THE EPISODE OF THE LIVE WEEKLY
Fourth of a Series of Six Stories [First published in _PictorialReview_, August 1916]
It was with a start that Roland Bleke realized that the girl at theother end of the bench was crying. For the last few minutes, as faras his preoccupation allowed him to notice them at all, he had beenattributing the subdued sniffs to a summer cold, having just recoveredfrom one himself.
He was embarrassed. He blamed the fate that had led him to thisparticular bench, but he wished to give himself up to quiet deliberationon the question of what on earth he was to do with two hundred and fiftythousand pounds, to which figure his fortune had now risen.
The sniffs continued. Roland's discomfort increased. Chivalry had alwaysbeen his weakness. In the old days, on a hundred and forty poundsa year, he had had few opportunities of indulging himself in thisdirection; but now it seemed to him sometimes that the whole world wascrying out for assistance.
Should he speak to her? He wanted to; but only a few days ago his eyeshad been caught by the placard of a weekly paper bearing the title of'Squibs,' on which in large letters was the legend "Men Who Speakto Girls," and he had gathered that the accompanying article was adenunciation rather than a eulogy of these individuals. On the otherhand, she was obviously in distress.
Another sniff decided him.
"I say, you know," he said.
The girl looked at him. She was small, and at the present moment hadthat air of the floweret surprized while shrinking, which adds a goodthirty-three per cent. to a girl's attractions. Her nose, he noted, wasdelicately tip-tilted. A certain pallor added to her beauty. Roland'sheart executed the opening steps of a buck-and-wing dance.
"Pardon me," he went on, "but you appear to be in trouble. Is thereanything I can do for you?"
She looked at him again--a keen look which seemed to get into Roland'ssoul and walk about it with a searchlight. Then, as if satisfied by theinspection, she spoke.
"No, I don't think there is," she said. "Unless you happen to be theproprietor of a weekly paper with a Woman's Page, and need an editressfor it."
"I don't understand."
"Well, that's all any one could do for me--give me back my work or giveme something else of the same sort."
"Oh, have you lost your job?"
"I have. So would you mind going away, because I want to go on crying,and I do it better alone. You won't mind my turning you out, I hope, butI was here first, and there are heaps of other benches."
"No, but wait a minute. I want to hear about this. I might be able--whatI mean is--think of something. Tell me all about it."
There is no doubt that the possession of two hundred and fifty thousandpounds tones down a diffident man's diffidence. Roland began to feelalmost masterful.
"Why should I?"
"Why shouldn't you?"
"There's something in that," said the girl reflectively. "After all,you might know somebody. Well, as you want to know, I have just beendischarged from a paper called 'Squibs.' I used to edit the Woman'sPage."
"By Jove, did you write that article on 'Men Who Speak----'?"
The hard manner in which she had wrapped herself as in a garmentvanished instantly. Her eyes softened. She even blushed. Just a becomingpink, you know!
"You don't mean to say you read it? I didn't think that any one everreally read 'Squibs.'"
"Read it!" cried Roland, recklessly abandoning truth. "I should jollywell think so. I know it by heart. Do you mean to say that, afteran article like that, they actually sacked you? Threw you out as afailure?"
"Oh, they didn't send me away for incompetence. It was simply becausethey couldn't afford to keep me on. Mr. Petheram was very nice aboutit."
"Who's Mr. Petheram?"
"Mr. Petheram's everything. He calls himself the editor, but he's reallyeverything except office-boy, and I expect he'll be that next week.When I started with the paper, there was quite a large staff. But it gotwhittled down by degrees till there was only Mr. Petheram and myself. Itwas like the crew of the 'Nancy Bell.' They got eaten one by one, tillI was the only one left. And now I've gone. Mr. Petheram is doing thewhole paper now."
"How is it that he can't get anything better to do?" Roland said.
"He has done lots of better things. He used to be at Carmelite House,but they thought he was too old."
Roland felt relieved. He conjured up a picture of a white-haired elderwith a fatherly manner.
"Oh, he's old, is he?"
"Twenty-four."
There was a brief silence. Something in the girl's expression stungRoland. She wore a rapt look, as if she were dreaming of the absentPetheram, confound him. He would show her that Petheram was not the onlyman worth looking rapt about.
He rose.
"Would you mind giving me your address?" he said.
"Why?"
"In order," said Roland carefully, "that I may offer you your formeremployment on 'Squibs.' I am going to buy it."
After all, your man of dash and enterprise, your Napoleon, does havehis moments. Without looking at her, he perceived that he had bowledher over completely. Something told him that she was staring at him,open-mouthed. Meanwhile, a voice within him was muttering anxiously, "Iwonder how much this is going to cost."
"You're going to buy 'Squibs!'"
Her voice had fallen away to an awestruck whisper.
"I am."
She gulped.
"Well, I think you're wonderful."
So did Roland.
"Where will a letter find you?" he asked.
"My name is March. Bessie March. I'm living at twenty-seven GuildfordStreet."
"Twenty-seven. Thank you. Good morning. I will communicate with you indue course."
He raised his hat and walked away. He had only gone a few steps, whenthere was a patter of feet behind him. He turned.
"I--I just wanted to thank you," she said.
"Not at all," said Roland. "Not at all."
He went on his way, tingling with just triumph. Petheram? Who wasPetheram? Who, in the name of goodness, was Petheram? He had putPetheram in his proper place, he rather fancied. Petheram, forsooth.Laughable.
A copy of the current number of 'Squibs,' purchased at a book-stall,informed him, after a minute search to find the editorial page, that theoffices of the paper were in Fetter Lane. It was evidence of his exaltedstate of mind that he proceeded thither in a cab.
Fetter Lane is one of those streets in which rooms that have only justescaped being cupboards by a few feet achieve the dignity of offices.There might have been space to swing a cat in the editorial sanctum of'Squibs,' but it would have been a near thing. As for the outer office,in which a vacant-faced lad of fifteen received Roland and instructedhim to wait while he took his card in to Mr. Petheram, it was a merebox. Roland was afraid to expand his chest for fear of bruising it.
The boy returned to say that Mr. Petheram would see him.
Mr. Petheram was a young man with a mop of hair, and an air of almostpainful restraint. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and the table beforehim was heaped high with papers. Opposite him, evidently in the act oftaking his leave was a comfortable-looking man of middle age with ared face and a short beard. He left as Roland entered and Roland wassurprized to see Mr. Petheram spring to his feet, shake his fist atthe closing door, and kick the wall with a vehemence which brought downseveral inches of discolored plaster.
"Take a seat," he said, when he had finished this performance. "What canI do for you?"
Roland had always imagined that editors in their private offices wereless easily approached and, when approached, more brusk. The fact wasthat Mr. Petheram, whose optimism nothing could quench, had mistaken himfor a prospective advertiser.
"I want to buy the paper," said Roland. He was aware that this was anabrupt way of approaching the subject, but, after all, he did want tobuy the paper, so why not say so?
Mr. Petheram fizzed in his chair. He glowed with excitement.
"Do you
mean to tell me there's a single book-stall in London which hassold out? Great Scott, perhaps they've all sold out! How many did youtry?"
"I mean buy the whole paper. Become proprietor, you know."
Roland felt that he was blushing, and hated himself for it. He ought tobe carrying this thing through with an air. Mr. Petheram looked at himblankly.
"Why?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know," said Roland. He felt the interview was going allwrong. It lacked a stateliness which this kind of interview should havehad.
"Honestly?" said Mr. Petheram. "You aren't pulling my leg?"
Roland nodded. Mr. Petheram appeared to struggle with his conscience,and finally to be worsted by it, for his next remarks were limpidlyhonest.
"Don't you be an ass," he said. "You don't know what you're lettingyourself in for. Did you see that blighter who went out just now? Do youknow who he is? That's the fellow we've got to pay five pounds a week tofor life."
"Why?"
"We can't get rid of him. When the paper started, the proprietors--notthe present ones--thought it would give the thing a boom if they hada football competition with a first prize of a fiver a week for life.Well, that's the man who won it. He's been handed down as a legacy fromproprietor to proprietor, till now we've got him. Ages ago they triedto get him to compromise for a lump sum down, but he wouldn't. Said hewould only spend it, and preferred to get it by the week. Well, by thetime we've paid that vampire, there isn't much left out of our profits.That's why we are at the present moment a little understaffed."
A frown clouded Mr. Petheram's brow. Roland wondered if he was thinkingof Bessie March.
"I know all about that," he said.
"And you still want to buy the thing?"
"Yes."
"But what on earth for? Mind you, I ought not to be crabbing my ownpaper like this, but you seem a good chap, and I don't want to see youlanded. Why are you doing it?"
"Oh, just for fun."
"Ah, now you're talking. If you can afford expensive amusements, goahead."
He put his feet on the table, and lit a short pipe. His gloomy views onthe subject of 'Squibs' gave way to a wave of optimism.
"You know," he said, "there's really a lot of life in the old rag yet.If it were properly run. What has hampered us has been lack of capital.We haven't been able to advertise. I'm bursting with ideas for boomingthe paper, only naturally you can't do it for nothing. As for editing,what I don't know about editing--but perhaps you had got somebody elsein your mind?"
"No, no," said Roland, who would not have known an editor from anoffice-boy. The thought of interviewing prospective editors appalledhim.
"Very well, then," resumed Mr. Petheram, reassured, kicking over a heapof papers to give more room for his feet. "Take it that I continue aseditor. We can discuss terms later. Under the present regime I have beendoing all the work in exchange for a happy home. I suppose you won'twant to spoil the ship for a ha'porth of tar? In other words, you wouldsooner have a happy, well-fed editor running about the place than abroken-down wreck who might swoon from starvation?"
"But one moment," said Roland. "Are you sure that the presentproprietors will want to sell?"
"Want to sell," cried Mr. Petheram enthusiastically. "Why, if they knowyou want to buy, you've as much chance of getting away from them withoutthe paper as--as--well, I can't think of anything that has such a poorchance of anything. If you aren't quick on your feet, they'll cry onyour shoulder. Come along, and we'll round them up now."
He struggled into his coat, and gave his hair an impatient brush with anote-book.
"There's just one other thing," said Roland. "I have been a regularreader of 'Squibs' for some time, and I particularly admire the way inwhich the Woman's Page----"
"You mean you want to reengage the editress? Rather. You couldn't dobetter. I was going to suggest it myself. Now, come along quick beforeyou change your mind or wake up."
Within a very few days of becoming sole proprietor of 'Squibs,' Rolandbegan to feel much as a man might who, a novice at the art of steeringcars, should find himself at the wheel of a runaway motor. Young Mr.Petheram had spoken nothing less than the truth when he had said thathe was full of ideas for booming the paper. The infusion of capital intothe business acted on him like a powerful stimulant. He exuded ideas atevery pore.
Roland's first notion had been to engage a staff of contributors. He wasunder the impression that contributors were the life-blood of a weeklyjournal. Mr. Petheram corrected this view. He consented to the purchaseof a lurid serial story, but that was the last concession he made.Nobody could accuse Mr. Petheram of lack of energy. He was willing, evenanxious, to write the whole paper himself, with the exception of theWoman's Page, now brightly conducted once more by Miss March. What hewanted Roland to concentrate himself upon was the supplying of capitalfor ingenious advertising schemes.
"How would it be," he asked one morning--he always began his remarkswith, "How would it be?"--"if we paid a man to walk down Piccadilly inwhite skin-tights with the word 'Squibs' painted in red letters acrosshis chest?"
Roland thought it would certainly not be.
"Good sound advertising stunt," urged Mr. Petheram. "You don't like it?All right. You're the boss. Well, how would it be to have a squad ofmen dressed as Zulus with white shields bearing the legend 'Squibs?' Seewhat I mean? Have them sprinting along the Strand shouting, 'Wah! Wah!Wah! Buy it! Buy it!' It would make people talk."
Roland emerged from these interviews with his skin crawling with modestapprehension. His was a retiring nature, and the thought of Zulussprinting down the Strand shouting "Wah! Wah! Wah! Buy it! Buy it!" withreference to his personal property appalled him.
He was beginning now heartily to regret having bought the paper, ashe generally regretted every definite step which he took. The glow ofromance which had sustained him during the preliminary negotiations hadfaded entirely. A girl has to be possessed of unusual charm to continueto captivate B, when she makes it plain daily that her heart is theexclusive property of A; and Roland had long since ceased to cherish anydelusion that Bessie March was ever likely to feel anything but amild liking for him. Young Mr. Petheram had obviously staked out anindisputable claim. Her attitude toward him was that of an affectionatedevotee toward a high priest. One morning, entering the officeunexpectedly, Roland found her kissing the top of Mr. Petheram's head;and from that moment his interest in the fortunes of 'Squibs' sank tozero. It amazed him that he could ever have been idiot enough to haveallowed himself to be entangled in this insane venture for the sakeof an insignificant-looking bit of a girl with a snub-nose and a poorcomplexion.
What particularly galled him was the fact that he was throwing away goodcash for nothing. It was true that his capital was more than equal tothe, on the whole, modest demands of the paper, but that did not alterthe fact that he was wasting money. Mr. Petheram always talked buoyantlyabout turning the corner, but the corner always seemed just as far off.
The old idea of flight, to which he invariably had recourse in anycrisis, came upon Roland with irresistible force. He packed a bag, andwent to Paris. There, in the discomforts of life in a foreign country,he contrived for a month to forget his white elephant.
He returned by the evening train which deposits the traveler in Londonin time for dinner.
Strangely enough, nothing was farther from Roland's mind than hisbright weekly paper, as he sat down to dine in a crowded grill-room nearPiccadilly Circus. Four weeks of acute torment in a city where nobodyseemed to understand the simplest English sentence had driven 'Squibs'completely from his mind for the time being.
The fact that such a paper existed was brought home to him with thecoffee. A note was placed upon his table by the attentive waiter.
"What's this?" he asked.
"The lady, sare," said the waiter vaguely.
Roland looked round the room excitedly. The spirit of romance grippedhim. There were many ladies present, for this particular restaurantwas a favorite wi
th artistes who were permitted to "look in" at theirtheaters as late as eight-thirty. None of them looked particularlyself-conscious, yet one of them had sent him this quite unsolicitedtribute. He tore open the envelope.
The message, written in a flowing feminine hand, was brief, and Mrs.Grundy herself could have taken no exception to it.
"'Squibs,' one penny weekly, buy it," it ran. All the mellowing effectsof a good dinner passed away from Roland. He was feverishly irritated.He paid his bill and left the place.
A visit to a neighboring music-hall occurred to him as a suitablesedative. Hardly had his nerves ceased to quiver sufficiently to allowhim to begin to enjoy the performance, when, in the interval between twoof the turns, a man rose in one of the side boxes.
"Is there a doctor in the house?"
There was a hush in the audience. All eyes were directed toward the box.A man in the stalls rose, blushing, and cleared his throat.
"My wife has fainted," continued the speaker. "She has just discoveredthat she has lost her copy of 'Squibs.'"
The audience received the statement with the bovine stolidity of anEnglish audience in the presence of the unusual.
Not so Roland. Even as the purposeful-looking chuckers-out wended theirleopard-like steps toward the box, he was rushing out into the street.
As he stood cooling his indignation in the pleasant breeze which hadsprung up, he was aware of a dense crowd proceeding toward him. It washeaded by an individual who shone out against the drab background like agood deed in a naughty world. Nature hath framed strange fellows in hertime, and this was one of the strangest that Roland's bulging eyes hadever rested upon. He was a large, stout man, comfortably clad in a suitof white linen, relieved by a scarlet 'Squibs' across the bosom. Histop-hat, at least four sizes larger than any top-hat worn out of apantomime, flaunted the same word in letters of flame. His umbrella,which, tho the weather was fine, he carried open above his head, borethe device "One penny weekly".
The arrest of this person by a vigilant policeman and Roland's dive intoa taxicab occurred simultaneously. Roland was blushing all over. Hishead was in a whirl. He took the evening paper handed in throughthe window of the cab quite mechanically, and it was only the strongexhortations of the vendor which eventually induced him to pay for it.This he did with a sovereign, and the cab drove off.
He was just thinking of going to bed several hours later, when itoccurred to him that he had not read his paper. He glanced at thefirst page. The middle column was devoted to a really capitally writtenaccount of the proceedings at Bow Street consequent upon the arrestof six men who, it was alleged, had caused a crowd to collect to thedisturbance of the peace by parading the Strand in the undress of Zuluwarriors, shouting in unison the words "Wah! Wah! Wah! Buy 'Squibs.'"
* * * * *
Young Mr. Petheram greeted Roland with a joyous enthusiasm which thehound Argus, on the return of Ulysses, might have equalled but couldscarcely have surpassed.
It seemed to be Mr. Petheram's considered opinion that God was in HisHeaven and all was right with the world. Roland's attempts to correctthis belief fell on deaf ears.
"Have I seen the advertisements?" he cried, echoing his editor's firstquestion. "I've seen nothing else."
"There!" said Mr. Petheram proudly.
"It can't go on."
"Yes, it can. Don't you worry. I know they're arrested as fast as wesend them out, but, bless you, the supply's endless. Ever since theRevue boom started and actors were expected to do six different parts inseven minutes, there are platoons of music-hall 'pros' hanging aboutthe Strand, ready to take on any sort of job you offer them. I have aspecial staff flushing the Bodegas. These fellows love it. It's meat anddrink to them to be right in the public eye like that. Makes them feelten years younger. It's wonderful the talent knocking about. ThoseZulus used to have a steady job as the Six Brothers Biff, SocietyContortionists. The Revue craze killed them professionally. They criedlike children when we took them on.
"By the way, could you put through an expenses cheque before you go?The fines mount up a bit. But don't you worry about that either. We'recoining money. I'll show you the returns in a minute. I told you weshould turn the corner. Turned it! Blame me, we've whizzed round it ontwo wheels. Have you had time to see the paper since you got back? No?Then you haven't seen our new Scandal Page--'We Just Want to Know, YouKnow.' It's a corker, and it's sent the circulation up like a rocket.Everybody reads 'Squibs' now. I was hoping you would come back soon. Iwanted to ask you about taking new offices. We're a bit above this sortof thing now."
Roland, meanwhile, was reading with horrified eyes the alleged corkingScandal Page. It seemed to him without exception the most frightfulproduction he had ever seen. It appalled him.
"This is awful," he moaned. "We shall have a hundred libel actions."
"Oh, no, that's all right. It's all fake stuff, tho the public doesn'tknow it. If you stuck to real scandals you wouldn't get a par. a week.A more moral set of blameless wasters than the blighters who constitutemodern society you never struck. But it reads all right, doesn't it? Ofcourse, every now and then one does hear something genuine, and then itgoes in. For instance, have you ever heard of Percy Pook, the bookie? Ihave got a real ripe thing in about Percy this week, the absolute limpidtruth. It will make him sit up a bit. There, just under your thumb."
Roland removed his thumb, and, having read the paragraph in question,started as if he had removed it from a snake.
"But this is bound to mean a libel action!" he cried.
"Not a bit of it," said Mr. Petheram comfortably. "You don't know Percy.I won't bore you with his life-history, but take it from me he doesn'trush into a court of law from sheer love of it. You're safe enough."
* * * * *
But it appeared that Mr. Pook, tho coy in the matter of cleansing hisscutcheon before a judge and jury, was not wholly without weapons ofdefense and offense. Arriving at the office next day, Roland found ascene of desolation, in the middle of which, like Marius among the ruinsof Carthage, sat Jimmy, the vacant-faced office boy. Jimmy wasreading an illustrated comic paper, and appeared undisturbed by hissurroundings.
"He's gorn," he observed, looking up as Roland entered.
"What do you mean?" Roland snapped at him. "Who's gone and where did hego? And besides that, when you speak to your superiors you will rise andstop chewing that infernal gum. It gets on my nerves."
Jimmy neither rose nor relinquished his gum. He took his time andanswered.
"Mr. Petheram. A couple of fellers come in and went through, and therewas a uproar inside there, and presently out they come running, and Iwent in, and there was Mr. Petheram on the floor knocked silly and thefurniture all broke, and now 'e's gorn to 'orspital. Those fellers 'adbeen putting 'im froo it proper," concluded Jimmy with moody relish.
Roland sat down weakly. Jimmy, his tale told, resumed the study of hisillustrated paper. Silence reigned in the offices of 'Squibs.'
It was broken by the arrival of Miss March. Her exclamation ofastonishment at the sight of the wrecked room led to a repetition ofJimmy's story.
She vanished on hearing the name of the hospital to which the strickeneditor had been removed, and returned an hour later with flashing eyesand a set jaw.
"Aubrey," she said--it was news to Roland that Mr. Petheram's name wasAubrey--"is very much knocked about, but he is conscious and sitting upand taking nourishment."
"That's good."
"In a spoon only."
"Ah!" said Roland.
"The doctor says he will not be out for a week. Aubrey is certain it wasthat horrible book-maker's men who did it, but of course he can provenothing. But his last words to me were, 'Slip it into Percy again thisweek.' He has given me one or two things to mention. I don't understandthem, but Aubrey says they will make him wild."
Roland's flesh crept. The idea of making Mr. Pook any wilder than heappeared to be at present horrified him. Panic gave hi
m strength, andhe addressed Miss March, who was looking more like a modern Joan of Arcthan anything else on earth, firmly.
"Miss March," he said, "I realize that this is a crisis, and that wemust all do all that we can for the paper, and I am ready to do anythingin reason--but I will not slip it into Percy. You have seen the effectsof slipping it into Percy. What he or his minions will do if we repeatthe process I do not care to think."
"You are afraid?"
"Yes," said Roland simply.
Miss March turned on her heel. It was plain that she regarded him as aworm. Roland did not like being thought a worm, but it was infinitelybetter than being regarded as an interesting case by the house-surgeonof a hospital. He belonged to the school of thought which holds that itis better that people should say of you, "There he goes!" than that theyshould say, "How peaceful he looks".
Stress of work prevented further conversation. It was a revelation toRoland, the vigor and energy with which Miss March threw herself intothe breach. As a matter of fact, so tremendous had been the labors ofthe departed Mr. Petheram, that her work was more apparent than real.Thanks to Mr. Petheram, there was a sufficient supply of material inhand to enable 'Squibs' to run a fortnight on its own momentum. Roland,however, did not know this, and with a view to doing what little hecould to help, he informed Miss March that he would write the ScandalPage. It must be added that the offer was due quite as much to prudenceas to chivalry. Roland simply did not dare to trust her with the ScandalPage. In her present mood it was not safe. To slip it into Percy would,he felt, be with her the work of a moment.
* * * * *
Literary composition had never been Roland's forte. He sat and stared atthe white paper and chewed the pencil which should have been marring itswhiteness with stinging paragraphs. No sort of idea came to him.
His brow grew damp. What sort of people--except book-makers--did thingsyou could write scandal about? As far as he could ascertain, nobody.
He picked up the morning paper. The name Windlebird [*] caught his eye.A kind of pleasant melancholy came over him as he read the paragraph.How long ago it seemed since he had met that genial financier. Theparagraph was not particularly interesting. It gave a brief account ofsome large deal which Mr. Windlebird was negotiating. Roland did notunderstand a word of it, but it gave him an idea.
[*] He is a character in the Second Episode, a fraudulent financier.
Mr. Windlebird's financial standing, he knew, was above suspicion. Mr.Windlebird had made that clear to him during his visit. There could beno possibility of offending Mr. Windlebird by a paragraph or two aboutthe manners and customs of financiers. Phrases which his kindly host hadused during his visit came back to him, and with them inspiration.
Within five minutes he had compiled the following
WE JUST WANT TO KNOW, YOU KNOW
WHO is the eminent financier at present engaged upon one of his biggest deals?
WHETHER the public would not be well-advised to look a little closer into it before investing their money?
IF it is not a fact that this gentleman has bought a first-class ticket to the Argentine in case of accidents?
WHETHER he may not have to use it at any moment?
After that it was easy. Ideas came with a rush. By the end of an hourhe had completed a Scandal Page of which Mr. Petheram himself might havebeen proud, without a suggestion of slipping it into Percy. He felt thathe could go to Mr. Pook, and say, "Percy, on your honor as a Britishbook-maker, have I slipped it into you in any way whatsoever?" And Mr.Pook would be compelled to reply, "You have not."
Miss March read the proofs of the page, and sniffed. But Miss March'sblood was up, and she would have sniffed at anything not directlyhostile to Mr. Pook.
* * * * *
A week later Roland sat in the office of 'Squibs,' reading a letter. Ithad been sent from No. 18-A Bream's Buildings, E.C., but, from Roland'spoint of view, it might have come direct from heaven; for its contents,signed by Harrison, Harrison, Harrison & Harrison, Solicitors, were tothe effect that a client of theirs had instructed them to approach himwith a view to purchasing the paper. He would not find their clientdisposed to haggle over terms, so, hoped Messrs. Harrison, Harrison,Harrison & Harrison, in the event of Roland being willing to sell, theycould speedily bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion.
Any conclusion which had left him free of 'Squibs' without actualpecuniary loss would have been satisfactory to Roland. He had conceiveda loathing for his property which not even its steadily increasing salescould mitigate. He was around at Messrs. Harrison's office as soon as aswift taxi could take him there. The lawyers were for spinning the thingout with guarded remarks and cautious preambles, but Roland's methods ofdoing business were always rapid.
"This chap," he said, "this fellow who wants to buy 'Squibs,' what'll hegive?"
"That," began one of the Harrisons ponderously, "would, of course,largely depend----"
"I'll take five thousand. Lock, stock, and barrel, including the presentstaff, an even five thousand. How's that?"
"Five thousand is a large----"
"Take it or leave it."
"My dear sir, you hold a pistol to our heads. However, I think that ourclient might consent to the sum you mention."
"Good. Well, directly I get his check, the thing's his. By the way, whois your client?"
Mr. Harrison coughed.
"His name," he said, "will be familiar to you. He is the eminentfinancier, Mr. Geoffrey Windlebird."