The Man in Ratcatcher, and Other Stories

by H. C. McNeile

When the doctor told John Frenton he went mad. He cursed Fate: he cursed the wretched brat that had come and taken away his woman. For weeks he refused to see it: and then Time, the Great Healer, dulled the agony. Instead of a wife—a daughter: and on the girl he lavished all the great wealth of love of which his rugged nature was capable. He idolized her: and she, because her nature was sweet, remained a charming, unaffected girl. Some day she would be fabulously rich, but the fact did not concern her greatly. In fact she barely thought of it: it would be many long days before her dearly loved dad left her. And so it had been up to a year ago.... Then she'd met the man.

It would perhaps be more correct to say that the man had met her. The Honourable Herbert Strongley received an intimation from an aunt of his, that if he would find it convenient to abstain for a while from his normal method of living, and come and stay with her in the country, she would introduce him to a charming girl staying at a neighbouring house. She specified who the charming girl was, and suggested that though from his birth Herbert had been a fool, he couldn't be such a damned fool as to let this slip. She was an outspoken lady was this aunt....

The Honourable Herbert made a few inquiries, and left London next day for a protracted stay with his relative. It took him a week—he possessed a very charming manner did Herbert—before he was formally engaged to Marjorie. The armament of nineteen has but little resisting power when exposed to the batteries of a good-looking delightful man of the world who is really bringing all his guns to bear. And because the man was a consummate actor when he chose to be, he had but little more difficulty in getting through the defences of her father. Marjorie seemed wonderfully happy: that was the chief thing to John Frenton. And he was getting old: carrying out his usual routine at the works was daily becoming more and more of a strain. Why not? He had no son—everything would go to his girl and her husband at his death. His lifework would be in their hands.... If he'd had his way, perhaps, he'd have chosen someone with a little more knowledge of the trade—the Honourable Herbert didn't know the difference between mild and tool steel: but after all a happy marriage did not depend on such technical qualifications. As a man he seemed all that could be desired, and that was the principal thing that mattered. He could trust his managers for the rest....

And so his prospective son-in-law became a prospective partner. Ostensibly he was supposed to be picking up the tricks of the trade, a performance which afforded him no pleasure whatever. He loathed work in any form: he regarded it as a form of partial insanity—almost a disease. During the hours which he spent in the office his reason—such as it was—was only saved by the help of Ruff's Guide and telephonic communication with his bookmaker.... But he was far too astute a person to run any risks. He was playing for immeasurably larger stakes than he could afford to lose, and in addition he was quite genuinely fond of Marjorie in his own peculiar way. He intended to marry her, and then, when the old man was dead—and he was visibly failing—the Honourable Herbert had his own ideas on the subject of Frenton's Steel Works. The only trouble was that Frenton's Steel Works had their own ideas on the subject of the Honourable Herbert, though that gentleman was supremely ignorant of the fact. Without a slip he had acted his part before John Frenton: with just the right eagerness to learn he had played up to the managers: but—and it was a big but—he had forgotten the men. They had never even entered into his calculations, and it would doubtless have amazed him to hear that he had entered very considerably into theirs. For the men did not like the Honourable Herbert—in fact they disliked him considerably: and since there was no secret regarding his future—a future which concerned them intimately—this error in the calculations was serious. They were a rough-and-ready crowd, with rough-and-ready ideas of justice and fair play. In addition they idolized Marjorie Frenton and her father to a man. It had taken them about a month to size up the new partner, and that was six months ago. Since then, slowly and inexorably—their brains did not work very quickly—the determination that they would not have the Honourable Herbert as John Frenton's successor had crystallized and hardened. For a while they had waited: surely the old man would see for himself that the man was useless. But the old man did not see: the Honourable Herbert still strolled yawning through the works, taking not the slightest notice of any of the hands—the man whom they in future would have to work for. Very good: if old John could not see it for himself, other steps would have to be taken to dispose of the gentleman.

They might have been peaceful steps, but for an incident which had occurred the day before the personally conducted tour already mentioned. It was conducted by the Honourable Herbert himself, and consisted of the house-party staying with John Frenton and Marjorie. The house-party noticed nothing unusual, somewhat naturally: they were bored or interested according to their natures. But as the tour progressed, a look of puzzled wonder began to dawn in Marjorie's eyes. What on earth was the matter with the men?

It was some time since she had been in the works, and the change was the more pronounced because of it. Instead of cheery smiles, sullen faces and black looks followed them wherever they went: she sensed that the whole atmosphere of the place was hostile. And after a while the uneasy suspicion began to form in her mind that the object of this hostility was her fiancé. She took advantage of the halt at the steam hammer to draw him on one side.

"What on earth is the matter with the men, Herbert?" she demanded. "I've never seen them like this before."

The Honourable Herbert cursed under his breath. He, too, had been painfully aware of the scowls which had followed them, though he had hoped against hope that Marjorie would not notice. Moreover, he had known only too well the reason of the demonstration. And now it would come to old John's ears.... He cursed again, as the girl looked at him with questioning eyes.

"Lord knows, my dear," he answered, abruptly. "I suppose the blighters have got some fancied grievance."

"'Blighters! Fancied grievance!'" The girl stepped back a pace in genuine amazement. "Then why don't you have them together and ask them, like daddy used to do?"