The Town Traveller Part 19

"Because it's comfortable, I suppose," answered Gammon, reflecting for the first time that it was not very respectful to come to this rendezvous in a "bowler." Polly had never mentioned the matter before, though she had thought about it. "You like the chimney-pot better?"

"Why, of course I do. On a Sunday, too, who wouldn't?"

"I'll bear it in mind, my dear. My chimney-pot wants ironing. Have it done to-morrow if I can find time."

Polly scrutinized the costume of a girl walking with a soldier, and asked all at once indifferently:

"Do you know anybody called Gildersleeve?"

"Gildersleeve? Don't think so. No. Why?"

She searched his face to make sure that he did not simulate ignorance.

"Well, you wanted me to find out where that lady lived--you know--her as was with Mr. C--at the theatre."

"And you've got it?" cried Gammon excitedly.

Yes, she had got it, and by consulting a directory at a public-house she had discovered the name of the family residing at that address.

Gildersleeve? The name conveyed nothing to Mr. Gammon; none the less he was delighted.

"Good for you, Polly! But how did you do it?"

She put on an air of mystery. Never mind how; there was the address, if he could make any use of it. Gammon smiled provokingly.

"Some friend of yours, eh? You're well off for friends, Polly. I ask no questions, my dear; no business of mine. Much obliged to you, all the same."

"If you're so particular about who it was," said Polly, with her air of pique and propriety, "well, it's a boy. So you needn't look at me like that."

"A boy, eh?"

"Well, that's what _I_ think him. He's a young clurk in the City as I've known long enough, and _I_ think him a boy. Of course you're always ready to believe harm of me--that's nothing new. And if the truth was known, you go talkin' to Mrs. Bubb and them Cheesemans."

"I don't! I told you I shouldn't, and I don't!"

"You do!"

"It's a lie!"

"You're one yourself!" retorted Polly with heat.

Thereupon Mr. Gammon turned about and walked off. Polly could not believe that he would really go. Scorning to look back she paced on for some minutes, but no familiar step approached her; when at length she looked round Mr. Gammon was nowhere to be seen. This extraordinary behaviour she attributed to jealousy, and so was not entirely displeased. But the idea of leaving her in the middle of the street, as one might say! Did one ever! And just after he'd got what he wanted.

"All right, old fellow! Wait till you want to see me again, that's all."

To have his word disbelieved was the one thing fatal to Gammon's temper. He strode off in a towering rage, determined to hold no more communication with Miss Sparkes, and blaming himself for having got into such an ambiguous position towards her. As if he had ever really cared one snap of the fingers for the red-headed spitfire! She to tell him to his face that his word was not to be trusted! He had never stood that yet, from man or woman!

At this rate he would presently have no female friends at all. Mrs.

Clover he had not once seen since the evening at Mrs. Bubb's, and every day that went by put a greater distance between them. He understood her unfriendliness; she thought this the best way of destroying any hopes he might still entertain with reference to Minnie; yes, that was the only possible explanation of her silence. It was too bad; Mrs. Clover might have put more faith in him. Now he would not visit her; he would not write. If she wished to see him again, let her acknowledge the wrong she had done him.

As for the muddle about her husband, be hanged to it! He would think no more about the business. Ten to one this address that Polly had obtained would be quite useless. How could he go to strangers (named Gildersleeve) and coolly inquire of them whether they knew a man named Clover? Of course they would have him kicked into the street, and Serve him right.

Polly and her boy! A young City clerk, eh? Old enough to wear a chimney-pot, he'd be bound. Polly was fond of chimney-pots. There, he had done with her, and with Clover and Quodling and Gildersleeve, and all the rest of the puzzle.

As he suddenly entered the house Moggie ran to him up the kitchen stairs.

"There's been a gentleman for you, Mr. Gammon."

"Oh! Who was it?"

"Mr. Greenacres, driving a trap, and the 'orse wouldn't stand still, and he said he'd see you some other time."

"Greenacre, eh? All right."

He sat for a quarter of an hour in his bedroom, unable to decide how he should spend the rest of the day. After all, perhaps, he ought not to have abandoned Polly so abruptly. In her own way she had been doing him a kindness, and as for her temper, well, she couldn't help it.

He would go to Dulwich and see the bow-wows.

CHAPTER XVI

AN ALLY IN THE QUEST

Commercially he was doing well. Quodling and Son were more than satisfied with him. Excellent prospects lay ahead, and this time it would a.s.suredly be his own fault if he had not secured the permanency so much desired for him by Mrs. Clover.

By the by, would this make any difference? What if he let Mrs. Clover know of his greatly improved position? She might reconsider things. And yet, as often as he thought of Minnie, he felt that her mother's objection corresponded too well with the disposition of the girl.

Minnie was not for him. Well and good, he would find somebody else.

Polly Sparkes? Polly be hanged. Why did her eyes and her teeth and her rosy cheeks keep plaguing him? He had told himself times innumerable that he cared not a snap of the fingers for Polly and all her highly-coloured attractions. If only he had not been such a fool as to treat her shabbily last Sunday morning! He felt sorry, and couldn't get rid of the vexation.

It worried him this afternoon as he left Quodlings in Norton Folgate and walked towards the Bank. He was thinking, too, of a poor fellow with a large family for whom he had tried these last few days to find employment, without the usual success. In Threadneedle Street a hand arrested him.

"Just the man I wanted," said the voice of Mr. Greenacre. He was in an elegant overcoat, with a silk hat of the newest fashion. You remember your promise?

"What promise?"

"Nonsense! But we can't talk about it here. Come to the Bilboes. Don't know the Bilboes? What a mood you're in to-day."

Mr. Gammon flattered himself that he knew the City tolerably well, but with the place of refreshment to which his friend now led him he was totally unacquainted. It stood or lurked in a very obscure by-way between the Bank and St. Paul's, and looked externally by no means inviting; within, but for the absence of daylight at all times, it was comfortable enough, and peculiarly quiet--something between an old inn and a modern public-house, with several small rooms for eating, drinking, smoking, or any other legitimate occupation. The few men who were about had a prosperous appearance, and Gammon saw that they did not belong to his special world.

"What does the name mean?" he inquired, as they seated themselves under a gas-jet in a corner made cosy with a deep divan.

"Bilboes? Oh, I originated it in the days gone by. The proprietor was a man called William Bowes--you perceive? Poor little Jimmy Todd used to roar about it. The best-natured fellow that ever lived. You've heard me speak of him--second son of Sir Luke Todd. Died, poor boy, out in India."

"What promise of mine were you talking about?" asked Gammon, when an order for drinks had been given.

"Promise--promise? Nonsense! You're wool-gathering to-day, my dear boy.