The weeks had hurried rapidly, more rapidly than usual, for they were pressed with business. The trial at the Central Criminal Court was over, after a hearing that struck Erb as being surprisingly brief, in view of the importance of the case; immediately on the conclusion of the evidence, and the speeches of counsel, the Recorder, from his scarlet-cushioned seat, where he had a robed Alderman and a knee-breeched Under Sheriff for company, had fined him, courteously and pleasantly, the sum of fifty pounds, or in default two months’ imprisonment. The shortness of the trial rendered an organised demonstration of little value in that the men arrived outside the Old Bailey some three hours after the case had been disposed of. Now there is nothing more galling to the Londoner than to be disappointed in his anticipations of a show, and it had required all Erb’s tact and more than his usual amiability to appease them.

Erb had expressed a desire to go to prison to purge the offence (a short purgatory in jail was no bad prelude to political life), but the men would not hear of this: they could not manage without him, he was indispensable, they must have someone to look after the society, there was none to take his place, and he had given up this idea with less of reluctance because a disquieting tone had come into the letters of Rosalind from Worthing. But, determined to do something heroic, he insisted that his household goods in Page’s Walk should be sold up, and a scene thus contrived that should attract public attention. Wherefore there was an auction room in New Kent Road, to which all the furniture (with the single exception of the bedding) had been removed “For Convenience of Sale,” and here were as many of the railway carmen of London as could spare themselves conveniently from their duties, and here also were a few alert-eyed youths with note books and sharpened pencils eager to record some incident so amusing that not even a sub-editor’s pencil should venture to delete. A fusty smell of cocoanut wrappings in the long room, bran new furniture gave an odour of polish, retained and preserved because there was no ventilation except that afforded by the entrance from the street; a good-tempered auctioneer at the end of the room, high up and leaning on a rostrum, with a flaring, whistling, naked gas jet that compelled attention, because every now and then it exhibited a humorous desire to singe the top of the auctioneer’s shining silk hat. Erb stood by the wall, rather proud of being in the position of a martyr, his men formed a body-guard around him. Close up by the auctioneer stood half a dozen decrepit old men, the habituÉs of the place, ready to snatch up a bargain, to become the intermediaries between buyers and auctioneer, to knock out a sale, or, in short, to do anything and everything except serious labour.

“We have here,” said the auctioneer, leaning over his high desk and pointing with his hammer, “a very fine lot—show No. 13, George, and don’t be all day about it—a very fine lot, consisting of a pianoforte. Music hath charms, gentlemen, as you know, to soothe the savage breast, and it’s always a good investment from that point of view alone. George, jest run over the keys to show these gentlemen what a first-class musician you are.” The attendant, first rubbing the palm of his hand on his green baize apron, stroked the keys from first note to last. “There!” cried the auctioneer, “there’s execution for you! Many a man’s been ’anged for less. Now then, what shall we say for this magnificent instrument? Don’t all speak at once. Did you say twenty pounds, mister?” This to one of the regulars at the side.

“Not being a blank fool,” replied the musty old gentleman, “I did not say twen’y pounds.”

“Well! won’t anyone say twenty pounds jest for a start? Come now. You’ve all learnt some language or other.”

“Four and six,” said one of the carmen chaffingly.

“No, no!” said the auctioneer rather coldly. “I enjoy a joke as well as anyone, but ’pon my word—”

“Five bob!”

“I’m very good tempered,” went on the auctioneer, getting red in the face, “and I can stand as much as most men. But—”

“Five and six!”

“Well,” with resignation, “have your own way about it. Five and six is offered; five and six in two places; six shillings. I thank you, sir! Who’ll say ’alf a sov’, eh? Seven shillings! Very well then. But do let’s go on a shilling at a time; I can’t take sixpenny advances. You know the old story of the girl—”

Erb, looking round with a determined smile on his features, saw Spanswick entering from the pavement; with him a gentleman whose eyes were watery and whose gait was uncertain. Spanswick gave a casual nod to the clump of men, and beckoned to Erb in such an authoritative way that Erb crossed the room when the pianoforte—poor Louisa’s pianoforte, that she would allow no one to play—had been knocked down for twenty-five shillings. The auctioneer ordered his man to show the horsehair sofa and chairs.

“My friend Doubleday,” said Spanswick, introducing his companion. Mr. Doubleday removed his silk hat with care, for the brims seemed rather weak, and in a husky voice declared himself honoured. “One of the cleverest men in South London,” whispered Spanswick to Erb, “only he won’t recognise the fact. Educated, too!”

“This is a noble action of yours, sir,” said Mr. Doubleday, trying to clear his voice. “Reflects the highest credit on what I may venture to term the manhood of South London.” Spanswick looked at Erb proudly, as though to say, “He can talk, can’t he?” “The newspapers will ring with your praises, sir. Capital will sneak away, abashed and ashamed in the presence of such a brilliant example of self-sacrifice and whole-hearted devotion. I suppose you haven’t got such a thing as a pipe full of tobacco about you? I’ve come out without my pouch.”

“Always comes out without his pouch,” remarked Spanswick admiringly.

“No, no!” said Mr. Doubleday, refusing with something of haughtiness Erb’s further offer. “I have a match, thank you. I have no desire to be indebted for anything,” he drew hard at his pipe, “for anything which I myself possess.”

“Independent old beggar, ain’t he?” whispered Spanswick.

“My friend here gives me to understand—and I have no doubt that his information is per-fectly correct—that you have adopted this attitude because a female relative—a sister, if I mistake not—”

“A sister,” admitted Erb.

“Has suffered grievously. Assuming that to be the case, I can only say that I am proud to grasp your hand, sir, and that I desire your acquaintance.”

“It ain’t many that he’d say that to,” whispered Spanswick.

“I want all the friends I’ve got just now,” said Erb.“The lines of Longfellow,” said Mr. Doubleday condescendingly, “spring readily to one’s mind.” The hammer of the auctioneer went down with a startling crack; something that he said made the group of men laugh, and Erb was called by them to hear it. “We can make our lives sublime, and um-tee, umpty, umpty, umpty—footsteps on the sands of time,” quoted Mr. Doubleday.

“I must hop off,” said Spanswick. “Hasn’t he got a marvellous memory?”

“You’ll take your friend with you?” said Erb.

“No,” said Spanswick, rather awkwardly, “I’ll leave him. Fancy he’s got something to say to you.”

When the sale was over, it occurred to Erb that he had not eaten that day, and as the men had to hurry off to their duties, he would have been left alone but for Mr. Doubleday’s presence. Erb was glad to leave the gas-scented auction rooms, and would have been content with no other company but his own; he had been acting in a hot, tempestuous way of late, and he was anxious, now that this business was over, to review it all calmly. Anxious, also, think of Louisa, and— But Mr. Doubleday stuck to him, and when Erb entered the Enterprise Dining Rooms, in New Kent Road, Doubleday followed him to the pew, and sat down opposite. Erb gave his order to the girl, who rested the palms of her red hands on the table; when she turned to the other, Doubleday said, assuming the manner of a complaisant guest, that he would have the same.“Fate,” he said, hanging the deplorable silk hat on a wooden peg, “Fate has thrown us together, sir, in a most remarkable way.”

“Thought it was Spanswick,” said Erb.

“Most inscrutable, the workings of Providence. Stagger even me at times.”

“You don’t mean that?” said Erb.

“Positive truth!” declared Mr. Doubleday. “Now this meeting with you, for instance. If it had been planned it couldn’t have happened more fortunately. Because I have information to give you of the very highest possible value. It means, my dear sir, an absolute epoch-making event in your life, and— Ah! roast beef and Yorkshire pudding! Reminds me of my young days. I recollect when I was a bit of a boy—”

Mr. Doubleday, with heavy jest and leaden-footed reminiscence, took the duty of conversation upon himself, evidently feeling that he was a bright, diverting companion, one who just for his exceptional powers as a raconteur well deserved to be asked out to dine. His stories were so long, and the telling of them so complicated, that Erb was able to allow his mind to concentrate itself on his own affairs. He had taken a definite, a desperate step; the reaction was setting in, and he began to wonder whether he had been precisely right. Something to feel that whatever he did, right or wrong, he had the solid, obstinate, unreasoning support of the men; one could, of course, count upon this; the greater the misfortune he encountered, the more faithful and obedient would they become. There could be no doubt about that. Besides, they had no one else to guide them. He was, as they had admitted, the one, the necessary man. Any signs of rebellion in the past he had always been able to quell with very little trouble; as a last resource, there was always the threat of resignation. So that was satisfactory enough. Less grateful to remember that the revenge he had tried to take on the Neckinger Road firm had done his sister’s health no good whatever. He would run down to Worthing soon to see her and to cheer her.

“Joking apart,” said Mr. Doubleday, snapping his finger and thumb to secure the attention of the waitress, “let’s come to business. (Cabinet pudding, my dear! I daresay my genial host will take the same.) You must understand, please, that what I am about to submit to you is, as we say in the law, entirely without prejudice.”

“Are you a lawyer?”

“I used to be in a secondhand bookseller’s. Now, I suppose I’m right in assuming that you could, if necessary, place your hands on a certain sum of money?”

“I could.”

“About how much shall we say?” asked Mr. Doubleday engagingly.

Erb counted the money in his pocket.

“Twelve shillings and ninepence.”

“I appreciate the humour of that remark,” said Mr. Doubleday in his husky voice, “but I want to talk business. I’m a plain, straightforward man, and what I want to know is simply this. Is there a five-pound note flying about?”

“If there was,” said Erb, “I should catch it.”

“There’s the benefit money,” said the other, looking at himself curiously in the hollow of a spoon, “the benefit money to borrow from, and Yes, yes! I know what you are going to say and I quite agree with you. I think you’re most decidedly in the right. Far be it from me to suggest for a single moment—”

“I’m getting tired of you,” interrupted Erb suddenly. “I wish you’d take your hook and go away. Your face worries me, and your talk makes my head ache.”

“Then it’s time I came to close quarters. Listen to me!” Mr. Doubleday leaned his elbows on the table, and, bending forward, shielded his mouth with his hand that words might not go astray. “This is the situation. A man, a young man, takes up a certain high-minded attitude in regard to a certain firm; gets hauled up for libel; gets fined. His society comes to his rescue. Newspapers have paragraphs applauding him. So far, so good! Fine thing to show up, as far as he can, dangerous trades. But he forgets or he pretends to forget, doesn’t matter which—that not so long ago he, this same young man, went all over the country, making speeches in favour of a syndicate that called itself something or other—”“I don’t ask your permission before I open my mouth,” cried Erb heatedly.

“True, my lad, true! You can go further than that. You can say that you didn’t do so without being adequately bribed to do it.”

“Bribed!” Erb rose at the table and clenched his fist.

“Keep cool!” said Mr. Doubleday, making a military tent of his two hands. “There’s no extra charge for sitting down.”

“Let me know what you mean by saying that I’ve been bribed.”

“I should have thought that you would have known the meaning of the term by this time. B-r-i-b-e is a word meaning the sum accepted for doing work that you had no business to do. We can easily verify it.” He snapped his fingers. “Got a dictionary, my dear?”

“To eat?” asked the waitress.

“A dictionary,” he repeated with impatience.

“We’ve got an old London directory.”

“Never mind about the exact definition of the word,” said Erb steadily. “Tell me at once what you mean by your accusation.”

“Have you ever in all your life seen a cheque for twenty pounds?”

“Yes!”

“Made payable to yourself?”

“Yes!”

“And signed by—”

“Yes, yes, go on.”“Nothing more to say,” remarked Mr. Doubleday. “There’s an end of the matter. Only it’s rather a pretty circumstance altogether, don’t you think? This self-sacrificing chap who has allowed himself to be sold up publicly as a protest against harmful trades, is the same man who earlier in the year was speaking throughout the length and breadth of the land in support of trade infinitely more harmful than the one carried on in Neckinger Road. And,” here Mr. Doubleday took down his elderly silk hat and made elaborate pretence of smoothing the nap, “getting uncommonly well paid for it, too. Pretty situation, isn’t it?”

“There’s a very good answer to the charge you bring against me,” said Erb, trying to keep his temper, “but there’s no earthly reason why I should give it. I’m not responsible to you; I am responsible to my society.”

“Ah,” cried Mr. Doubleday, putting his hat on jauntily, “glad you recognise that.”

“I do recognise it.”

“And having recognised it, you see that it would be very much to your interest that the unfortunate transaction should be kept dark.”

“Not at all!”

“In which case,” here he stood up ready to go, and slapped his foot with his bamboo cane, “in which case you’d better come, my lad, to this place”—he placed a worn and travelled card with two addresses ruled out and a third written in, “before six o’clock to-night. Before six o’clock, mind. A minute past will be too late. And—er—bring that five-pound note along with you.”

He walked jauntily up the aisle of the dining rooms to the street door; when the waitress flew after him, he whispered a few words and pointed back at Erb with his cane.

“Is that right?” demanded the waitress breathlessly of Erb, “is that right that you pay?”

“Looks like it!” replied Erb moodily.

The threat did good in one way in that it aroused all his fighting instincts and that it diverted his mind from Worthing. Going down Walworth Road to look at Rosalind’s house, he rehearsed the expected scene, striking the palm of one hand with the fist the other, and scoring with great neatness over Spanswick and other opponents. Women at the stalls stopped in their loud declaration of the admirable character of their goods, to watch the excited young man as he went by, and remarked to each other that he was evidently in love; an excuse that in their eyes justified any and every sign of eccentric behaviour. On the way back (after walking up and down near the garden of monumental statuary and glancing shyly each time at her window), he met the Professor, and for the sheer pleasure of talking of her engaged him in conversation. The Professor deplored the fact that after you had given the best years of your life to the education of an only child, she should go off to the seaside for a holiday without so much as thinking for a moment of taking you with her, and asked Erb whether he had half a crown about him in exchange for two separate shillings and a sixpence. On Erb producing this coin the Professor found, with many expressions of deep regret, that he had left the smaller pieces in a waistcoat at home.

“But I shan’t forget, my dear chap,” said the Professor, raising his hand for a stage clasp. “I am one of those who never permit a kindness to escape from their memory. But I hate to be badgered. That ungrateful young scamp Railton, for instance.”

“Ah!”

“What have I not done, or rather what have I not promised to do, for him.”

“Daresay! But—”

“Engaged at one time to my accomplished daughter.”

“But what about him?”

“I am not romancing,” said the other impressively. “I am simply giving you the downright, honest, blunt, straightforward truth when I tell you that he wrote this morning asking me for two pounds on the plea that he had become married at the beginning of the week to a publican’s daughter at Oldham.”

“Did you send it?” asked Erb, with great cheerfulness.

“I wrote and I told him that if, as he said, he had in the past lent me sums amounting in the aggregate to this total, why I could only say that the fact had escaped my memory. I would, however, take an opportunity of looking through my memoranda in order to see whether I had made any record of such transactions. Could I say anything fairer?”

“And he’s actually married?”

“There is a piece of what is termed wedding cake at home, awaiting my daughter’s return.”

“Will it—will it upset her do you think?” asked Erb nervously.

“I shall warn her not to eat it,” said the Professor.

Erb did an extraordinary thing. Delighted by the news which the Professor had brought he set out upon a walk down through Camberwell into Surrey, a walk that he determined should last until he was tired out, a walk that had some vague advantage of going in the direction of Worthing. He was not used to heroic physical exercise, but on this unique occasion there seemed nothing else to do that would have been appropriate, and he mingled with the evening tide of people receding from London, beating it easily, and finally arriving beyond Dulwich, and well out into the country, where the rare gas lamps were being lighted and a mist came like a decorous veil and protected the face of the roadway modestly. Easier to think here than in the hurry and turmoil and clatter of town. After all, what did public life matter, what did the cause of labour or anything else matter so long as one was personally happy? That had ever been the aim of wise men; in future it should be his. There could always come the superadded amusement of playing with lesser minds, directing them and making them perform, exercising control in the manner of the unseen director of a Punch and Judy show. Erb argued this in a quiet road, with gesture and excitement; a sparrow hopped along for some distance with him in a companionable way, twittering approval, and hinting that if there should be such a thing in the corner of a pocket as a few bread crumbs—

It was late when Erb returned by train from Croydon to South Bermondsey station, and in the nearly empty rooms of Page’s Walk he found Payne awaiting him. Payne, with something more than his usual gravity of countenance, seated on the one remaining chair and smoking an empty pipe in a desolate, absent-minded way.

“Well,” said Payne lugubriously, “you’ve done for yourself now.”

“That so,” remarked Erb. “What’s the latest?”

“One of the worst crisisises,” said Payne solemnly, and taking some gloomy enjoyment in making the word as long and as important as possible, “that ever you encountered in all your puff.”

“I’m ready for it,” said Erb.

“They’ve sacked you,” said Payne.

“Is that all?”

“They’ve shown you the door. They’ve helped you downstairs with their foot. They’ve kicked you out, old man.”

“This a joke?” asked Erb.“Never made a joke in me life,” declared Payne, “and well you know it.”

Erb went over to the window and rested on the window sill.

“Spanswick?” he asked briefly.

“Him,” answered Payne, “and no other.”

“And they settled it all without hearing my account of the case?”

“Old chum! there didn’t seem to be no room for any other account. He’d got chapter and verse for everything he said. All about a twenty pound cheque, all about—”

“And it never occurred to this—this flock of sheep,” shouted Erb excitedly, “that I destroyed that cheque and never cashed it?”

“I don’t think they understand much about cheques,” said Payne. “The fact that you took it was what impressed them.”

Neither spoke for a few minutes.

“Who’s going to take my place?”

“Friend of Spanswick’s.”

“Name Doubleday?”

“Name of Doubleday,” said Payne affirmatively. “Clever sort of sweat, so far as I could judge. What are you going to do about it, old man? Going to organise, I trust. Open-air meeting, say.”

“Did any of the others stick up for my side?”

“Only me!”

A pause again.

“Well, you’re going to do something?”

“You’ve got another guess,” said Erb.