Love and the Ironmonger

by F. J. Randall

"Speak out," said George, hoarsely, trying to shake off a numbness that was creeping over him. "What have you done? What have you done? Out with it!"

"Told him—told him you were not here."

It is safe to say that the flow of profanity delivered by the new master of Fairbrothers' on receiving this intelligence was such as had never before resounded in the chief office during the firm's existence. Busby was too intent on his own loss to take much heed of it, or to wonder why the loss of five hundred pounds a year to his secretary should have such an effect on George Early, master of thousands. He lay back in a limp heap, feebly repeating at intervals, "I've done it; it's all over."

Animated by a faint hope that all was not lost, George summoned the office-boy. That youth, with quick intelligence and some pride, confessed that he had "told the gentleman Mr. Early was upstairs." As a reward Mr. Early swore at him, and sacked him on the spot.

An hour later the worried ironmonger sat alone in the big room. He had dispensed with his secretary's services for the rest of the day, and had given strict orders that no one was to be admitted to his presence. The appalling significance of his position was beginning to dawn upon him. Already he had two of the legacies, and the third was obviously a mere matter of time.

"You can't knock sense into the heads of these brutes," he reflected bitterly; "they don't understand generosity. Parrott'll go down as sure as my name's George."

He sat upright and tried to review the situation. A stiff glass of brandy would have been a help, but that was out of the question. This second legacy, of which he would probably receive notice in the morning, was ten times worse than the first. All his life George had been accustomed to equivocation, and to bind himself to speaking the whole truth and nothing but the truth was like asking him to keep his eyes shut for the rest of his life. He regretted the afternoons he had stayed away from Sunday School. He was positive that he would fail. And the third legacy would be even more appalling than the other two, for there was no doubt that the secret would get out. Gray, Busby, and Parrott would be sure to get news of all three, and Heaven knows how many more people besides, and then he would be simply besieged for money. It would be an impossible situation, and most unjust. He could see a most disastrous end to all his schemes. Himself brought to poverty, and with him a wife who had been reared in luxury.

The representative of Dibbs and Dubbs did not appear at eleven o'clock, so George decided to leave the stuffy atmosphere of Upper Thames Street and cool his brow on a Thames steamboat. Before leaving he confided to Parrott in the strictest confidence the calamity that had befallen his colleague, and urged him, while there was yet time, to reform.

"Give," said George, strenuously, "with a free hand. I know it's hard for you to do it, but do it. And look here"—as a brilliant thought struck him—"I'll stand half the debts, just to help you to get over the habit of refusing."

He went away more pleased than he had hoped to be. It really was a good idea that, and he could well afford it. Parrott did not look very hopeful in spite of the generous offer; probably he had less faith in himself, knowing himself better.