she may be worse now, sir, and I cannot even see Jenny from here. The library windows look to the back.’
‘If she dies,’ I said, ‘it will be a warning to you to marry a stronger woman next time.’
Now everyone knows that there is little real affection among the lower orders. As soon as they have lost one mate they take another. Yet William, forgetting our relative positions, drew himself up and raised his fist, and if I had not stepped back I swear he would have struck me.
The highly improper words William used I will omit, out of consideration for him. Even while he was apologising for them I retired to the smoking-room, where I found the cigarettes so badly rolled that they would not keep alight. After a little I remembered that I wanted to see Myddleton Finch about an improved saddle of which a friend of his has the patent. He was in the newsroom, and, having questioned him about the saddle, I said:
‘By the way, what is this story about your swearing at one of the waiters?’
‘You mean about his swearing at me,’ Myddleton Finch replied, reddening.
‘I am glad that was it,’ I said; ‘for I could not believe you guilty of such bad form.’
‘If I did swear–’ he was beginning, but I went on:
‘The version which has reached me was that you swore at him, and he repeated the word. I heard he was to be dismissed and you reprimanded.’
‘Who told you that?’ asked Myddleton Finch, who is a timid man.
‘I forget; it is club talk,’ I replied, lightly. ‘But of course the committee will take your word. The waiter, whichever one he is, richly deserves his dismissal for insulting you without provocation.’
Then our talk returned to the saddle, but Myddleton Finch was abstracted, and presently he said:
‘Do you know, I fancy I was wrong in thinking that the waiter swore at me, and I’ll withdraw my charge to-morrow.’
Myddleton Finch then left me, and, sitting alone, I realised that I had been doing William a service. To some slight extent I may have intentionally helped him to retain his place in the club, and I now see the reason, which was that he alone knows precisely to what extent I like my claret heated.
For a mere second I remembered William’s remark that he should not be able to see the girl Jenny from the library windows. Then this recollection drove from my head that I had only dined in the sense that my dinner-bill was paid. Returning to the dining-room, I happened to take my chair at the window, and while I was eating a deviled kidney I saw in the street the girl whose nods had such an absurd effect on William.
The children of the poor are as thoughtless as their parents, and this Jenny did not sign to the windows in the hope that William might see her, though she could not see him. Her face, which was disgracefully dirty, bore doubt and dismay on it, but whether she brought good news it would not tell. Somehow I had expected her to signal when she saw me, and, though her message could not interest me, I was in the mood in which one is irritated at that not taking place which he is awaiting. Ultimately she seemed to be making up her mind to go away.
A boy was passing with the evening papers, and I hurried out to get one, rather thoughtlessly, for we have all the papers in the club. Unfortunately, I misunderstood the direction the boy had taken; but round the first corner (out of sight of the club windows) I saw the girl Jenny, and so asked her how William’s wife was.
‘Did he send you to me?’ she replied, impertinently taking me for a waiter. ‘My!’ she added, after a second scrutiny, ‘I b’lieve you’re one of them. His missis is a bit better, and I was to tell him as she took all the tapiocar.’
‘How could you tell him?’ I asked.
‘I was to do like this,’ she replied, and went through the supping of something out of a plate in dumb-show.
‘That would not show she ate all the tapioca,’ I said.
‘But I was to end like this,’ she answered, licking an imaginary plate with her tongue.
I gave her a shilling (to get rid of her), and returned to the club disgusted.
Later in the evening I had to go to the club library for a book, and while William was looking in vain for it (I had forgotten the title) I said to him:
‘By the way, William, Mr. Myddleton Finch is to tell the committee that he was mistaken in the charge he brought against you, so you will doubtless be restored to the dining-room to-morrow.’
The two members were still in their chairs, probably sleeping lightly; yet he had the effrontery to thank me.
‘Don’t thank me,’ I said, blushing at the imputation. ‘Remember your place, William!’
‘But Mr. Myddleton Finch knew I swore,’ he insisted.
‘A gentleman,’ I replied, stiffly, ‘cannot remember for twenty-four hours what a waiter has said to him.’
‘No, sir; but–’
To stop him I had to say: ‘And, ah, William, your wife is a little better. She has eaten the tapioca – all of it.’
‘How can you know, sir?’
‘By an accident.’
‘Jenny signed to the window?’
‘No.’
‘Then you saw her, and went out, and–’
‘Nonsense!’
‘Oh, sir, to do that for me! May God bl–’
‘William!’
‘Forgive me, sir; but – when I tell my missis, she will say it was thought of your own wife as made you do it.’
He wrung my hand. I dared not withdraw it, lest we should waken the sleepers.
William returned to the dining-room, and I had to show him that if he did not cease looking gratefully at me I must change my waiter. I also ordered him to stop telling me nightly how his wife was, but I continued to know, as I could not help seeing the girl Jenny from the window. Twice in a week I learned from this objectionable child that the ailing woman had again eaten all the tapioca. Then I became suspicious of William. I will tell why.
It began with a remark of Captain Upjohn’s. We had been speaking of the inconvenience of not being able to get a hot dish served after 1 A.M., and he said:
‘It is because these lazy waiters would strike. If the beggars had a love of their work they would not rush away from the club the moment one o’clock strikes. That glum fellow who often waits on you takes to his heels the moment he is clear of the club steps. He ran into me the other night at the top of the street, and was off without apologising.’
‘You mean the foot of the street, Upjohn,’ I said; for such is the way to Drury Lane.
‘No; I mean the top. The man was running west.’
‘East.’
‘West.’
I smiled, which
