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Read Ebook: A Gentleman's Gentleman 1909 by Smith Francis Hopkinson
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Ebook has 80 lines and 7447 words, and 2 pages
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.
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.
"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."
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:
"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."
Lonnegan looked at Mac curiously. The dear fellow must be talking through his hat.
The toot-toot of an automobile cut short the discussion.
The American millionaire had arrived!
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.
"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."
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.
"Who do you think the big man is, Mac?" Lonnegan asked.
"Don't know, and don't want to know."
"Lambert."
"What! Saw Logs?"
"The same, and--yes--by Jove! That little fellow with the wraps is Tommy."
A moment later Tommy reappeared and made straight for the barmaid.
"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." "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--"
The ice was ready now , and so was the vermouth and the glasses, all on a tray.
"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."
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.
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.
No! There were no buds or blossoms--nothing of any kind, for that matter--out of Tommy's reach!
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.
"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.
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.
"They've gone!" he cried. "Scooted! Saw Logs, Mrs. Saw, the piece of kindling and her maid in the first car, and--"
He was doubled up like a jack-knife.
"And left Tommy behind!" we both cried.
"Behind!" Mac was verging on apoplexy now. "Behind! Not much. He was tucked away in the other car with the valet!"
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