“I don’t think there is a scrap of printed matter left in the house,” said young Mr Maybee.
He was mistaken. After the rehearsal that night Valentine sat on the lawn with several of the cast of the play who wanted to hear about the adventures of the morning. A picture and an account of the distribution of Dr Savage’s library had appeared in the newspaper, but rumours were abroad that clergy had come to blows, that a Presbyterian had been struck down with thrombosis while taking Calvin on the Evangelists from a high shelf, that a book of photographs called Nudes of All Nations, which had appeared unexpectedly at the back of a shelf of exegesis, had been whisked away under the coat of a bachelor curate, that Voltaire’s Works in twenty-four octavo volumes had been seized by a Baptist fundamentalist and thrown from an upstairs window to his wife, who was waiting on the lawn with a sack—the range of speculation was limited only by the fancy of the people of Salterton. Valentine was able to set their minds at rest, though in doing so she lowered the spirits of several anti-clericals and Antinomians among her hearers.
“Nothing really wild happened,” said she; “it was all quite orderly, after the beginning, though it was amazingly quick and a bit dishevelled at times.”
“But every book went?” said Freddy.
“Not even that. Every book that could be seen went, but when Mr Maybee and I began a complete clear-out of grandfather’s vault we found about ten or twelve more books. They were stored away very neatly in a wooden box; somebody had even wrapped them in brown paper. I can’t imagine why; they looked like the most awful junk. Victorian novels in three volumes, and that sort of thing.”
“They sound fascinating,” said Griselda. “I love Victorian novels.”
“These aren’t really good ones,” said Valentine. “Nothing, I mean, that anybody would want to read. I looked at one or two. We’ve put them in the sale, as a single lot.”
The conversation had passed to other things. But Hector had heard. If Griselda liked Victorian novels he would get these for her. It would be a distinguished gift—not expensive, but a sign of his attentiveness to her tastes. Besides, books were always a safe gift; in his journey through the world Hector had somewhere picked up the information that only books, candy and flowers might be given to a lady without seriously compromising her honour.
Freddy had heard, also. If Dr Savage thought enough of a handful of books to keep them in his vault, they were worth her investigation. Imagine Valentine putting them in the sale without so much as a thought! What ignoramuses theatre people were! Before Freddy went to bed that night she carefully counted her money. She did not expect to have to pay a big price, but she wanted to know just where she stood. Reading a favourite chapter of Life Through the Neck of a Bottle before she went to sleep, she was conscious of a warm glow—a book-collector’s glow when he thinks he may be on the track of a good thing. Old books, old wine—how few of us there are, she reflected, who really appreciate these things.
The following day, the Thursday before the sale, was an anxious and difficult one for Hector. At lunchtime he hurried to Dr Savage’s house, feeling guiltily conspicuous, as some men do when they are upon an errand connected in their minds (but in nobody else’s) with love. There were few people about, and he quickly found what he was looking for; it was a box which had, long ago in the past, served for shipping of a small typewriter; the maker’s name was painted on its sides. Within it were several books, neatly wrapped in brown paper; Hector lifted one out and began to unwrap it.
“Mus’ ast yuh not t’ handle the stuff,” said a voice behind him. It was an employee of Elliot and Maybee, a seedy man who smelled of beer.
“I merely want to see what these books are,” said Hector.
“Tha’s all right. My instructions are, mus’ ast yuh not t’ handle the stuff.”
“But how can I tell what this is unless I look?”
“T’ain’t nothing. Just books.”
“But what books?”
“Dunno. Mus’ jus’ ast yuh not t’ handle the stuff.”
“Is there anyone in charge here?”
“Eh?”
“Who is in charge here?”
“Me. Now lookit, Joe, we don’t want no trouble. You jus’ slip away, see, like you was never here. Don’t want yuh handlin’ the stuff.”
Hector was not an expert in the management of men, but occasionally he had an inspiration. He reached into his pocket and took out a dollar.
“Let me see what these books are, and it’s yours,” said he.
“Okay, Joe. But we don’t want no trouble, see?”
Hector unwrapped several of the books. They were old, undoubtedly, and they had a musty smell. He had a notion that really old books were bound in leather; these were bound in dingy cloth, and the gold on their bindings was faded. Still, if Griselda wanted them, he would see that she got them. He gave the beery attendant the dollar, and an extra twenty-five cents.
“May I use the telephone?” said he. He was shown that instrument, which Dr Savage, after the custom of his generation, had kept decently out of sight in a low, dark cupboard under the stairs. The mouthpiece looked as though it had not been cleaned in the twenty years of its installation. After a long and rather complicated conversation with a girl in the office of Elliot and Maybee, he extracted a promise that she would ask old Mr Elliot not to put the box of books up for sale until at least a quarter past four on the following day; she could make no promises; she could not say exactly when Mr Elliot himself was likely to be in the office; Mr Maybee had gone to the country on business; he could try to talk to Mr Elliot after four o’clock, but she could promise nothing. Hot and annoyed and frustrated, Hector escaped from the black hole under the stairs just in time to hurry back to school for the afternoon session. His stomach was upset. He had still to make his arrangements with Pimples Buckle.
Under ordinary circumstances nothing would have persuaded Hector to visit such a person as Pimples Buckle, who was Salterton’s nearest approach to a gangster. But Pimples was reputed to be able to provide what Hector, at this moment in his life, wanted more than anything else in the world—a card of admission to the June Ball.
The June Ball was the glory of Salterton’s social year. Given by the cadets of the great military College which lay at the eastern entrance to the city, it had for many years been surrounded in the highest degree by that atmosphere of smartness and social distinction with which the military so cleverly invest their merry-makings. In Salterton, to be asked to it was to be a person of social consequence; not to be asked to it was to be a nobody. The invitations sent out by the cadets themselves were, of course, to young ladies who had entertained them, in one way or another, during the year; there were cadets so dead to all decent feeling that they invited girls from other cities, but the majority were properly sensible of the great cubic footage of cake and the vast gallonage of tea which they had consumed on Sunday afternoons, and they did their duty—often an extremely pleasant duty. Other guests, distinguished persons from out-of-town and the nobility and gentry of Salterton, were asked by the Commandant and his staff. There were those who said it was easy to get an invitation; there were others, and Hector was one of them, who found it the hardest thing in the world.
He wanted to go, of course, because Griselda would be there. Had not Roger declared, during that memorable night at Solly’s, that he was taking her? The Ball, indeed, had split the cast of The Tempest into sheep and goats: most of them were going, and The Torso had received a choice of five escorts; Valentine had been asked, as a distinguished visitor to the town, and anyhow, as Dr Savage’s grand-daughter, she had a prescriptive right to an invitation; all the girls in the cast had been asked, and even Miss Wildfang was to be present as the partner of a professor who liked well-matured women; even Geordie was to be there, through some miscarriage of social justice, for he announced with a wink that he had drag in a certain quarter. The Leakeys had had no invitation, and expected none; indeed, Mrs Leakey made this a point of perverse pride, telling the world that she was no high-flyer, whatever other people might be. Professor Vambrace had received an invitation for himself and his wife and daughter, and had refused it without consulting either of them, assuming that they would not wish to be present. Everybody who wanted an invitation, it appeared, had received one. Several of Hector’s colleagues at the school had been invited, and it was to the head of the English department, Mr Adams, that he first turned for advice.