone—quite alone ... the wire...." ("What's that? Magnetic storm?") ... "Magnetic storm, Alicia! Plug's not firmly in, perhaps.... Well, you're all right, then? Anything else?... Oh, me! Oh, I'm in capital form.... What?... Yes, that's all.... What?... Oh, I thought I'd better ring up to let you know how I was getting on.... Yes ... yes ... I shall come back presently.... No ... no ... absolutely no.... I can't possibly tell you my present address ... but you needn't worry. I'm quite all right ... eh?... No ... I'm not unfeeling—this is just my holiday. I shall be back in a few weeks. I send you my love. Good-by."

"That do, Mr. Wild?"

"You might send a kiss, eh? Usual thing ... try again—I bet she's not left the wire."

"Hello ... hello! You there, Alicia?... Wheeee!... I just rang up—wheee—to send you a kiss.... Good-by."

"So we've set her mind at rest, Bangs. You lost your funk pretty soon!"

"Well, Mr. Wild, somehow ... it's not quite the same thing talking to Alicia from a distance ... I felt quite brave!"

"Perfect hero!... Now we've settled that, let's go and find the dragon in the garden."

They found the vicar, but not the dragon, who was lashing her tail in the pantry, impotent, speechless, aflame with anger. To hear herself called a dragon, and by a pair of unprincipled adventurers! One of them, it appeared, was a man who had run away from his wife; the other, an idle fribble who might be anything. "Thank Heaven I have no daughter in the house!" thought Mrs. Peters in a paroxysm of resentful propriety. "Who could feel safe with such men about? And this comes of Charles picking up chance acquaintances in a common tavern! Oh, I must go and tell him—expose them at once! The impudent hypocrites!"

On the threshold she paused. Was it because, despite her justification, she did not feel anxious to mention the vigil in the pantry? Or was it due to a wifely consideration for a husband's weakness? She chose to believe the latter. "Charles will not have the moral courage to expel them from the vicarage!" she reflected. "He is pitifully craven in such matters. I must manage it myself.... I had better wait and watch.... They may have any designs.... Perhaps I had better wait, and then ..." A smile, terrific in severity and menace, writhed her lips. Some signal act of vengeance was evidently maturing. "Yes! I will wait!"

On the lawn she found Tony. Compelling herself to speak without undue hostility, she learned that the vicar had carried Robert off to inspect the greenhouse. Mrs. Peters, on the plea of a message, followed. She could not trust herself with Robert or his accomplice. "Is it he who has led Mr. Bangs astray, or the other way about?" she wondered viciously. "They both seem to be most undesirable; but Mr. Bangs is older and ought to know better. Besides, he has a wife." Had she known of Tony's matrimonial vicissitudes she would have fainted.

The odd-job man had just finished his digging, and Tony strolled over to exchange a word: he never despaired of finding interest in the most unpromising material. Chats with para-orators, enthusiastic Salvationists, members of the Junior Turf Club, constellations of the stage, even housemaids taking in the milk,—all might be, and often were, instruments in the warfare against boredom. All were fish for his net. But it must be confessed that his catch had hitherto been of little value. He had bought a few centimes' worth, paying for it with numerous rouleaus, and he was beginning dimly to wonder if it was not rather an extravagant method of exchange.

"Done?" he asked laconically, and Henry Brown smiled with content.

"That's a good job jobbed," he replied. "Shifting earth is healthy, sir, but it takes doing."

"D'you like it?" said Tony; "I mean, d'you find it interesting and all that, or do you pant after the higher life? More wages and less work, and so forth, I mean?"

The odd-job man shrugged his shoulders.

"It's my job, sir," he said philosophically. "I can't say it's amazing interesting, but it's my job, and it's got to be done."

"Got to be done," repeated Tony, musing. "I suppose it has ... by some one. Thank goodness it's not to be done by me. Tell me, Brown, what do you really think of work? Does it bore you or what? Do you think it's a good thing, so to speak? You needn't mind speaking out—the vicar can't hear, and I'm a man of the world and all that. Tell me, does work bore you to tears?"

The other smiled.

"Work's kept many a man straight, sir," he said. "I should be sorry to be without."

"You really mean that?" asked Tony in surprise.

"I do, sir. Don't you think the same?"

Tony did not answer, but reflected for at least a minute. Then he took off his coat and turned up his shirt-sleeves with a whimsical smile. "I haven't worked for years," he said: "kept myself fit with developers and other horrors. Lend me your spade, will you? I want a new thrill."

Brown laughed, but obeyed. Tony began to dig, steadily and resolutely, at a spot where another post was to be planted. He did not attack the task too vehemently, as many an amateur would have done, for he had brains. But he dug faithfully, and at the end of ten minutes he was more than hot. He did not give in, however, but dug on till the task was accomplished. Then he threw down the spade, wiped his forehead and stretched himself. Brown watched him curiously.

"Had enough, sir?"

"For the present, yes," said Tony. "One mustn't suck pleasure to the dregs. But I'll admit it's not a bad sort of notion on the whole, this work. In small doses it might even be admirable—a kind of apéritif, you know. But, regarded as a habit ... that would need further consideration. Where can I find a tap?"

"Behind that fence, sir...."

Tony went to cleanse his hands, leaving the odd-job man chuckling. "Rum customer," he murmured: "a very rum customer, indeed. Oh, very rum! Everything's rum, when you come to think of it—more than rum.... Things seem to get rummer every day...."

Tony thought the same as he stood drying his hands upon the grass and a handkerchief behind the fence. The tap was screened from the lawn by the aforesaid fence, from the road by the privet-hedge. And as he dried and mused, steps, the light tapping of small feet, could be heard approaching on the other side of the hedge. From a subconscious strategy—caused by a deep-set mysterious instinct—he waited till the steps had gone past. Then he peeped through the hedge and nearly whooped. For, retreating, he observed the neat figure of his damsel of the visiting-card. Joy was excusable, for he had not seen her again since their encounter.

His first impulse was to whistle. This he checked on the score of vulgarity and bethought him what course would be best. Should he break through a weak spot in the hedge, leaving comrade Bangs to his own devices, or should he make formal but hasty adieux and pursue in the hope of overtaking? The latter was clearly the more correct procedure, but Tony's heart yearned regretfully over the girl in the road. She looked such a perfect pet! Luckily he was not called on to make an immediate decision, for she stopped a few yards farther on and gazed around. Tony concealed himself in such a way that he might still keep an eye upon her. What was she waiting for? He was not left long in doubt, for she gave a low but melodious whistle. The whistle was answered in the same key. "Brown, by all that's wonderful!" muttered Tony. "The lucky dog! No wonder he doesn't find work dull."

If he expected a love-passage he was disappointed. The girl, as soon as her whistle was returned, flung a piece of paper over the hedge and walked quickly away. Tony gave the odd-job man time to pick up the billet and presently strolled round, still drying his hands.

"Clean, sir?" asked the odd-job man stolidly. After all, the privet was thick and Tony might not have seen.

"Yes, thanks.... I say, Brown, I've been thinking over what you said about work just now. It seems to me that there's quite a lot to be said for it."

"Yes, sir?"

"I should like to know more ... to hear a little more about the practical side of the question before making up my mind as to its intrinsic worth. I wonder if you'd care to smoke a pipe and try the cider of The Happy Heart with me to-night?"

"Thank you, sir," replied Brown, betraying no surprise, "but I'm afraid I'm too busy."

"To-morrow, then...."

"Busy to-morrow, sir, too."

"Sunday an off day?"

"To be frank, sir, I have a young lady...."

"Ah!" said Tony, hoping to hear something. "I won't press you then. I wish you luck."

"Thank you, sir."

There was a brief silence that Tony felt oppressive. He was the first to break it.

"Been engaged long, Brown?"

"No, sir. Not very long."

Another silence. The impenetrability of these yokels is not exhilarating. Tony felt chilled, disappointed. He tried again.

"I suppose it's almost as engrossing as work, Brown?"

"Yes, sir; almost."

He said it without a smile, as if he was quite serious. But Tony suspected him of being guileful. Clearly it was useless to prolong the conversation. He sighed.

"Well, I must look for my friend. Good-by, Brown. Do come and talk to me about work sometime, when the lady is otherwise engaged."

"Thank you, sir."

Tony moved off to find Robert. He was discovered in the kitchen-garden, pretending to admire vegetable-marrows. Mrs. Peters was hovering grimly in the rear, a silent watchful figure. The vicar was dilating on the excellence of marrow jam. After saying good-by, Tony and Robert went off to the inn. The vicar turned to his wife with a smile.

"Quite a pleasant afternoon, my dear. I like Mr. Bangs. Mr. Wild, too, is amusing, though cynical. But we mustn't judge too harshly—perhaps he has had a disappointment and his cynicism is half-assumed. Undoubtedly humorous and clever. Some of his shots hit the mark."

"You think so?" said Mrs. Peters icily. "I dislike them both. Mr. Bangs, to say the least, is anything but quiet; Mr. Wild, I am sure, is a man who has had a gentleman's education and lapsed. Superficially clever, perhaps, but vulgar. You made a mistake in taking them up."

"No, no, my dear! Be a little more charitable——"

"A great mistake, Charles. But you always think you know best. What I insist on is principle. Nothing can compensate for the lack of that. Principle above cleverness——"

The vicar laughed good-naturedly.

"Why! what a dragon of virtue——"

He got no farther. Mrs. Peters suddenly assumed so dreadful an aspect that he shrank aghast and began to fumble for excuses.