CHAPTER VII
THE LION MAKES HIS SIGN
Tea was finished, the remains of it were cleared away, and the heavycurtains drawn over the big windows overlooking Trafalgar Square.Having turned on all the electric lights he could find, the Writer ledRidgwell and Christine by either hand towards the door.
"The Lord Mayor has arrived," he whispered, "I can hear him coming upthe stairs. Now as he comes into the door let us all bow down with alow curtsey, and say, 'Welcome, Sir Simon Gold, Lord Mayor of London.'"
"Bless him, he is still puffing up the stairs," whispered the Writer,"so we shall have time to rehearse it once before he gets here. Nowthen, all together," urged the Writer. "That's fine; why, you childrenmake obeisance better than I do, but of course I was forgetting you hadboth been to the Pleasant-Faced Lion's party. That must, of course,have been an education in itself. Now then, get ready."
Outside somebody who was puffing and panting somewhat heavily could beheard exclaiming between these exertions in a cheery voice: "Goodgracious me, why ever does the boy live in such a place? These stairswill be the death of me; positively fifty of them if there is one.Really at my time of life it is most unreasonable; he ought to have alift put in, I will make it my business to see he doesn't live up herein the clouds any longer, whether he always wants to see Lal or whetherhe doesn't."
The Writer grinned at the children, and Ridgwell and Christine gave afaint chuckle by way of an answer. At last the door was flung open andthe pleasantest-faced old gentleman it would be possible to findanywhere, with round pink cheeks, merry eyes, a snowy white upturnedmoustache and white hair to match, peering through big gold-rimmedspectacles like a cheerful night-owl, stood in the doorway.
Thereupon the three people inside the room bobbed down in a mostprofound curtesy, and there was a perfectly timed and simultaneouschorus from three voices, "Welcome, Sir Simon Gold, Lord Mayor ofLondon."
"Bless my soul," said the Lord Mayor, "very impressive, upon my word;but as His Majesty the King has only knighted me twenty minutes ago,how on earth did you come to hear of it?"
"Magic," said the Writer. "Besides, Lal prophesied the event."
"Who are the children?" asked the Lord Mayor.
"Friends of Lal's and myself," replied the Writer, "and very anxious tosee you in your robes."
"They are all in this bag," vouchsafed the Mayor, "and it may be vanityupon my part, but I brought them up on purpose to stand in front of thewindow so that Lal could have a good look at them and see the effect ofhis own handiwork. And now, you rascal," demanded the Lord Mayor ofthe Writer as he helped himself to a comfortable chair, "what excuseshave you got to give me for not coming near either Mum or myself forages, and for taking up your abode in this absurdly high flat which isas bad as mounting the Monument?"
"I have my excuses all labelled and wrapped up, Dad, and you and Mummust accept them when you have looked at them."
Thereupon the Writer fished out of the mysterious odd-fashionedcupboard two packets very neatly done up, and placed them in the handsof genial old Sir Simon.
The old gentleman opened the first packet with evident pleasure; it wasa well-bound book fresh from the printer's press.
"Open it, Dad, and see whom it is dedicated to," suggested the Writer;"you will find it upon the first page."
"Beautiful," murmured the old gentleman, whilst his hands trembledslightly as he held the book and read out, "Dedicated to my dear Dad,to whom I owe everything--created Lord Mayor of the City of London inthe year----"
The old gentleman coughed and wiped his spectacles carefully, and evensuspiciously, for they appeared to be quite misty. "Oh, you bad boy,"he burst out unexpectedly. "How dare you write books and becomefamous, when you ought to have been sitting upon a stool behind a glasspartition as a junior partner in my counting-house? However, I believeLal was right, he usually is; he said we should disagree, and that theyoungest one would be in the right, and upon my word, my dear boy, Inever believed how very right he was until to-day. Bless me, I'm proudof you."
"And I'm proud of you, Dad," was the Writer's answer.
"Goodness alive," declared the old man, as he turned and beamed uponRidgwell and Christine by turns, "do you children know, those were thevery words this rascal here used sixteen years ago, when he deposited alot of ridiculous prizes that nobody ever wanted to read in my lap whenI was asleep in front of the fire in my library. Bless me, historydoes repeat itself."
"And prophecies come true," added the Writer.
"Tut, tut," said Sir Simon, "there was one prophecy our friend Lal madethat never came true. How about that absurd statement of his that youwould find Dick Whittington? That was all a lot of riddle-me-ree, asyou may say, thrown in like the cheap-jack's patter to mystify all ofus."
"You haven't opened the second parcel," quietly remarked the Writer;"but when I read in some of the papers three years ago that you hadstarted collecting valuable old china, I always determined you shouldhave this piece."
"It all sounds very mysterious," replied the old gentleman, as hegingerly prepared to take off the outside wrappings.
It was at this point that Ridgwell could contain himself no longer, forhe felt as if he were present upon a Christmas Day before the giftswere opened.
"It's worth more than a hundred guineas," shouted Ridgwell.
"Then it is simply disgraceful extravagance," replied Sir Simon, "and Ishall certainly not accept it."
"I am sure you will," ventured Christine, "it is the thing that hevalues most of anything he has got."
The last wrapping was undone, and the beautifully coloured and modelledDick Whittington was disclosed to view. There was not even a spot ortrace of ink anywhere upon his enamelled coat, the tree-stump, themilestone or the three-cornered hat, he had been washed and cleaned forthe cabinet with a vengeance, and looked as beautiful and as spick andspan as the day the artist had turned him out to an admiring world.
"Bless my heart!" exclaimed Sir Simon, as he viewed the treasure withthe keen admiration of a connoisseur. "Why, it is perfect; I don'tbelieve there is another one in existence like it. Where did you getit, and who is it meant to be?"
"Why, Dick Whittington, of course, Dad; so you see Lal was right afterall."
Sir Simon placed the little figure carefully upon the table, andfolding his hands regarded the Writer severely. "Do you happen to knowthat it was this particular piece of Lal's nonsense that has worried memore than anything else all these years?"
"It worried me for a long time until I found out his trick," confessedthe Writer.
"Yes, but mine is a most disheartening story," declared Sir Simon, "andnearly succeeded in alienating me from all my friends; and as for Mum,I dare not so much as mention Lal's name to her for fear of having mynose snapped off; she never did and never will believe in him, declaresthat the whole thing is a preposterous lot of nonsense, and declineseven to discuss the subject with me at all. You know, my dear boy,that Mum is very sensible upon other points, but about Lal she isopenly scornful and secretly adamantine; in fact, the mere mention ofLal is like poison to her, and he was entirely responsible for the onlydifference we have ever had in our married lives."
"Light a cigar, Dad, before you start; and what will you have by way ofa drink?"
The Writer had opened other compartments in the mysterious old oakcabinet that seemed to possess more doors than a Chinese temple.
"These Coronas I remembered you used to smoke, so I got some."
"Excellent," declared Sir Simon, "and, let me see, why, bless me what alot of bottles you have there. I hope you don't drink them all. Someof that green stuff, my dear boy, if you please, Creme-de-Menthe; yes,I think a couple of liqueurs of that would be most beneficial to meafter the most indigestible banquet we all partook of at the MansionHouse to-day. The stuff is largely made up of peppermint, I'm sure;and, of course, peppermint, when it is tastily got up like thisliqueur, is very good for indigestion, isn't it?"
The Writer lighted the old gentleman's cigar, and placing theCreme-de-Menthe upon the table, filled a tiny liqueur glass to the brim.
"Of course," commenced Sir Simon, "from the very first nothing wouldinduce Mum to believe that the Pleasant-Faced Lion, our old friend Lal,ever had anything to do with my life, or ever influenced me in any way.You know, my boy, it is one of women's weaknesses to invariably believethat they do more than they really do. She declared that everything inmy life was owing to your influence and to hers."
"Mine?" asked the Writer in astonishment.
"So Mum always insisted, and so she always undoubtedly believed, andwhen the time came that you ran away,--yes, you dog, for you did runaway, don't deny it,--well, what with sorrow for the loss of you, andtrouble with your mother, for she declared I had driven you from homeby not encouraging you to write, and women are most illogical andunreasonable when they once get a fixed idea into their heads,--well,between one and the other of you I had a very bad time. The factremained that you were gone, never gave us any address, and I got allthe blame for it. But the thing that annoyed Mum more than anythingelse was my everlasting habit of going to the Pantomimes."
The Writer laughed. "Well, I never knew before, Dad, that Pantomimeswere a special weakness of yours."
"Neither were they, my boy, but as sure as ever Christmas came, and theinevitable Pantomimes also, so did I go to every one; not only inLondon, but every city of the United Kingdom." Here Sir Simon, as ifovercome with emotion, groaned aloud. "My boy, pity me; I believe I amthe only person still alive who has ever sat out every single Pantomimethat has been written for ten years, and oh! what twaddle they were."
"But what on earth did you go to them for?" asked the Writer, aghast.
"To find you."
"Me? Good heavens, at a Pantomime? Dad, were you dreaming?"
"Yes," answered old Sir Simon, shaking his white head at therecollection. "I was dreaming of what Lal had prophesied--that youwould make your name and fortune when you met Dick Whittington, andthen you would come back to us. And the more I thought of it, the moreI was convinced that there was only one possible way of meeting DickWhittington in the world to-day, and that would be when some lady--andthey were always ladies, plain, fair, ugly, tall, lean, fat,pretty--who appeared as that character--met you whilst impersonatingDick. You rascal, I believed that you would meet one of these femaleDick Whittingtons, would ever after write the rubbishy Pantomimes inwhich she appeared every Christmas season, train up your children to bePantaloons and Harlequins, and have the audacity to appeal to me tokeep the family after having christened the eldest child after me.There is not one single lady," continued the Lord Mayor, as he moppedthe perspiration from his face, "from here to Aberdeen, and back toLiverpool and Manchester, who has ever played Dick Whittington that Ihave not treated to either port wine or champagne (for those were therefreshments they all seemed to favour most) in the hope of findingyou; I have spent more than ten times the reputed worth of that DickWhittington inkstand, in railway fares and buying stalls andprogrammes. Yet the worst of all to relate is, that when Mum saw theprogrammes underlined upon my return, she accused me of being enamouredof these extraordinary ladies who stalked the stage in the mostindescribable costumes, accompanied by cats. My boy, I know everyridiculous speech, every stupid gag spoken by every Lord Mayor in allthose Pantomimes by heart, and the one dread of my life is that I shallone day come out with some of it in one of my speeches at either theGuildhall or the Mansion House."
The Writer lay back in his chair and roared with laughter.
"Poor old Dad, I had no idea you were undergoing such an awful penance!"
"You think it funny, do you?" asked the Lord Mayor indignantly.
"I think it is the funniest thing I have ever heard, but I am sure thatall the blame rests with Lal for playing us such a trick."
"Humph! Well, Mum didn't think so, and every time Christmas came therewas a coldness between us. Perhaps she will be convinced when I takeher this inkstand and explain what it is," wound up Sir Simontriumphantly; "she will believe in Lal then, and believe in me at thesame time."
Some two hours later Ridgwell and Christine, having viewed the LordMayor in his state robes, were safely despatched home in a carriagewith the Writer's housekeeper in charge, but not before old Sir Simonhad promised to send one of his state coaches, attended by servants inlivery, to fetch them to the Mansion House Children's Ball.
Upon taking his departure, Ridgwell had inquired most particularly ifthe state coach would drive up to their door for them. The Lord Mayorassured him that this would be the case.
"I believe," declared Ridgwell, as he said good-bye and made hisdeparture, "that all the neighbours will believe we have something todo with fairies."
"I shouldn't wonder," chuckled Sir Simon, "and I will get the LadyMayoress to send you both two costumes that will help the illusionenormously."
"I do wonder what they will be like," mused Christine; "I do so lovedressing up."
"So does the Lady Mayoress, my dear," laughed Sir Simon, "so I am sureboth of you will get on capitally together, and really she is the lifeand soul of a children's gathering. I don't know how I should get onwithout her."
"It certainly seems very strange," remarked Sir Simon, when at lengthhe and the Writer were left alone, "that Lal has not given any sort ofsign; this is undoubtedly the night of all nights that he ought to showhe is pleased."
Sir Simon helped himself to a third cigar, and a secondCreme-de-Menthe, and after drawing back the curtains, looked anxiouslydown into Trafalgar Square for at least the twentieth time that evening.
The lights of London twinkled gaily, lighting the Square up infairy-like brilliancy of colours. Signs were to be seen in plenty;they burst from the tall roofs of houses, in coloured electric lights,which worked out advertisements for Foods, Patent Medicines, brands ofCigarettes, brands of Whisky; nearly everything, in fact, that onecould not be reasonably in need of at that time of night; but still thePleasant-Faced Lion remained obdurate and made no sign at all of everhaving been alive.
"There is one thing that both Mum and I insist upon," commenced SirSimon.
"What's that, Dad?"
"Directly we leave the Mansion House, and I may say at once thatalthough it is undoubtedly very stately, and all that sort of thing, weneither of us feel at home there, and for my part, I would as soon livein the British Museum--directly we leave, I insist that you come backto your old home and live with us, and complete the old happy party wethree used to make."
"All right, Dad, I'll do that, I promise you."
"And now that you have made a name and fortune for yourself in spite ofmy doing everything I could to prevent you----"
"No, no, Dad, that isn't fair, and really, you know, I don't believe wecould help ourselves, everything has come about exactly as Lal arrangedit."
"I am very angry with Lal and his tricks, and if I thought he wouldlisten to me for one minute, I would go down now and--Good graciousalive!" broke off Sir Simon, as he stared somewhat wildly out of thewindow; "what's that?"
"What's what?" inquired the Writer inconsequently, from his easy-chairat the other end of the room.
Sir Simon rubbed his eyes, then he looked out of the window again, thenhe rubbed his spectacles in case by any chance they were deceiving him.
"My dear boy," faltered Sir Simon, "is that--is'that--ahem!--Creme-de-Menthe you gave me exceptionally strong by anychance?"
"No, same as it always is, Dad; why?"
"Then I'm not mistaken, Lal's eyes have gone a _bright_ green, the samecolour as the liqueur in that bottle. Green," shouted Sir Simon, "andthey are blazing like fireworks. Look! look at them."
The Writer rushed across the room to the window.
There could be no doubt about it that the calm eyes of thePleasant-Faced Lion, which were wont to gaze haughtily upon the morecommonplace things around him in Trafalgar Square, had suddenly changedto the colour of living emeralds, and were te
rrible to behold.
"Great Scott!" muttered the astonished Writer, "I have never seen himlook like that. He's angry about something."
"He's more than angry--he's furious," suggested the Lord Mayornervously. "What on earth can be the reason of it? Why, yes, I see.Why, how dare she!" spluttered Sir Simon. "There's a woman dancing,positively waltzing round the Square with his wreath of water-lilies Iput there for him! I'll stop her, she must bring it back at once."
Without another word, Sir Simon rushed for the door and downstairs withthe most surprising speed, followed closely by the Writer, whoconsidered his old friend ought not to be deserted upon such a mission.
"Ho! hi! stop thief," puffed the Lord Mayor, as he toiled three partsround Trafalgar Square after the corybantic lady, who was dancing onahead with the huge wreath held with both arms, swaying over her, asshe danced a sort of bacchanal in front of the enraged Sir Simon.
"Hi!" panted the Lord Mayor, as after frantic efforts he camealongside. "Woman, bring that wreath back at once; how dare you takeit away!"
"Oh, go on, ole dear," retorted the lady good-humouredly; "ain't itmaking me much 'appier than an old lion? Why, bless you, it put me inmind of the days when I used to play Alice in Pantomimes. Lead, I usedto play, once, yes, s'welp me if I wasn't. What 'arm am I a-doing?Oh, look 'ere, if you're going to get snuffy, 'ere, take your olewreath. I'm blowed if you don't look as if you come out of a Pantomimeyourself, in them red robes! 'Ave yer been playing in a Pantomime?"
"Certainly not," replied Sir Simon, somewhat stiffly.
"Why, now I sees the light on your face, I knows you quite well; 'ow doyer do, ole sport? I'm Alice; don't you remember little Alice in thePantomime of Dick Whittington ten years ago at Slocum Theatre Royal?Why, you gave me a bouquet, and stood me two glasses of port."
The Lord Mayor groaned.
"Little Alice," he queried vaguely; "let me see, little Alice?"
"Yes," averred the lady, who must have weighed fully eighteen stone,"shake hands, old pal."
The Lord Mayor felt thoroughly uncomfortable, more particularly as theWriter joined him at that moment.
"Ahem! an old Pantomime friend," explained Sir Simon.
"Yes, my dears," continued the lady, "and I don't get no Pantomimesnow, been 'ard up, I 'ave, for a long time, can't even get chorus now;but bless your 'earts! coming along to-night, when I gets to TrafalgarSquare, I somehow could 'ave declared I saw that there Lion a-laughingat me, and then when I sees the wreath, blessed if I didn't want todance once again all of a sudden. Look 'ere, old sport, you used tohave plenty of the shinies in the old days, you used to chuck the 'oofabout a bit; I remember you was a-looking for some bloke whowrote--that you had an idea in your 'ead all us girls wanted to marry."
The distressed Lord Mayor fumbled in his pockets and produced twosovereigns.
"Thank you, ole dear," observed the lady, as she pocketed the gold withalacrity, "you was always one of the best; and Cissie Laurie, that'sme, you know--Cissie--who used to play Alice, will always swear you area tip-top clipper. Lor! when I sees you in them robes, and you ain'ttold me yet why you've got 'em on----
"An inadvertency," stuttered the Lord Mayor; "most unfortunate."
"Well, when I sees you in them robes it puts me in mind of the dear oldPantomime, when little Alice flings herself at the Lord Mayor's feet,"and here, overcome with past recollections of the drama, the fat ladysunk upon her knees, and dramatically clasping the robes of Sir Simon,to that worthy old gentleman's utter confusion and consternation, atthe same time gave forth aloud the doggerel lines that had onceaccompanied the incident in the play--
"Oh! Dad, I'm your Alice, in whom you're disappointed, And here is Dick Whittington, whose nose was out-of-jointed, Though your heart be as cold as an icicle king's, Forgive us and say we are nice 'ikkle things."
"Oh, hush! hush! dreadful," implored the Lord Mayor, endeavouring invain to extricate himself from the dramatic lady's clutches.
At this moment a gruff judicial voice, which sent an immediate thrilldown the worthy Lord Mayor's back, broke in upon the scene.
"Now, then, what's all this? Move on, there!"
A dark blue policeman stood in the pale blue moonlight.
The Lord Mayor only shivered.
The dramatic lady was equal to the occasion.
"Aren't we a picture?" she asked coquettishly.
"Get up, then," commanded the policeman dryly, "and be a movin' one."
"All right, don't get huffy, dear, we're professionals."
"So I should think," observed the policeman shortly.
The Writer thought this a most propitious moment to seize the LordMayor by the arm, and hurry him in the direction of his own rooms,across the almost deserted centre of the Square, without waiting forany further conversation of any description.
The policeman stared after them suspiciously as they moved away.
"What's he doing in them things?" inquired the policeman of the lady.
"Lor', 'ow should I know? I guess he's a good sort, though, he gave mesome money."
"Oh, did he?" remarked the policeman in a sepulchral voice. "Well, Ihope he came by it honestly, that's all."
"Oh, that old chap's all right, old tin-feet," retorted the once timeLady of the Drama. "I only think 'e's a bit balmy in his 'ead, that'sall. So-long, I'm off 'ome!"
"Balmy in his head, eh?" grumbled the policeman gruffly. "Ah, Ithought there was a funny look about him; yes. Well, I had betterfollow him up, and see that he doesn't get up to no mischief of anysort."
"I say, Dad," suggested the Writer, "you had better let me carry thewreath, whilst you lake off those robes; you know they attract a lot ofattention, even at this time of night."
"I am afraid they do," confessed the Mayor. "What a dreadful anddegrading scene! That upsetting fragment of a pantomime enacted in theopen air, too, which is only a specimen of the stuff I was compelled tolisten to for so many years!"
"She evidently regarded you as an old friend, and a patron of thetheatre," laughed the Writer, "without in any way guessing youridentity."
"It was a terrible situation," groaned the Lord Mayor; "however shall Ibe able to tell Mum about such an incident when I arrive home?"
The worthy Lord Mayor got no further either in his remarks or inremoving his bright robes, for as they approached the position occupiedby the Pleasant-Faced Lion, Sir Simon became aware of another figurestanding menacingly in front of it.
A short, thick-set man in a sailor's dress was holding his hands to hishead, and regarding the Lion with his mouth and eyes wide open, whilstan expression of horrified wonder and astonishment appeared to havepetrified his face into a sort of ghastly mask of perpetualastonishment.
Whilst the sailor continued to stare and mutter, the Lion's eyes couldbe seen to shoot out the most brilliant green fires; they looked likethe flashing of two wonderful green emeralds.
The Lord Mayor quickened his pace almost to a run. "Look, look! what'sthe thing that man is flourishing about in his hand?"
"It's a big sailor's knife," replied the Writer uneasily.
"Quick, quick!" shouted the Lord Mayor, "he is going to do Lal someharm with it! Good heavens! he's swarmed up the pedestal and he ispositively contemplating cutting Lal's eyes out. Stop, you villain,"shouted the Lord Mayor, whilst he ran towards the spot. "Come down atonce; how dare you touch that beautiful Lion's eyes!"
Without so much as turning his head, and apparently heedless of anyremarks addressed to him, the sailor continued to flourish hisugly-looking knife, shouting meanwhile in the Lion's face as he did so--
"Emeralds, bloomin' emeralds here in London under my very nose. I'll'ave 'em out," yelled the sailor. "I'll have 'em out in no time. I'vecome from Hindia, where they've got jools like these 'ere in thehidols' eyes. I couldn't get at them there, but I can get these 'ere,"whereupon the sailor made a frantic jab with his knife at thePleasant-Faced Lion's right eye.
He had no t
ime, or indeed any opportunity of continuing his unpleasantexecution, for the enraged Lord Mayor had seized the wide ends of thesailor's trousers and had dragged him down with such abruptness andgoodwill that the over-venturesome son of Neptune, dropping his knife,lay upon the ground volunteering expressions which at least had themerit of showing that his travels must have been indeed varied andextensive to have left him in possession of such a widely stockedvocabulary.
"I'll have you up for attempting to mutilate the beautiful statues ofLondon," shouted the enraged Lord Mayor.
The Writer restrained the sailor's more or less ineffectual efforts toget at the Lord Mayor, but the Writer found it singularly impossible tocontrol the shouted execrations of that abusive mariner, among a few ofwhose remarks could be mentioned, by way of sample, that he wanted toknow why an old bloke dressed like an etcetera Mephistopheles meant bycoming along from a blighted Covent Garden Ball and interfering withhim; that if he, the mariner, could once get atthe--ahem!--Mephistopheles in question, he would never go to a fancyball again as long as he lived, as he would not have a head to go with,and his legs wouldn't ever be any use to him again as long as he lived.
The Writer being sufficiently athletically active to control, or at anyrate postpone, these amiable intentions of the mariner, the Lord Mayorwas afforded a few brief seconds to climb up and examine his favourite.Flinging the wreath of water-lilies around the Lion's mane to get itout of the way, the Lord Mayor clasped his old favourite Lal round theneck, uttering words of consolation and affection.
The Lion's eyes had changed from their bright emerald colour to a dulltopaz yellow, which in turn subsided to their wonted colouring duringthe Lord Mayor's affectionate address.
The countenance of the Lion gradually resumed its ordinarypleasant-faced expression, and two large tears fell upon the LordMayor's outstretched hands.
The worthy Lord Mayor was quite overcome with emotion at this obvioussign from the Pleasant-Faced Lion!
"Dear old Lal," murmured the Lord Mayor, "dear, faithful, loving soul,these are the first tears I have ever known you shed. Are they tearsof gratitude because we have rescued you from this ruffian with aknife, who would have destroyed your noble sight? Or are they tears ofpity? Speak to me, Lal; if they are tears of pity, they will open thegates of----"
"A police station," interrupted a cold, judicial voice, and the goodLord Mayor turned to find what the Writer, although fully occupied withthe mariner, had seen approaching with consternation and alarm, thesame policeman who had spoken to them before, followed by a small crowdof late night loafers, who were already starting to exchange remarksand jeer at the somewhat unusual scene.
"Just you come down," said the constable, in his severest and mostjudicial tones.
The Lord Mayor prepared to climb down, looking somewhat crestfallen,whilst the unsympathetic crowd uttered a faint, ironical cheer.
"This is the second time to-night I have spoken to you," said theconstable. "Now, as you have been behaving most strangely andattracting a crowd, I'll just trouble you for your name and address,"and the constable unfolded an uncomfortable-looking pocket-book, boundin an ominous-looking black case, produced the stump of a pencil andprepared to take notes. "Now then, out with it, what's your name?"
"Gold," faltered the Lord Mayor, fumbling vainly for a visiting card,which he was unable to find.
The stolid constable misunderstood the action. "No, you don't bribeme," said the constable loftily.
"I was not attempting to," objected the Lord Mayor.
"Well, what's your name, then?"
"Gold," repeated the Lord Mayor.
"Oh, I see," muttered the constable; "what else?"
"Simon Gold."
"What else?" pursued the remorseless officer of the law.
"Sir Simon Gold," groaned the helpless Lord Mayor.
"What address?"
"The Mansion House."
"Here, I don't want none of your jokes," vouchsafed the constablesternly; "this is no joking matter, as you will find out when you'recharged afore the magistrate."
The worthy Sir Simon's plump cheeks flushed red with anger at the baremention of such an indignity. "How dare you suggest such a thing tome?" spluttered Sir Simon. "Do you know who I am? I am the Lord Mayorof London."
This remark was greeted with a loud cheer from the rapidly gatheringcrowd.
The constable smiled a maddening smile.
"A likely tale," observed the constable. "Why, I was present keepingthe crowd off when his Worship, the Lord Mayor of London, opened hisHome to-day; he returned hours ago; and I think myself it's some sortof Home as you have got to return to, and I don't leave you until Ifind out which Home it is."
Whether the mention of the word Home suggested sudden possibilities tothe Writer, or whether, like Ulysses of old, he longed so ardently fora return to that blissful abode that he even stooped to emulate thesort of stratagem Ulysses might have adopted in similar circumstanceswill never be known. Yet the fact remains that the Writer turned thefortunes of war for the time being.
He drew the constable quickly upon one side and spoke rapidly andearnestly to him for some moments. At the end of these whisperedexplanations the constable closed his pocket-book with a snap, andpointed across the way in the direction of the Writer's chambers.
The Writer nodded.
The constable touched his forehead significantly at the side of hishelmet.
Once again the Writer nodded.
"Very well," said the constable, "if you are the one who looks afterhim, you can go; better get him home as quickly as you can."
Amidst a parting ironical cheer the Writer hastily seized the worthyLord Mayor by the arm and broke through the assembled crowd with allpossible speed.
As they passed upon their way one small incident, however, caused theWriter grave misgiving.
A tall man who had undoubtedly watched the whole proceeding nodded tohim and remarked sarcastically, as he passed--
"Good-night; a really most interesting and illuminating episode."
Having safely gained his own abode, the Writer gazed apprehensively outof the window.
The sailor could still be seen supporting himself against the pedestalof the Lion's statue, the policeman appeared to be engaged upon a newcrusade of note-taking. The small crowd was melting away, but thesinister face of the sarcastic man could be seen wreathed in a cynicalsmile of triumph.
The Writer whistled, and drawing the curtains close, turned up theelectric light and anticipated the worst.
The Lord Mayor sank into the most comfortable chair he could select,and helped himself to a drink; he felt he needed one badly at thatmoment.
"What a dreadful and degrading scene," lamented Sir Simon. "Goodgracious, if anybody had seen me who recognised me, I should never haveheard the last of it."
The Writer lit a cigar thoughtfully, and passed the box to Sir Simon.
"I am afraid, Dad, we never shall hear the last of it," prophesied theWriter gloomily.
"What do you mean?" inquired Sir Simon.
"Did you notice that man who spoke to me at the edge of the crowd, whohad presumably seen the whole thing?"
"Of course not," replied Sir Simon; "how on earth could I noticeanybody under such distressing circumstances? Who was he? what abouthim?"
"That was the famous Mr. Learned Bore."
"What, the man who is always advertising himself?"
"Yes," agreed the Writer, "and unfortunately he has the power to do sothrough the medium of the newspapers; his letters to London are one ofthe features of the Press," added the Writer significantly.
"Don't tell me," entreated the Lord Mayor, with an imploring look inhis eyes, "that he will make me, the Lord Mayor of London, a subjectfor his heartless gibes."
"He's certain to write two columns about it in one of to-morrow or thenext day's papers," declared the Writer hopelessly. "Do you supposesuch a man would waste such material and copy as that for one of hissatirical erupti
ons?"
The Lord Mayor groaned aloud at the very thought of this new terror,which threatened to descend like the sword of Damocles and crush allthe joy of his new civic dignity. With trembling hands he folded hisbright robe and glittering chain of office; the Lord Mayor felt that hecould no longer bear the sight of them.
"What on earth I can say to Mum for being out as late as this I don'tknow," lamented the Mayor dolefully; "she will, of course, believe Ihave been to another Pantomime; she always taxes me with having gone toa Pantomime whenever I stay out late. However," sighed the Mayor, "Ishall show her the Dick Whittington which has really been the cause ofall the trouble."
It may have been that Sir Simon was still unusually agitated from thescene he had recently passed through, to say nothing of the vagueforeboding caused by the knowledge that Mr. Learned Bore mightconceivably do anything within the next few days. There is apossibility that his hand trembled; whatever may have been the cause,as Sir Simon lifted the little Dick Whittington from the table, he letit fall. As it crashed upon the hard polished floor it broke into adozen pieces, and the merry little figure of Dick Whittington washopelessly shattered. Sir Simon looked blankly at the Writer.
The Writer looked blankly back at Sir Simon.
As poor Sir Simon ruefully picked up the pieces, he looked disconsolateenough to be upon the verge of tears. The Writer, although keenlyaffected by the loss, tried, although unsuccessfully, to comfort him.
"Never mind, Dad, it can't be helped, and I suppose Dick Whittingtonhas served his day."
"To think I have broken the most perfect specimen in the world," moanedSir Simon; "that you must have denied yourself greatly to give me, andto think I shall never be able to convince Mum now, or even mention it,for she wouldn't believe one word of the story. Besides," wound up SirSimon, "it is so dreadfully unlucky to break china. Call me a cab, mydear boy," implored the old gentleman, "a four-wheeler, if possible; Ireally dare not go home in a taxi, I feel some other dreadful accidentwould happen to me if I did."
Upon his way home Sir Simon ruminated upon the events of the evening.He found himself unable to make up his mind which portion of theadventure had been the most discomforting to him. Finally, uponapproaching the Mansion House, he caught himself indulging inspeculation and uttering his thoughts aloud.
"I wonder what possible story he could have told the policeman, to getme out of that dreadful situation so quickly; and I wonder," mused SirSimon, "why the policeman tapped his head in that curious manner; hemust have told him something that appealed to him at once. I dare sayeven policemen have their feelings, and looking back upon matterscalmly, I suppose my conduct must perhaps have appeared a little out ofthe ordinary. However, if I ever come across that constable again, Imust try and make him a little present."
Sir Simon little realised that he was to meet the constable again verysoon, and certainly never realised where, otherwise it is safe toassume that the good Sir Simon would never have slept the tranquilsleep he did that night, full of peaceful dreams, over which thePleasant-Faced Lion presided like the protecting guardian watch-dogthat the good Lord Mayor always believed him to be.