The House of Cobwebs and Other Stories Part 29

'Ah--thank you--'

'I've noticed,' went on the luckless apothecary, his bosom heaving with a sense of his wrongs, 'that you're a pretty large customer of the post-office, and it seems to me'--he meant to speak jocosely--'that it would be only fair if you gave _me_ a turn now and then. I get next to nothing out of _this_, you know. I should be much obliged if you--'

The man of few words was looking at him, half in surprise, half in indignation, and when the chemist blundered into silence he spoke:--

'I really have nothing to do with that. As a matter of fact, I was on the point of making a little purchase in your shop, but I decidedly object to this kind of behaviour, and shall make my purchase elsewhere.'

He strode solemnly into the street, and Mr. Farmiloe, unconscious of all about him, glared at vacancy.

Whether from the angry tradesman, or from some lady with whom Mr. Farmiloe had been abrupt, a complaint did presently reach the postal authorities, with the result that an official called at the chemist's shop. The interview was unpleasant. It happened that Mr. Farmiloe (not for the first time) had just then allowed himself to run out of certain things always in demand by the public--halfpenny stamps, for instance. Moreover, his accounts were not in perfect order. This, he had to hear, was emphatically unbusinesslike, and, in brief, would not do.

'It shall not occur again, sir,' mumbled the unhappy man. 'But, if you consider my position--'

'Mr. Farmiloe, allow me to tell you that this is a matter for your _own_ consideration, and no one else's.'

'True, sir, quite true. Still, when you come to think of it--I a.s.sure you--'

'The only a.s.surance I want is that the business of the post-office will be properly attended to, and that a.s.surance I must have. I shall probably call again before long. Good morning.'

It was always with a savage satisfaction that Mr. Farmiloe heard the clock strike eight on Sat.u.r.day evening. His shop remained open till ten, but at eight came the end of the post-office business. If, as happened, any one entered five minutes too late, it delighted him to refuse their request.

These were the only moments in which he felt himself a free man. After eating his poor supper, he smoked a pipe or two of cheap tobacco, brooding; or he fingered the pages of his menacing account-books; or, very rarely, he walked about the dark country roads, asking himself, with many a tragi-comic gesture and e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, why he could not get on like other men.

One afternoon it seemed that he, at length, had his chance. There entered a maidservant with a prescription to be made up and sent as soon as possible.

A glance at the name delighted Mr. Farmiloe; it was that of the richest family in the suburbs. The medicine, to be sure, was only for a governess, but his existence was recognised, and the patronage of such people would do him good. But for the never-sufficiently-to-be-condemned handwriting of Dr.

Bunker, the prescription offered no difficulty. Rubbing his palms together, and smiling as he seldom smiled, he told the domestic that the medicine should be delivered in less than half an hour.

Scarcely had he begun upon it, when a lady came in, a lady whom he knew well. Her business was at the post-office side, and she looked a peremptory demand for his attention. Inwardly furious, he crossed the shop.

'Be so good as to tell me what this will cost by book-post.'

It seemed to be a pamphlet. Giving a glance at one of the open ends, Mr.

Farmiloe saw handwriting within, and his hostility to the woman found vent in a sharp remark.

'There's a written communication in this. It will be letter rate.'

The lady eyed him with terrible scorn.

'You will oblige me by minding your own business. Your remark is the merest impertinence. That packet consists of MS., and will, therefore, go at book rate. Be so good as to weigh it at once.'

Mr. Farmiloe lost all control of himself, and well-nigh screamed.

'No, madam, I will _not_ weigh it. And let me inform you, as you are so ignorant, that to weigh packets is not part of my duty. I do it merely to oblige civil persons, and you, madam, are not one of them.'

The lady instantly turned and withdrew.

'd.a.m.n the post-office!' yelled Mr. Farmiloe, alone with his errand-boy, and shaking his fist in the air. 'This very day I write to give it up. I say--_d.a.m.n_ the post-office.'

He returned to his dispensing, completed it, wrapped up the bottle in the customary manner, and despatched the boy to the house.

Five minutes later a thought flashed through his mind which put him in a cold sweat. He happened to glance along the shelf from which he had taken the bottle containing the last ingredient of the mixture, and it struck him, with all the force of a horrible doubt, that he had made a mistake. In the irate confusion of his thoughts, he had done the dispensing almost mechanically. The bottle he ought to have taken down was _that_, but had he not actually poured from that other? Of poisoning there was no fear, but, if indeed he had made a slip, the result would be a very extraordinary mixture; so surprising, in fact, that the patient would be sure to speak to Dr. Bunker about it. Good heavens! He felt sure he had made the mistake.

Any other man would have taken down the two bottles in question, and have examined the mouths of them for traces of moisture. Mr. Farmiloe, a victim of destiny, could do nothing so reasonable. Heedless of the fact that his shop remained unguarded, he seized his hat and rushed after the errand-boy.

If he could only have a sniff at the mixture it would either confirm his fear or set his mind at rest. He tore along the road--and was too late. The boy met him, having just completed his errand.

With a wild curse he sped to the house, he rushed to the tradesman's door.

The medicine just delivered! He must examine it--he feared there was a mistake--an extraordinary oversight.

The bottle had not yet been upstairs. Mr. Farmiloe tore off the wrapper, wrenched out the cork, sniffed--and smiled feebly.

'Thank you. I'm glad to find there was _no_ mistake. I'll take it back, and have it wrapped up again, and send it immediately--immediately. And, by the bye'--he fumbled in his pocket for half-a-crown, still smiling like a detected culprit--'I'm sure you won't mention this little affair. A new a.s.sistant of mine--stupid fellow--I am going to get rid of him at once.

Thank you, thank you.'

Notwithstanding that half-crown the incident was, of course, talked of through the house before a quarter of an hour had elapsed. Next day it was the gossip of the suburbs; and the day after the city itself heard the story. People were alarmed and scandalised. Why, such a chemist was a public danger! One lady declared that he ought at once to be 'struck off the roll!'

And so in a sense he was. Another month and the flowery, bowery little suburb knew him no more. He hid himself in a great town, living on the wreck of his fortune whilst he sought a place as an a.s.sistant. A leaky pair of boots and a bad east wind found the vulnerable spot of his const.i.tution.

After all, there was just enough money left to bury him.

TOPHAM'S CHANCE

CHAPTER I

On a summer afternoon two surly men sat together in a London lodging. One of them occupied an easy-chair, smoked a cigarette, and read the newspaper; the other was seated at the table, with a ma.s.s of papers before him, on which he laboured as though correcting exercises. They were much of an age, and that about thirty, but whereas the idler was well dressed, his companion had a seedy appearance and looked altogether like a man who neglected himself. For half an hour they had not spoken.

Of a sudden the man in the chair jumped up.

'Well, I have to go into town,' he said gruffly, 'and it's uncertain when I shall be back. Get that stuff cleared off, and reply to the urgent letters--mind you write in the proper tone to Dixon--as soapy as you can make it. Tell Miss Brewer we can't reduce the fees, but that we'll give her credit for a month. Guarantee the Leicestershire fellow a pa.s.s if he begins at once.'

The other, who listened, bit the end of his wooden penholder to splinters.

'All right,' he replied. 'But, look here, I want a little money.'

'So do I.'

'Yes, but you're not like me, without a coin in your pocket. Look here, give me half-a-crown. I have absolute need of it. Why, I can't even get my hair cut. I'm sick of this slavery.'

'Then go and do better,' cried the well-dressed man insolently. 'You were glad enough of the job when I offered it to you. It's no good your looking to me for money. I can do no more myself than just live; and as soon as I see a chance, you may be sure I shall clear out of this rotten business.'

He moved towards the door, but before opening it stood hesitating.

'Want to get your hair cut, do you? Well, there's sixpence, and it's all I can spare.'

The door closed. And the man at the table, leaning back, stared gloomily at the sixpenny piece on the table before him.