was more conversation, which ended in Denry repeating, with sympathetic resignation:
"No, you 'll have to get out. It's bailiffs."
Immediately afterwards he left the residence, with a bright filial smile. And then, in two minutes, he popped his cheerful head in at the door again.
"Look here, mother," he said, "I 'll lend you half a crown if you like."
Charity beamed on his face, and genuinely warmed his heart.
"But you must pay me something for the accommodation," he added. "I can't do it for nothing. You must pay me back next week and give me threepence. That's fair. I could n't bear to see you turned out of your house. Now, get your rent-book."
And he marked half a crown as paid in her greasy, dirty rent-book, and the same in his large book.
"Eh, you 're a queer 'un, Mester Machin!" murmured the old woman, as he left. He never knew precisely what she meant. Fifteen—twenty years later in his career, her intonation of that phrase would recur to him and puzzle him.
On the following Monday everybody in Chapel Alley and Carpenter's Square seemed to know that the inconvenience of bailiffs and eviction could be avoided by arrangement with Denry the philanthropist. He did quite a business. And having regard to the fantastic nature of the security, he could not well charge less than threepence a week for half a crown. That was about forty per cent. a month and five hundred per cent. per annum. The security was merely fantastic, but nevertheless, he had his remedy against evil-doers. He would take what they paid him for rent and refuse to mark it as rent, appropriating it to his loans; so that the fear of bailiffs was upon them again. Thus, as the good genius of Chapel Alley and Carpenter's Square, saving the distressed from the rigours of the open street, rescuing the needy from their tightest corners, keeping many a home together when but for him it would have fallen to pieces, always smiling, jolly, sympathetic, and picturesque, Denry at length employed the five-pound note won from Harold Etches. A five-pound note—especially a new and crisp one, as this was—is a miraculous fragment of matter, wonderful in the pleasure which the sight of it gives even to millionaires; but perhaps no five-pound note was ever so miraculous as Denry's. Ten per cent. per week, compound interest, mounts up; it ascends; and it lifts. Denry never talked precisely. But the town soon began to comprehend that he was a rising man, a man to watch. The town admitted that, so far, he had lived up to his reputation as a dancer with countesses. The town felt that there was something indefinable about Denry.
Denry himself felt this. He did not consider himself clever, nor brilliant. But he considered himself peculiarly gifted. He considered himself different from other men. His thoughts would run:
"Anybody but me would have knuckled down to Duncalf and remained a shorthand clerk for evermore."
"Who but me would have had the idea of going to the ball and asking the Countess to dance? … And then that business with the fan!"
"Who but me would have had the idea of taking his rent-collecting off Duncalf?"
"Who but me would have had the idea of combining these loans with the rent-collecting. It's simple enough! It's just what they want! And yet nobody ever thought of it till I thought of it!"
And he knew of a surety that he was that most admired type in the bustling, industrial provinces—a card.
IV
The desire to become a member of the Sports Club revived in his breast. And yet, celebrity though he was, rising though he was, he secretly regarded the Sports Club at Hillport as being really a bit above him. The Sports Club was the latest and greatest phenomenon of social life in Bursley, and it was emphatically the club to which it behoved the golden youth of the town to belong. To Denry's generation the Conservative Club and the Liberal Club did not seem like real clubs; they were machinery for politics, and membership carried nearly no distinction with it. But the Sports Club had been founded by the most dashing young men of Hillport, which is the most aristocratic suburb of Bursley and set on a lofty eminence. The sons of the wealthiest earthenware manufacturers made a point of belonging to it, and, after a period of disdain, their fathers also made a point of belonging to it. It was housed in an old mansion with extensive grounds and a pond and tennis courts; it had a working agreement with the Golf Club and with the Hillport Cricket Club. But chiefly it was a social affair. The correctest thing was to be seen there at nights, rather late than early; and an exact knowledge of card games and billiards was worth more in it than prowess on the field.
It was a club in the Pall Mall sense of the word.
And Denry still lived in insignificant Brougham Street, and his mother was still a sempstress! These were apparently insurmountable truths. All the men whom he knew to be members were somehow more dashing than Denry—and it was a question of dash; few things are more mysterious than dash. Denry was unique, knew himself to be unique; he had danced with a Countess; and yet … those other fellows! … Yes there are puzzles, baffling puzzles, in the social career.
In going over on Tuesdays to Hanbridge, where he had a few trifling rents to collect, Denry often encountered Harold Etches in the tram-car. At that time Etches lived at Hillport, and the principal Etches manufactory was at Hanbridge. Etches partook of the riches of his family and, though a bachelor, was reputed to have the spending of at least a thousand a year. He was famous, on summer Sundays, on the pier at Llandudno, in white flannels. He had been one of the originators of the Sports Club. He spent far more on clothes alone than Denry spent in the entire enterprise of keeping his soul in his body. At their first meetings little was said. They were not equals and nothing but dress-suits could make them equals. However, even a king could not refuse speech with a scullion whom he had allowed to win money from him. And Etches and Denry chatted feebly. Bit by bit they chatted less feebly. And once, when they were almost alone in the car, they chatted with vehemence during the complete journey of twenty minutes.
"He is n't so bad," said Denry to himself, of the dashing Harold Etches.
And he took a private oath that at his very next encounter with Etches he would mention the Sports Club—"just to see." This oath disturbed his sleep for several nights. But with Denry an oath was sacred. Having sworn that he would mention the Club to Etches, he was bound to mention it. When Tuesday came he hoped that Etches would not be on the tram, and the coward in him would have walked to Hanbridge instead of taking the tram. But he was brave. And he boarded the tram. And Etches was already in it. Now that he looked at it close, the enterprise of suggesting to Harold Etches that he, Denry, would be a suitable member of the Sports Club at Hillport seemed in the highest degree preposterous. Why! He could not play at any games at all! He was a figure only in the streets! Nevertheless—the oath!
He sat awkwardly silent for a few moments, wondering how to begin, and determined to get it over. And then Harold Etches leaned across the tram to him and said:
"I say, Machin. I 've several times meant to ask you. Why don't you put up for the Sports Club? It's really very good, you know."
Denry blushed. Quite probably for the last time in his life. And he saw with fresh clearness how great he was, and how large he must loom in the life of the town. He perceived that he had been too modest.
V
You could not be elected to the Sports Club all in a minute. There were formalities; and that these formalities were complicated and took time is simply a proof that the Club was correctly exclusive, and worth belonging to. When at length Denry received notice from the "Secretary and Steward" that he was elected to the most sparkling fellowship in the Five Towns, he was, positively,
