The Prodigal Father Part 11

"For maybe a few more years of quiet usefulness."

PART II

CHAPTER I

Down the steep street where stands the office of Walkingshaw & Gilliflower, careers a hat. It is a silk hat and of a large size, the hat of a professional man of the most dignified standing and evident brain capacity. Nothing could show better the innate depravity of March winds than their choice of such a hat to play with. They had thousands to choose from--bowlers, caps, wideawakes, all kinds of commonplace head-gear--and here they have selected for their sport this cylinder of silk, symbolical of all most worthy of the city's respect. It leaps and b.u.mps and slides, propelled by the breeze and the law of gravitation, down the decorously paved hill, in company with a little cloud of dust and some sc.r.a.ps of dirty paper. And behind it, now at a canter, now at a panting trot, ambles the portly form of Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw. The very devil must be in the wind to-day.

At the corner of Queen Street the hat met the full force of the easterly blast, and bidding good-by to gravitation, turned at right angles and skimmed for forty yards through s.p.a.ce as though the brothers Wright had mounted it. Then it resumed the action of a Rugby football, pitching now on its end and now on its middle, and behaving accordingly each time. Mr. Walkingshaw, perceiving that it was now bouncing in the direction he desired to go, fell for a moment to a walk and looked around for some a.s.sistant. But the only spectators within hail happened to be two errand boys who had not seen a circus for some time and evinced no desire to interrupt the entertainment. So off he started again, his white spats twinkling beneath his flapping overcoat, and covered the first fifty yards in such promising fashion that he was able to strike the revolving rim a series of smart raps with his umbrella before the wind had recovered its breath. Then suddenly up leapt the hat, cannoned from a lamp-post on to the railings of the Queen Street Gardens, from them across the pavement into the gutter, and there, getting nicely on edge, careered like a hoop, with the thud of Heriot's footsteps growing fainter behind.

Down the next cross street came two acquaintances of the Writer to the Signet, and they stopped at the corner in amazement.

"Good G.o.d, that's Heriot Walkingshaw!" cried one.

"A man of his age!" replied the other; "he's running like a wing three-quarter--look at his stride!"

A benevolent lady half stopped the hat with her umbrella. The W.S. was up to it. He stooped to reach it--a quick grab and he had it by the rim.

"Well picked up, sir!" cried one of the acquaintances.

Mr. Walkingshaw did not hear. He was on the other side of the street and engrossed in brushing his quarry with his coat sleeve.

"It's a wonderful performance," remarked the other acquaintance; "but it ought just about to finish him."

"Will it? Look at him--he hasn't turned a hair!"

"It's amazing--positively amazing!" they murmured together as they watched their elderly friend not only replace his trophy on his head, but c.o.c.k it at an angle that breathed reckless defiance to the March winds.

"Did you ever see Heriot Walkingshaw with his hat at that angle before?"

"As often as I've seen him do even time chasing it!"

Off he strode, breathing faster than usual, and his hat still a little ruffled, but otherwise as jaunty a figure as ever left an office; while his two acquaintances went away to narrate to the wondering city what their astonished eyes had seen.

Meanwhile the junior partner was unburdening his soul to the confidential clerk.

"That's the end of Guthrie and Co.!" he exclaimed wrathfully. "The whole thing settled in a fortnight--we might be a marriage registry! It's just been 'we agree to this,' 'we agree to that,' 'we agree to anything you suggest.' We haven't fought a single point. I'd have made those creditors whistle a bit before they saw yon five thousand pounds! But what's my father say? You heard him yourself--'moral obligation'--'might be fought!'--'get it settled.' He's botched the whole business."

Mr. Thomieson shook his grizzled head.

"It's certainly not been our usual way of doing business."

Andrew glowered at his desk.

"He said he was going to leave the business to me, and in forty-eight hours he was taking more responsibilities on his shoulders than he had for years! He barely has the decency to ask me for my opinion now; and when I give it, he tells me it's timid. Timid!" The junior partner's voice rose to a shout. "He just goes at things like a bull, and before I've time to get in two words edgeways, the thing is settled and he's out of the office whistling!"

"That whistling's a queer thing he's taken to," observed the clerk.

"He was doing it coming home from church last Sunday."

"Verra strange, verra strange," commented Mr. Thomieson.

He seemed more struck with the peculiarity of the senior partner's conduct; Andrew with its offensiveness.

"He shows a fine grasp of things all the same," added the clerk. "In that way it fairly does me good sir, to see him so speerited. It minds me of old times."

"A proper like business we'd have had to-day if he'd gone on like this in old times!" grumbled Andrew. "He gets through things quick enough, I admit; but I tell you he does not take the same interest in them. He talks of 'dry details'!"

"Is that so?" said Mr. Thomieson, his eyes opening.

"It's a fact. And he's started cracking jokes with the clerks."

"Aye, I heard him yesterday myself. It sounded awful bad in this office."

"I tell you what it'll end in," said Andrew. "It'll end in our losing our business--that'll be the end of it. And this is what he calls 'a few years of quiet usefulness'!"

The junior partner's upper lip seemed to hang like a curtain half covering his face. Behind it he swore so distinctly that the confidential clerk discreetly withdrew.

CHAPTER II

"It's quite remarkable how well I'm keeping--quite astonishing," said Mr. Walkingshaw to himself, as he continued his walk with his recovered hat perched at the angle that had so surprised his acquaintances.

A month had pa.s.sed since the stormy afternoon when he had said farewell to his family, and he now looked back upon that adieu as the rashest and most premature act of his life. Andrew must have frightened him; that was the only conceivable excuse for his conduct, seen in the white light of his present rude health; and he secretly decided that the junior partner had been getting a little too much rope. If you once let these lads kick up their heels, the deuce was in it. He would do nothing unjust, but he would see that he didn't encourage Andrew to alarm him again. Thus does the virtue even of the most exemplary occasionally over-exert itself.

Meanwhile, it was uncommonly pleasant to be able to chase one's hat for a quarter of a mile and feel not a twinge of gout or rheumatism after the merry pursuit. Mr. Walkingshaw felt half inclined to give his hat a start again. What a joke it would be to kick it over the railings next time! At this very undignified thought, he recollected himself and for a few minutes looked as decorously pompous as the head of the firm should.

But somehow or other that run seemed to have stirred his blood. The fun of kicking his hat over the railings returned so forcibly that there spread over his ruddy face a smile which greatly surprised the wife of one of his most respected clients pa.s.sing at that moment in her carriage. She too returned home to talk of Mr. Walkingshaw's curious demeanor in the public streets of his native city.

The kicking fancy, by a natural chain of thought, reminded him that the England and Scotland International was being played next Sat.u.r.day. He must be there, of course; and wouldn't he shout himself hoa.r.s.e for Scotland! He had a moment's dismay when he remembered that old Berstoun had made an appointment to come in on Sat.u.r.day and see him about his confounded money affairs. Then he cheered up again. Let the old chap be hanged! He would wire and put him off. In fact, he must be put off. For had not Madge Dunbar promised to come to the match with him? By this time he had reached the door of his house, and it occurred to him forcibly that afternoon tea was always a much pleasanter function if Madge were present. He hoped she wouldn't be out calling.

The dignified twilight of his hall sobered him considerably. He had been following a strangely frivolous line of thought, he told himself.

Certainly he must never allow his hat to escape again. That run had quite upset his equanimity: he found himself going upstairs two steps at a time, and had to pause and shorten his stride.

In the drawing-room he found his sister and the widow.

"Hullo!" said the W.S. before he could recollect himself.