Happy Days Part 52

--Smith.-- Right you are, Sir. (_Exit._)

(Smith _leans back in his chair and stares in front of him._)

--Smith-- (_to himself_). Arabella!

_Enter_ Boy, _followed by a stylishly dressed lady of middle age._

--Boy.-- Mrs. Robinson. (_Exit._)

(Mrs. Robinson _stops short in the middle of the room and stares at the Editor; then staggers and drops on to the sofa._)

--Smith-- (_in wonder_). Arabella!

--Mrs. Robinson.-- William!

(_They fall into each other's arms._)

--Arabella.-- I had begun to almost despair. (_Smith winces._) "Almost to despair," I mean, darling.

--Smith-- (_with a great effort_). No, no, dear. You were right.

--Arabella.-- How sweet of you to think so, William.

--Smith.-- Yes, yes, it's the least I can say.... I have been very lonely without you, dear.... And now, what shall we do? Shall we get married again quietly?

--Arabella.-- Wouldn't that be bigamy?

--Smith.-- I think not, but I will ask the printer's reader. He knows everything. You see, there will be such a lot to explain, otherwise.

--Arabella.-- Dear, can you afford to marry?

--Smith.-- Well, my salary as editor is only twenty thousand a year, but I do a little reviewing for other papers.

--Arabella.-- And I have--nothing. How can I come to you without even a trousseau?

--Smith.-- Yes, that's true.... (_Suddenly_) By Jove, though, you _have_ got something! You have eight thousand pounds! We owe you that for your articles. (_With a return to his professional manner._) Did I tell you how greatly we all appreciated them? (_Goes to telephone._) Is that you, Jones? Just come here a moment. (_To_ Arabella) Jones is my sub-editor; he is keeping your money for you.

_Enter_ Jones.

--Jones-- (_producing an old stocking_). I've just been round to my rooms to get that money--(_sees_ Arabella)--oh, I beg your pardon.

--Smith-- (_waving an introduction_). Mrs. Smith--my wife. This is our sub-editor, dear--Mr. Jones. (_Arabella puts her hand to her heart and seems about to faint._) Why, what's the matter?

--Arabella-- (_hoa.r.s.ely_). Where did you get that stocking?

--Smith-- (_pleasantly_). It's one he wears when he goes bicycling.

--Jones.-- No; I misled you this afternoon, chief. This stocking was all the luggage I had when I first entered the Leamington workhouse.

--Arabella-- (_throwing herself into his arms_). My son! This is your father! William--our boy!

--Smith-- (_shaking hands with Jones_). How are you? I say, Arabella, then that was one of _my_ stockings?

--Arabella-- (_to her boy_.) When I saw you on the stairs you seemed to dimly remind me----

--Jones.-- To remind you dimly, mother.

--Smith.-- No, my boy. In future, nothing but split infinitives will appear in our paper. Please remember that.

--Jones-- (_with emotion_). I will endeavour to always remember it, dad.

[CURTAIN.

SUCCESSFUL MEN

[_This series is designed to a.s.sist parents in choosing a career for their sons. The author has devoted considerable time to research among the best authorities, and the results are now laid before the public in the hope that they will bring encouragement to those who are hesitating at the doors of any of the great professions._]

XLVI. THE SOLICITOR

The office was at its busiest, for it was Friday afternoon. John Blunt leant back in his comfortable chair and toyed with the key of the safe, while he tried to realise his new position. He, John Blunt, was junior partner in the great London firm of Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton & Macnaughton.

He closed his eyes, and his thoughts wandered back to the day when he had first entered the doors of the firm as one of two hundred and seventy-eight applicants for the post of office-boy. They had been interviewed in batches, and old Mr. Sanderson, the senior partner, had taken the first batch.

"I like your face, my boy," he had said heartily to John.

"And I like yours," replied John, not to be outdone in politeness.

"Now I wonder if you can spell 'mortgage'?"

"One 'm,'" said John tentatively.

Mr. Sanderson was delighted with the lad's knowledge, and engaged him at once.

For three years John had done his duty faithfully. During this time he had saved the firm more than once by his readiness--particularly on one occasion, when he had called old Mr. Sanderson's attention to the fact that he had signed a letter to a firm of stockbrokers, "Your loving husband, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton & Macnaughton." Mr. Sanderson, always a little absent-minded, corrected the error, and promised the boy his articles. Five years later John Blunt was a solicitor.

And now he was actually junior partner in the firm--the firm of which it was said in the City, "If a man has Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton & Macnaughton behind him he is all right." The City is always coining pithy little epigrams like this.

There was a knock at the door of the enquiry office and a prosperous-looking gentleman came in.

"Can I see Mr. Macnaughton?" he said politely to the office-boy.

"There isn't no Mr. Macnaughton," replied the latter. "They all died years ago."