CHAPTER 3.
George hid her. He did it, too, without wasting precious time byasking questions. In a situation which might well have thrown thequickest-witted of men off his balance, he acted with promptitude,intelligence and despatch. The fact is, George had for years beenan assiduous golfer; and there is no finer school for teachingconcentration and a strict attention to the matter in hand. Fewcrises, however unexpected, have the power to disturb a man who hasso conquered the weakness of the flesh as to have trained himselfto bend his left knee, raise his left heel, swing his arms well outfrom the body, twist himself into the shape of a corkscrew and usethe muscle of the wrist, at the same time keeping his head stilland his eye on the ball. It is estimated that there aretwenty-three important points to be borne in mind simultaneouslywhile making a drive at golf; and to the man who has mastered theart of remembering them all the task of hiding girls in taxicabs ismere child's play. To pull down the blinds on the side of thevehicle nearest the kerb was with George the work of a moment. Thenhe leaned out of the centre window in such a manner as completelyto screen the interior of the cab from public view.
"Thank you so much," murmured a voice behind him. It seemed to comefrom the floor.
"Not at all," said George, trying a sort of vocal chip-shot out ofthe corner of his mouth, designed to lift his voice backwards andlay it dead inside the cab.
He gazed upon Piccadilly with eyes from which the scales hadfallen. Reason told him that he was still in Piccadilly. Otherwiseit would have seemed incredible to him that this could be the samestreet which a moment before he had passed judgment upon and foundflat and uninteresting. True, in its salient features it hadaltered little. The same number of stodgy-looking people moved upand down. The buildings retained their air of not having had a bathsince the days of the Tudors. The east wind still blew. But,though superficially the same, in reality Piccadilly had alteredcompletely. Before it had been just Piccadilly. Now it was a goldenstreet in the City of Romance, a main thoroughfare of Bagdad, oneof the principal arteries of the capital of Fairyland. Arose-coloured mist swam before George's eyes. His spirits, so lowbut a few moments back, soared like a good niblick shot out of thebunker of Gloom. The years fell away from him till, in an instant,from being a rather poorly preserved, liverish greybeard ofsixty-five or so, he became a sprightly lad of twenty-one in aworld of springtime and flowers and laughing brooks. In otherwords, taking it by and large, George felt pretty good. Theimpossible had happened; Heaven had sent him an adventure, and hedidn't care if it snowed.
It was possibly the rose-coloured mist before his eyes thatprevented him from observing the hurried approach of a faultlesslyattired young man, aged about twenty-one, who during George'spreparations for ensuring privacy in his cab had been galloping inpursuit in a resolute manner that suggested a well-dressedbloodhound somewhat overfed and out of condition. Only when thisperson stopped and began to pant within a few inches of his facedid he become aware of his existence.
"You, sir!" said the bloodhound, removing a gleaming silk hat,mopping a pink forehead, and replacing the luminous superstructureonce more in position. "You, sir!"
Whatever may be said of the possibility of love at first sight, inwhich theory George was now a confirmed believer, there can be nodoubt that an exactly opposite phenomenon is of frequentoccurrence. After one look at some people even friendship isimpossible. Such a one, in George's opinion, was this gurglingexcrescence underneath the silk hat. He comprised in his singleperson practically all the qualities which George disliked most. Hewas, for a young man, extraordinarily obese. Already a secondedition of his chin had been published, and the perfectly-cutmorning coat which encased his upper section bulged out in anopulent semi-circle. He wore a little moustache, which to George'sprejudiced eye seemed more a complaint than a moustache. His facewas red, his manner dictatorial, and he was touched in the wind.Take him for all in all he looked like a bit of bad news.
George had been educated at Lawrenceville and Harvard, and hadsubsequently had the privilege of mixing socially with many of NewYork's most prominent theatrical managers; so he knew how to behavehimself. No Vere de Vere could have exhibited greater repose ofmanner.
"And what," he inquired suavely, leaning a little further out ofthe cab, "is eating you, Bill?"
A messenger boy, two shabby men engaged in non-essentialindustries, and a shop girl paused to observe the scene. Time wasnot of the essence to these confirmed sightseers. The shop girl waslate already, so it didn't matter if she was any later; themessenger boy had nothing on hand except a message marked"Important: Rush"; and as for the two shabby men, their onlyimmediate plans consisted of a vague intention of getting to somepublic house and leaning against the wall; so George's time wastheir time. One of the pair put his head on one side and said:"What ho!"; the other picked up a cigar stub from the gutter andbegan to smoke.
"A young lady just got into your cab," said the stout young man.
"Surely not?" said George.
"What the devil do you mean--surely not?"
"I've been in the cab all the time, and I should have noticed it."
At this juncture the block in the traffic was relieved, and the cabbowled smartly on for some fifty yards when it was again halted.George, protruding from the window like a snail, was entertained bythe spectacle of the pursuit. The hunt was up. Short of throwinghis head up and baying, the stout young man behaved exactly as abloodhound in similar circumstances would have conducted itself. Hebroke into a jerky gallop, attended by his self-appointedassociates; and, considering that the young man was so stout, thatthe messenger boy considered it unprofessional to hurry, that theshop girl had doubts as to whether sprinting was quite ladylike,and that the two Bohemians were moving at a quicker gait than ashuffle for the first occasion in eleven years, the cavalcade madegood time. The cab was still stationary when they arrived in abody.
"Here he is, guv'nor," said the messenger boy, removing a bead ofperspiration with the rush message.
"Here he is, guv'nor," said the non-smoking Bohemian. "What oh!"
"Here I am!" agreed George affably. "And what can I do for you?"
The smoker spat appreciatively at a passing dog. The point seemedto him well taken. Not for many a day had he so enjoyed himself. Inan arid world containing too few goes of gin and too manypolicemen, a world in which the poor were oppressed and couldseldom even enjoy a quiet cigar without having their fingerstrodden upon, he found himself for the moment contented, happy, andexpectant. This looked like a row between toffs, and of all thingswhich most intrigued him a row between toffs ranked highest.
"R!" he said approvingly. "Now you're torkin'!"
The shop girl had espied an acquaintance in the crowd. She gavetongue.
"Mordee! Cummere! Cummere quick! Sumfin' hap'nin'!" Maudie,accompanied by perhaps a dozen more of London's millions, addedherself to the audience. These all belonged to the class which willgather round and watch silently while a motorist mends a tyre. Theyare not impatient. They do not call for rapid and continuousaction. A mere hole in the ground, which of all sights is perhapsthe least vivid and dramatic, is enough to grip their attention forhours at a time. They stared at George and George's cab withunblinking gaze. They did not know what would happen or when itwould happen, but they intended to wait till something did happen.It might be for years or it might be for ever, but they meant to bethere when things began to occur.
Speculations became audible.
"Wot is it? 'Naccident?"
"Nah! Gent 'ad 'is pocket picked!"
"Two toffs 'ad a scrap!"
"Feller bilked the cabman!"
A sceptic made a cynical suggestion.
"They're doin' of it for the pictures."
The idea gained instant popularity.
"Jear that? It's a fillum!"
"Wot o', Charlie!"
"The kemerer's 'idden in the keb."
"Wot'll they be up to next!"
A red-nosed spectator with a tray of collar-studs
harnessed to hisstomach started another school of thought. He spoke with decisionas one having authority.
"Nothin' of the blinkin' kind! The fat 'un's bin 'avin' one or twoaround the corner, and it's gorn and got into 'is 'ead!"
The driver of the cab, who till now had been ostentatiously unawarethat there was any sort of disturbance among the lower orders,suddenly became humanly inquisitive.
"What's it all about?" he asked, swinging around and addressingGeorge's head.
"Exactly what I want to know," said George. He indicated thecollar-stud merchant. "The gentleman over there with the portableWoolworth-bargain-counter seems to me to have the best theory."
The stout young man, whose peculiar behaviour had drawn all thisflattering attention from the many-headed and who appearedconsiderably ruffled by the publicity, had been puffing noisilyduring the foregoing conversation. Now, having recovered sufficientbreath to resume the attack, he addressed himself to George oncemore.
"Damn you, sir, will you let me look inside that cab?"
"Leave me," said George, "I would be alone."
"There is a young lady in that cab. I saw her get in, and I havebeen watching ever since, and she has not got out, so she is therenow."
George nodded approval of this close reasoning.
"Your argument seems to be without a flaw. But what then? Weapplaud the Man of Logic, but what of the Man of Action? What areyou going to do about it?"
"Get out of my way!"
"I won't."
"Then I'll force my way in!"
"If you try it, I shall infallibly bust you one on the jaw."
The stout young man drew back a pace.
"You can't do that sort of thing, you know."
"I know I can't," said George, "but I shall. In this life, my dearsir, we must be prepared for every emergency. We must distinguishbetween the unusual and the impossible. It would be unusual for acomparative stranger to lean out of a cab window and sock you one,but you appear to have laid your plans on the assumption that itwould be impossible. Let this be a lesson to you!"
"I tell you what it is--"
"The advice I give to every young man starting life is 'Neverconfuse the unusual with the impossible!' Take the present case,for instance. If you had only realized the possibility of somebodysome day busting you on the jaw when you tried to get into a cab,you might have thought out dozens of crafty schemes for dealingwith the matter. As it is, you are unprepared. The thing comes onyou as a surprise. The whisper flies around the clubs: 'Poor oldWhat's-his-name has been taken unawares. He cannot cope with thesituation!'"
The man with the collar-studs made another diagnosis. He was seeingclearer and clearer into the thing every minute.
"Looney!" he decided. "This 'ere one's bin moppin' of it up, andthe one in the keb's orf 'is bloomin' onion. That's why 'e 'sstandin' up instead of settin'. 'E won't set down 'cept you bring'im a bit o' toast, 'cos he thinks 'e 's a poached egg."
George beamed upon the intelligent fellow.
"Your reasoning is admirable, but--"
He broke off here, not because he had not more to say, but for thereason that the stout young man, now in quite a Berserk frame ofmind, made a sudden spring at the cab door and clutched the handle,which he was about to wrench when George acted with all thepromptitude and decision which had marked his behaviour from thestart.
It was a situation which called for the nicest judgment. To allowthe assailant free play with the handle or even to wrestle with himfor its possession entailed the risk that the door might open andreveal the girl. To bust the young man on the jaw, as promised, onthe other hand, was not in George's eyes a practical policy.Excellent a deterrent as the threat of such a proceeding might be,its actual accomplishment was not to be thought of. Gaols yawn andactions for assault lie in wait for those who go about the placebusting their fellows on the jaw. No. Something swift, somethingdecided and immediate was indicated, but something that stoppedshort of technical battery.
George brought his hand round with a sweep and knocked the stoutyoung man's silk hat off.
The effect was magical. We all of us have our Achilles heel,and--paradoxically enough--in the case of the stout young man thatheel was his hat. Superbly built by the only hatter in London whocan construct a silk hat that is a silk hat, and freshly ironed byloving hands but a brief hour before at the only shaving-parlour inLondon where ironing is ironing and not a brutal attack, it was hispride and joy. To lose it was like losing his trousers. It made himfeel insufficiently clad. With a passionate cry like that of somewild creature deprived of its young, the erstwhile Berserk releasedthe handle and sprang in pursuit. At the same moment the trafficmoved on again.
The last George saw was a group scene with the stout young man inthe middle of it. The hat had been popped up into the infield,where it had been caught by the messenger boy. The stout young manwas bending over it and stroking it with soothing fingers. It wastoo far off for anything to be audible, but he seemed to George tobe murmuring words of endearment to it. Then, placing it on hishead, he darted out into the road and George saw him no more. Theaudience remained motionless, staring at the spot where theincident had happened. They would continue to do this till the nextpoliceman came along and moved them on.
With a pleasant wave of farewell, in case any of them might beglancing in his direction, George drew in his body and sat down.
The girl in brown had risen from the floor, if she had ever beenthere, and was now seated composedly at the further end of the cab.