~Jones.~ Yes, sir. (Rings bell.)
~Smith.~ She would split her infinitives…. We quarrelled…. She left me…. I have never seen her again.
~Jones.~ (excitedly). Did you say she split her infinitives?
~Smith.~ Yes. That was what led to our separation. Why?
~Jones.~ Nothing, only—it's very odd. I wonder―
Enter Boy.
~Boy.~ Did you ring, Sir?
~Smith.~ No. But you can show the lady up. (Exit Boy.) You'd better clear out, Jones. I'll explain to her about the money.
~Smith.~ Right you are, Sir. (Exit.)
(Smith leans back in his chair and stares in front of him.)
~Smith~ (to himself). Arabella!
Enter Boy, followed by a stylishly dressed lady of middle age.
~Boy.~ Mrs. Robinson. (Exit.)
(Mrs. Robinson stops short in the middle of the room and stares at the Editor; then staggers and drops on to the sofa.)
~Smith~ (in wonder). Arabella!
~Mrs. Robinson.~ William!
(They fall into each other's arms.)
~Arabella.~ I had begun to almost despair. (Smith winces.) "Almost to despair," I mean, darling.
~Smith~ (with a great effort). No, no, dear. You were right.
~Arabella.~ How sweet of you to think so, William.
~Smith.~ Yes, yes, it's the least I can say…. I have been very lonely without you, dear…. And now, what shall we do? Shall we get married again quietly?
~Arabella.~ Wouldn't that be bigamy?
~Smith.~ I think not, but I will ask the printer's reader. He knows everything. You see, there will be such a lot to explain, otherwise.
~Arabella.~ Dear, can you afford to marry?
~Smith.~ Well, my salary as editor is only twenty thousand a year, but I do a little reviewing for other papers.
~Arabella.~ And I have—nothing. How can I come to you without even a trousseau?
~Smith.~ Yes, that's true…. (Suddenly) By Jove, though, you have got something! You have eight thousand pounds! We owe you that for your articles. (With a return to his professional manner.) Did I tell you how greatly we all appreciated them? (Goes to telephone.) Is that you, Jones? Just come here a moment. (To Arabella) Jones is my sub–editor; he is keeping your money for you.
Enter Jones.
~Jones~ (producing an old stocking). I've just been round to my rooms to get that money—(sees Arabella)—oh, I beg your pardon.
~Smith~ (waving an introduction). Mrs. Smith—my wife. This is our sub–editor, dear—Mr. Jones. (Arabella puts her hand to her heart and seems about to faint.) Why, what's the matter?
~Arabella~ (hoarsely). Where did you get that stocking?
~Smith~ (pleasantly). It's one he wears when he goes bicycling.
~Jones.~ No; I misled you this afternoon, chief. This stocking was all the luggage I had when I first entered the Leamington workhouse.
~Arabella~ (throwing herself into his arms). My son! This is your father! William—our boy!
~Smith~ (shaking hands with Jones). How are you? I say, Arabella, then that was one of my stockings?
~Arabella~ (to her boy.) When I saw you on the stairs you seemed to dimly remind me―
~Jones.~ To remind you dimly, mother.
~Smith.~ No, my boy. In future, nothing but split infinitives will appear in our paper. Please remember that.
~Jones~ (with emotion). I will endeavour to always remember it, dad. [CURTAIN.
Part VII
Successful Men
This series is designed to assist parents in choosing a career for their sons. The author has devoted considerable time to research among the best authorities, and the results are now laid before the public in the hope that they will bring encouragement to those who are hesitating at the doors of any of the great professions.
XLVI
The Solicitor
The office was at its busiest, for it was Friday afternoon. John Blunt leant back in his comfortable chair and toyed with the key of the safe, while he tried to realise his new position. He, John Blunt, was junior partner in the great London firm of Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton & Macnaughton.
He closed his eyes, and his thoughts wandered back to the day when he had first entered the doors of the firm as one of two hundred and seventy–eight applicants for the post of office–boy. They had been interviewed in batches, and old Mr. Sanderson, the senior partner, had taken the first batch.
"I like your face, my boy," he had said heartily to John.
"And I like yours," replied John, not to be outdone in politeness.
"Now I wonder if you can spell 'mortgage'?"
"One 'm,'" said John tentatively.
Mr. Sanderson was delighted with the lad's knowledge, and engaged him at once.
For three years John had done his duty faithfully. During this time he had saved the firm more than once by his readiness—particularly on one occasion, when he had called old Mr. Sanderson's attention to the fact that he had signed a letter to a firm of stockbrokers, "Your loving husband, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton & Macnaughton." Mr. Sanderson, always a little absent–minded, corrected the error, and promised the boy his articles. Five years later John Blunt was a solicitor.
And now he was actually junior partner in the firm—the firm of which it was said in the City, "If a man has Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton & Macnaughton behind him he is all right." The City is always coining pithy little epigrams like this.
There was a knock at the door of the enquiry office and a prosperous–looking gentleman came in.
"Can I see Mr. Macnaughton?" he said politely to the office–boy.
"There isn't no Mr. Macnaughton," replied the latter. "They all died years ago."
"Well, well, can I see one of the partners?"
"You can't see Mr. Sanderson, because he's having his lunch," said the boy. "Mr. Thorpe hasn't come back from lunch yet, Mr. Peters has just gone out to lunch, Mr. Williams is expected back from lunch every minute, Mr. Gourlay went out to lunch an hour ago, Mr. Beamish―"
"Tut, tut, isn't anybody in?"
"Mr. Blunt is in," said the boy, and took up the telephone. "If you wait a moment I'll see if he's awake."
Half an hour later Mr. Masters was shown into John Blunt's room.
"I'm sorry I was engaged," said John. "A most important client. Now what can I do for you, Mr.—er—Masters?"
"I wish to make my will."
"By all means," said John cordially.
"I have only one child, to whom I intend to leave all my money."
"Ha!" said John, with a frown. "This will be a lengthy and difficult business."
"But you can do it?" asked Mr. Masters anxiously. "They told me at the hairdresser's that Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton & Macnaughton was the cleverest firm in London."
"We can do it," said John simply, "but it will require all our care; and I think it would be best if I were to come and stay with you for the weekend. We could go into it properly then."