ONE TOUCH OF DICKENS.
Knowing that there was everything in my appearance to command respect, I went into the manager's room with confidence. Lean and brown and middle-aged, in a tweed coat and grey flannel trousers, which, though not new, were well cut, I felt that I looked like one accustomed to put in and take out sums from banks. There was no trying for effect, no effort, no tie-pin. The stick I carried was a plain ash. The pipe, which I removed from my mouth, had no silver mounting. Ah, but it showed the tiny mother-of-pearl star which stamped it as a Bungknoll. There was going to be no difficulty here.
"Good morning," I said. "I regret to trouble a busy man over a small matter, but I wish to cash a cheque for ten pounds."
He was a quiet, capable-looking man with a rather tired expression.
"The cashing of cheques," he said, laying down his pipe, "is one item of our duties."
"Unfortunately," I continued, "I have run short of money. I bought a rather good print in a shop down the road and it has left me without any. I can give a cheque on Bilson's, but the banks in town close to-morrow and it would mean waiting three days, so I hope that you will be able to—"
"You can bring someone to identify you, of course?" he said, reaching for a bell.
"I am sorry to say that I am unknown here. I am all right at the hotel, but I don't like to ask the people for money. I have brought only a small bag, and what with the races and so forth I might expose myself to a disagreeable refusal."
"Yes," he said, "you might. But I'm afraid I can't cash a cheque for you without an identification. I'll send it for collection if you like."
"But that means waiting for days, and I haven't a shilling left. I came here for a week to look at the country about your town—a beautiful little town." I added this diplomatically.
"Do you think so? I consider it a hole. But I don't know much about it as I'm only here for a week. However, I'm sorry I can't help you except in the way I mentioned."
"But look here—do I look like the kind of man who plays tricks? Here is my card and my club address. And letters"—I tore one out of an envelope, but it was the one from Mosbyson's reminding me that they had already applied twice for payment—"but letters are of little use to identify one."
"They are," he agreed.
"The fact is, among other things, I want to buy another print which I have just caught sight of. It may be snapped up at any moment, like the one I snapped up yesterday."
"Let it go. It's probably a fake."
"Which one?" I said hotly. "The one I bought yesterday or the one I'm going to buy?"
"Both. But I can't cash your cheque."
"But look at the mess I'll be in. Would you have me pawn my watch?"
"I would not; neither would I have you not do so, if you take my meaning."
"I see," I said bitterly. "In plain words you are indifferent to my fate."
He smiled slightly and reached for a match to re-light his pipe.
My blood was up. I would not be defied by this man; at least, not completely. "Very well," I said coldly, "I will leave my cheque for ten pounds with you and take only a couple on account."
"I couldn't do that either."
"Well, a pound will have to do then."
"No."
"Then," I said in despair, "we come to the ridiculously small amount of eighteenpence. Ha, ha!"
"And that," he answered, "would be equally objectionable."
I started. "Come," I said, "you are human after all. You can quote at random from Dickens. You read him?"
"I do. When not engaged in business pursuits." He looked anxiously at the clock.
"Who was Mrs. Chickenstalker?" I asked sternly.
"She kept a shop. In The Haunted Man."
"Whom did Mr. Wopsle marry?"
"Nobody. But hadn't you better see about your watch?"
"Not yet. How many glasses of punch did Mr. Pickwick drink on One Tree Hill?"
"Depends on how you count them. I make it eight."
"Correct. Look here—have you thought about the bagman's story—the first one? He says it is eighty years since the events he relates took place, and that would carry it back to 1747. And yet the traveller damns his straps and whiskers. Why, if he'd worn strapped trousers and whiskers in those days he'd have had a mob after him."
"Yes, and he wouldn't have been driving a gig on Marlborough downs. He'd have been riding with pistols in his holsters, wrapped in a horseman's cloak and wearing a plain bobwig. I've thought of that too."
"I see you have. But there's another—"
"Let me. Can you account for this? Martin Chuzzlewit left Mr. Pecksniff's house in the late autumn—say the last of November to be on the safe side. He stays five weeks in London and then goes to America—say another five weeks. Then, after a week in Major Pawkins' boarding-house, he goes to a place which is identified as the original site of Cairo, Illinois—say another week. This would land him there at the end of February, when everything is frozen stiff. But they travelled down the river in a heat that blistered everything it touched."
"No," I said jealously, "I have not thought of that. Wonderful, isn't it, how one likes to catch Dickens in a mistake? Like having a joke on a good old friend."
"Exactly," he said ardently, "I wish I had more time—"
"If you're free this evening come and dine with me at the 'Bull.' At about eight, if you can."
"I'd like to very much. Thanks. I'll come."
"I've thought of two more," I said; "but I'll go now, as you must be busy, so good-bye for the present. A bit before eight."
"I'll be there. I am rather busy just now. Good morning." He rang the bell. "Oh, Mr. Jounce," he said to the underling who appeared, "will you please cash this gentleman's cheque?"
Lady (to applicant for situation as cook). "Have you been accustomed to have a kitchen-maid under you?"
Cook. "In these days we never speak of having people 'under us.' But I have had colleagues."