The Missing Link Part 2

"Good day, Billy," he said, familiarly. He lifted his hat pointedly to the lady. "'Ow's yerself Jinny?" he asked.

The lady and gentleman stared at him in utmost astonishment for a moment, then consternation seized them, and they made a dive for the vehicle.

Nickie followed to the door.

"So long, if yer mus' be goin', w.i.l.l.yum," he said, pleasantly. "So long, Jinny. How's the old man's fish business?"

"Drive on!" gasped the gentleman. He had the scared expression of one who had seen a spectre.

The liveried menial whipped up, and the carriage was swept away. Nickie returned to his heap, and for fully two minutes Stub McGuire, his employer, gazed at him in speechless, open-mouthed amazement.

"Well, of all the blarsted cheeks!" gasped McGuire, when speech came to him.

"Don't mention it," said Nickie.

"Don't mention it!" yelled Stub. "No, iv course not, but what price his nibs in the n.o.ble belltopper mentionin' it t' th' Johns, an' gettin' you seven days fer disgustin' behaviour?"

Nickie smiled inscrutably, and continued his work. When the carriage returned, he made an adroit movement, and courteously opened the door.

"'Low me, Jinny, my dear," he said, offering his grimy hand.

The lady stepped down, and pa.s.sed him disdainfully. The gentleman brushed him aside.

"'Ope yeh 'ad er pleasant ride in yer cart, Billy?" said Nicholas.

He followed them to the gate, and called through the bars.

"Very sorry, Jinny, but I carn't haccept yer pressin' invitation ter dinner, havin' er previous engagement."

He returned to his work again, smiling sweetly. He seemed to enjoy Stub McGuire's horror.

"'Ere, 'ere," said McGuire, "off this job you go if you don't know better than to insult people that way. You'll be gettin' me inter mischiff."

"Not at all," said Nickie, "not at all. Surely a man may offer ordinary civilities to his friends. Bless my soul, you wouldn't have me cut old Billy in the streets, would you? If I didn't speak to Jinny she'd think I was angry with her, and cry her eyes out. She has a tender heart, poor girl. She is a sensitive soul, and craves for social distinction. She looks to me to secure them a footing in exclusive circles, Mr. McGuire."

"I don't know what y're talkin' about," Stub grumbled, "but that's enough of it, see?"

Nickie took no notice of his employer's admonitions, however, and when a clergyman drove up in a buggy an hour later, our hero intercepted him at the gate.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said. "Would you mind tellin' w.i.l.l.yum inside there how Nickie sends him his compliments, and 'opes Jinny's quite well."

"My good fellow, you must not be insolent," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the minister.

"They won't take it as hinsolence," Nicholas explained. "They've er very touchin' regard fer me. Tell them. I arsked after 'em, won't yer?"

Even Stub McGuire noticed that Nickie, whose speech was usually excellent, adopted the vulgar tongue in addressing the man he called Billy, or any of his friends or relations.

Next day, Nickie inveigled three children, who were playing on the lawn, and entertained them at the gate with frivolous conversation for nearly ten minutes, when the state of affairs was discovered by their dignified mamma, who sent a maid flying to the rescue. Nickie took off his hat to the maid.

"Tell w.i.l.l.yum," he said, "that bein' 'andy, I'll drop in ter lunch t'

day, but Jinny's not on no account t' put up a big spread fer me. I'll jist take what's goin'."

He finished these remarks at the top of his voice, the girl being half-way back to the house.

When the important man in immaculate black came out a little later, Nickie saluted him gravely, as between gentlemen, but without deference.

"'Ow's it, Billy?" he said. "You might drop in an' see me this evenin'.

I'm livin' under th' blackberry hedge back o' your stables."

The stout man pa.s.sed in silence, and with a great show of dignity. Nickie had a busy afternoon. Evidently it was the dignified lady's "day." Quite a crowd of people drove up to the gates during the afternoon, and Nickie entrusted each with an affectionate and familiar message to Jinny. All were horrified at the insolence of the disgusting man, and one young fellow kicked Mr. Crips, but our' hero did not seem to mind. He merely warned his a.s.sailant that he would issue a County Court writ for any damages done to his trousers.

On the following morning at about 11 o'clock Nickie entered the grounds, his rags fluttering in the breeze, marched to the door and rang the bell.

To the Napoleonic man-servant who opened to him, he gravely presented a tomato can half-full of water, and said:

"Will yer please arsk Bill or Jinny if they'll be so good as to bile my billy at the drorin'-room fire. Tell 'em it's Nicholas Crips what makes the request. No, thanks, I won't come in, I'm afraid my motor car might bolt."

The Napoleonic man-servant threw Nickie off the verandah, and threw his billy after him, but this did not deter Nicholas from an attempt to enter into familiar conversation bearing on family matters, when he found the dignified lady in a summer house.

The lady glared at him in stony horror. "How dare you?" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"How dare you?"

"Why, what's wrong, Jinny, old girl." asked Crips innocently, a.s.suming a lounging att.i.tude in the doorway. "You find the togs I'm wearin' a trifle too negligee, so to speak. They're quite the thing in our set."

"Let me pa.s.s!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the lady with crushing hauteur.

Nickie was not impressed. He smiled, and continued dreamily: "My word, things have moved with you, Jinny. You're gone up like er rocket in er reg'lar blaze iv glory, but I can still see yeh in the old shop days. You blazed then too, old girl. It wasn't with di'monds, 'twas fish scales, but you blazed. You could alwiz put on dog. You sold flathead, Jinny, but I give the devil his due--you did it like a d.u.c.h.ess."

At this point the Napoleonic footman intervened again. He took Nickie by his rags and the nape of his neck, and running him tip-toe out of the garden, tumbled him headlong on the gra.s.s-grown roadside. Nickie rejoined Stub McGuire quite unconcerned.

"That's a new society game, my friend," he said. "The flunkey scored ten points."

A few hours later the proprietor of the cement mansion came to his gate, and beckoned Nicholas Crips off the heap. Nickie the Kid responded with alacrity, and Stub McGuire gazed in cow-like wonder while the two discussed matters in the gateway.

Nickie was calling him "Bill," "Billy," and "w.i.l.l.yum," indiscriminately.

Stub nearly fainted when he saw the gentleman draw a bank-note from his pocket, and hand it to Nicholas Crips. Nickie lifted his deplorable hat, and said:

"So long, Bill. I'm sorry I can't come an' stay a month. Some other time, perhaps."

The gentleman went in, and slammed the gate behind him. Nickie returned to the heap, and picked up his coat and donned it.

"I'm handing in my resignation, Mr. McGuire," he said. "You are welcome to my earnings, as I intend to live on my means--temporary at least." He held up the note.

"A tenner!" gasped McGuire.

"A tenner!" replied Nicholas, "presented by the kind gentleman on condition that I emigrate from this suburb and absent myself permanently.

The worst thing about rich relations, Stub, is that they want whole suburbs to themselves; the best is that you can make them pay for the privilege of exclusiveness."

CHAPTER III.