The Sailor's manner showed very clearly that no apology was called for.

Such a sum was princely. Grat.i.tude was the emotion uppermost, and he did his best to express it in his queer, disjointed way.

"I'll always remember your kindness, sir," he said huskily. "I'd never have been able to make anything of it at all if it hadn't been for you."

"Oh, yes, you would. Not so soon, perhaps, but it's all there.

Anyhow, I'm very glad if I've been a bit of use at the first fence."

The cordial directness of Edward Ambrose made a strong appeal to the Sailor. He had knocked about the world enough to begin to know something of men. And of one thing he was already convinced. The editor was of the true Klond.y.k.e breed. He said what he meant, and he meant what he said. And when this fortunate interview was at an end and the young man returned to the Charing Cross Road, it was not so much the fabulous sum which had come to him that made him happy, as the sure knowledge that he had found a friend. He had found a friend of the kind for which his soul had long craved.

XII

"Now that Greased Lightning is beginning to make good," said Miss Gertie Press, "I suppose you'll marry him, my Cora?"

"Shouldn't wonder. Have a banana."

This was persiflage on the part of Miss Dobbs. She meant have a cigarette.

Miss Press lit the cheap but scented Egyptian that was offered her, and lay back in the wicker chair with an air of languor which somehow did not match up with the gaminlike acuteness of her comically ill-natured countenance.

"That's where long views come in," philosophized Miss Press. "Wish I could take 'em. But I can't. I haven't the _nous_. We all thought you was potty to take up with him. But you won't half give us the bird now he looks like turning out a good investment."

Miss Dobbs smiled at the frankness of her friend. Miss Press was noted throughout the length and the breadth of the Avenue for her habit of thinking aloud.

Miss Zoe Bonser, who was eating a tea cake, also smiled. It was Sunday afternoon, and these three ladies were awaiting the arrival of Mr.

Henry Harper in a rather speculative frame of mind. The previous Sunday Mr. Harper had not appeared.

It was no longer possible to laugh at the mere name of Greased Lightning and to pull Cora's leg and chaff her unmercifully. It seemed that Miss Bonser, having mentioned casually to Mr. Albert Hobson that she had a friend who had a friend who knew a young fellow whose first serial was just beginning in _Brown's_, the admired Albert had inquired immediately:

"What's the name of your young fellow?"

"He's not my young fellow," said Zoe the cautious. "But his name's--Lord, I've forgotten it!" This was untrue. "But we all think he's potty."

"His name is not Henry Harper, by any chance?"

Miss Bonser nodded discreetly. She was a little surprised at the set of the wind.

"But, of course, he's barmy."

"Whatever he is, he's no slouch," said the judicial Mr. Hobson. He himself was no slouch either, in spite of the company which in hours of ease he affected. "He'll go far. He's another Stevenson and with luck one of these days he might be something bigger."

"Don't care if he's a John Roberts or a Dawson," said Zoe; "he's not fit to be out without his nurse." If the latter part of Mr. Hobson's statement had meant little to that astute mind, the first part meant a good deal.

Miss Bonser bore the news to King John's Mansions on the following Sunday afternoon. It made quite a sensation. Bert Hobson was the nearest thing to "the goods" which had yet impinged on that refined circle. He was something more than the average harmless fool about town; in the opinion of Miss Dobbs and Miss Press, he knew his way about; and if Albert had really said that Harry was the coming man, he could not have such a great distance to travel.

"I hope he is not going to give us a miss in baulk now he's got there.

That'll be sw.a.n.k if he does, won't it, Bonser?" Miss Press winked at Miss Bonser in a serio-comic manner.

"It will, Press," said that lady.

"He'll come. You'll see," said Miss Dobbs, with reasoned optimism.

"He's here now."

In fact, at that moment a mild a.s.sault was being delivered by the decrepit knocker on a faintly responsive front door.

"What was the check that _Brown's_ gave him?" Miss Press asked Miss Bonser, as Miss Dobbs went forth to receive her guest.

"Three hundred--so she says."

"Do you believe it?"

"Why not?"

"But he's barmy."

"All these writing men are."

"Except Bert."

"Oh, he's barmy in a way, else he wouldn't have taken up with me."

"Yes, that's true, dear. But did he say that about It?"

"Ye-es."

"Well, it's time she had a bit of luck ... if she's really going to have it. She wants it badly."

"Yes, by G.o.d."

At this moment Mr. Henry Harper came into the room. He entered very nervously with his usual blush of embarra.s.sment. The truth was, although he had yet to realize it clearly, the undercurrent of sarcasm, never absent from this refined atmosphere, always hurt him. Mr. Henry Harper was a very sensitive plant, and these fashionable and witty ladies did not appear to know that.

"He's a sw.a.n.ker," was the greeting of Miss Press, as she offered her hand and then withdrew it playfully before Mr. Harper could take it.

"And I never shake hands with a sw.a.n.ker, do I, Bonser?"

"But he's so clever," said Miss Bonser, politely offering hers. "He's Bert Hobson at his best."

Mr. Harper was so overcome by this reception that he had the misfortune to knock over the teapot, which had been placed on a small and ill-balanced j.a.panese table.

"d.a.m.n you!" The voice of the hostess came upon the culprit like the stroke of a whip. For a moment Miss Dobbs was off her guard. She was furious at the ruin of her carpet and her hospitality, although the latter was really the more important as the carpet was ruined already.

"However, it doesn't matter." She hastened to cover the "d.a.m.n you"

with a heroic smile. "Take a pew, Harry, and make yourself comfy. I can easily get some more; it's the slavey's Sunday out." The hostess, teapot in hand, withdrew from the room with a winning air of reconst.i.tuted amenity.

"If you had been a little gentleman," said Miss Press, as the hostess left the room, "you would have shot out of your chair, opened the door for her, carried the teapot to the kitchen, and held the caddy while she put in more tea. And then you'd have fiddled about with the kettle while she held the teapot, and poured boiling water over her hand.

After that you'd have gone down on your knees, and then you'd have kissed it better. At least, that's how you'd have behaved if you had been a mother's boy in the Guards. Wouldn't he, Bonser?"

"Shut up, Press," said Miss Bonser. "It's a shame to rag as you do."