Chapter X

"You will like Tuppy," said the Duke earnestly.

To the scandal of the neighbourhood, he insisted upon conducting his courtship in the manner it began, and he addressed Alicia from the top platform of the Sacred Ladder.

"Tuppy has faults," the Duke continued, "but so have we all, or nearly all," he corrected modestly. "As poor old Tuppy says, life's song is played by a pianolo. A thousand ancestors have helped to perforate the roll and the tune is inevitable."

"A philosopher," said Alicia drily.

"Tuppy complains bitterly about the unreasonableness of a world that expects cantatas from the roll in which generations of Tuppings have been punching comic songs. You'll like Tuppy."

"In spite of his mission?" she smiled.

"To cut me out?" The Duke shook his head tolerantly.

"Poor old chap, he recognizes the hopelessness of that. No; Tuppy is not that kind. I say!" he said enthusiastically. "There's Tuppy in his garden."

"Monty!" said a voice.

"That's him," said the Duke ungrammatically, but with an air of proprietorship.

"Monty!" said the voice again, "give me a leg up, dear boy--I'm comin' over for a cocktail."

Miss Alicia Terrill raised her eyebrows.

"He means a cup of tea," said the Duke hastily.

"I should like to meet Tuppy," said Alicia calmly, "whilst you are giving him a l--whilst you are rendering him the necessary assistance I will find the ladder."

Tuppy scrambling over the wall met the scrutiny of a pair of grey eyes, and balanced himself with difficulty. When I say he wore his oldest suit, that he had pale green socks and a pair of old slippers, and that owing to his exertions his trouser leg was rucked up to display his sock-suspenders, you will realize that but for his noble breeding Tuppy would have been embarrassed, and would have made a precipitate and undignified retreat.

But Tuppy was above all things self-possessed.

He paused astride the wall.

"Let me introduce Lord Tupping," said the Duke gravely.

Tuppy held on to the wall with one hand and raised his cap with the other.

"Delighted," he said politely.

Alicia averted her eyes from the pale green socks with the scarlet suspenders and addressed him at a tangent.

"Mother will be glad to see Lord Tupping," she said to the Duke. Somehow she did not consider it quite maidenly to speak direct to the suspenders.

"Mother will be glad to see you," repeated the Duke primly.

"And I," said Tuppy gracefully, "shall consider it an honour to wait upon your lady mother: it would seem to me that no greater obligation--and it is typical of the blightin' decadence of our language that a word meanin' 'a sympathetic bindin'' should be degraded to the sordid service of bills at three months--than the respect an' reverence due to the maternal element in our midst. The spirit of chivalry----"

At this point in the labour of his oratory Tupping lost his balance and fell into the Duke's arms.

He would have continued his speech but for the arrival of the Duke's discreet servant.

"Yes?" said the Duke inquiringly.

"Two gentlemen to see you, m'lord."

"Two--who are they."

"I don't know, m'lord--they asked for your lordship----"

"Yes?"

"One I thought smelt of drink, and the other was a little furtive."

Tuppy laid his hand upon the Duke's arm.

"Monty, dear boy," he said solemnly, "I know 'em."

"You."

"Me," said Tuppy wagging his head wisely, "One smellin' of drink an' the other sneakin' round the corner--brokers."

*Part IV*

*THE DUKE REMAINS*

*I*

If I have unwittingly conveyed an impression that Brockley is without interest to the outside world I have done its credit and myself much wrong, as the talented Omar might have said. I quote Omar instinctively because of Brockley's association with the tent-maker of Ispahan. For Brockley for many years has been the Mecca of Southern London. Never a Sunday passed but little caravans of purposeful pilgrims have converged upon the _Brockley Jack Arms_, and producing their railway tickets or other evidence of their bona fides, have drunk beer during prohibited hours.

For years and years this pleasant and touching custom has made Brockley historical. Lambeth awaking beerless, improvident Kennington greeting the thirsty dawn, Bermondsey confronted with the dull sad hours between breakfast time and 1 p.m.--all these in singleness of purpose and with a unity of thought, said with one voice "Brockley." Suddenly a new interest came to Brockley; call it a morbid interest if you will. It was sufficient, at any rate, to divert the stream that flowed past the cemetery to the hostel beyond. Sufficient to detach the stragglers at any rate, and draw them, with perplexed faces and sceptical expressions, to the neighbourhood of Kymott Crescent.

There was a public spirited gentleman of Church Street, Deptford, whose wife worked at a jam factory. He himself spent the greater part of his life looking for work, but it never seemed to nestle in the dark interior of a quart pot, in which his searching eyes were for the greater part of the time concentrated.

This person was, by name, Haggitt, but mostly he was called Olejoe--a name suggesting a Scandinavian origin, but, as a matter of fact, quite simply derived. Despite his chronic condition of unemployment, Olejoe possessed a "guv'nor," of whom he spoke in terms of affectionate pride. Sometimes, when Olejoe would be standing in the corner of the public bar--he used the George on Tanner's Hill--within reach of the zinc counter on the one hand and the pipe spills on the other, an unshaven man would thrust his head in at the door and beckon Olejoe with a sharp impatient jerk of the head. Then Olejoe would issue hastily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Got a job of you," the guv'nor would say laconically, "602, Frien'ly Street--two munse rent--come along."

So Olejoe would find himself the guest of poverty--plaintive weeping poverty, and Olejoe would keep jealous ward over two poundsworth of distrained furniture.

How he came to be chosen for the role of guest to the Duke seems obvious enough. He was uncleanly. He had unpleasant habits. Hal chose him.

When he arrived at 64, supported by the authority of a bailiff, Tuppy took charge of the proceedings. Tuppy had a wonderful knowledge of obscure procedure. First he demanded the bailiff's license and examined it. Then he put the bailiff through an oral examination, then he demanded copies of the distress warrant, and generally harassed and badgered the unfortunate official until he was glad enough to make his escape leaving Olejoe in possession.

Then followed a solemn conference with Olejoe the uneasy subject.

Resolved: That Olejoe be bathed.
(Protest lodged by Olejoe
overruled.)

Resolved: That Olejoe's clothes be burnt.
(Protest overruled.)

Resolved: That the cost of reclothing
Olejoe should be borne by
the Duke.
(Carried without protest.)

Resolved: That the clothing should be
chosen by the Right Hon.
the Lord Tupping.
(Carried with enthusiasm.)

"Gents," pleaded Olejoe, "hopin' there's no offence, live and let live is a motter we all admire. The pore 'elps the pore, so let us all live in harmony, say I. I'm doin' me duty, an' I've got to earn me livin', so therefore no larks."

"No larks," agreed the Duke gravely.

"Not a single sky-warbler," agreed Tuppy.

"So therefore, gents," said the gratified Olejoe gaining courage, "let's drop this silly idea about a bath. Give me a bit of soap an' lead me to the kitchen sink an' I'll give meself a good sluice--what do you say?"

"My dear old wreck," said Tuppy firmly, "with all the admirable sentiments you have so feelingly enunciated, I am in complete agreement. More particularly with 'live an' let live.' Heaven knows," he protested, "I am no blatant reformer who to demonstrate his absurd theories, would change the smooth course of my fellows lives. But a bath, ole feller--a real water bath! None of your one leg in, an' one leg out, but a proper all-in-run-or-not wash up."

So Hank and Tuppy went off to prepare it, carefully laying thin parings of soap at the bottom.

In solemn state they escorted him to the bath-room door.

They waited outside talking encouragingly, till a mighty splashing silenced instructions.

"You're splashin' with your hands," warned Tuppy, "get into it."

They heard a groan and a gentle plash as Olejoe took the water gingerly.

Then a wild yell as his foot slipped on the soapy bottom and a splash louder than all.

"Good," said Tuppy with satisfaction.

It was nine o'clock that night before they fixed Olejoe in his new kit.

The pink silk stockings pleased him; the red plush knickers he regarded dubiously; the gold laced scarlet coat he did not like at all. The gold aiguillettes he jibbed at.

But Tuppy was very persuasive.

"Don't be a silly old gentleman," he said wearily, "you'll be objectin' to the sword next!"

"I won't wear a sword!" roared Olejoe.

Tuppy was shocked.

"Here we are, takin' all this trouble to make you look presentable, givin' you a chain of office an' all, an' you say 'won't,'--naughty, naughty!"

He shook his head reprovingly.

Olejoe turned from one to the other in despair. "Gents----" he cried passionately.

But the Duke was looking very severe, and Hank's face spoke his disapproval.

"Such base ingratitude," said the Duke, with gentle melancholy, "saps the very fount of benevolence. Here am I, giving a party in your honour----"

"Giving you a write up," murmured Hank.

"Getting you a throne from Angels," continued the Duke, "making you a King of Broker's men."

"Olejoe the First," said Hank.

"And you say won't!" said the three in indignant chorus.

That night there were sounds of revelry from 64, sounds that penetrated to 66 and caused Alicia some misgivings.

They crowned Olejoe with a massy crown, a-sparkle with rubies and diamonds and other glass ware. They sat him on a gilded throne, and placed a sceptre in his right hand, and a large tankard of beer in his left.

They sang "Olejoe's body lies a mouldering in the grave," triumphantly, and the resplendent figure in scarlet and gold thoroughly alarmed by the sinister refrain, rubbed his stubby chin at intervals and demanded earnestly that there should be no larks.