“The shipping man?” I said, wearily.
“Yes. He and papa are together on some board or other. That is how we came to know them. Papa says he never saw such business ability and sterling worth combined in one man before—I’m speaking of the father, you know. He began life in quite a small way, with just a few ships that he rented, or something like that. Then there was a war on some coast in Africa or Australia—it begins with an A, I know—oh, is there a place called Ashantee?—yes, that’s it—and he got the contract to take out four shiploads of hay to our troops—it would be for their horses, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes: the asses connected with the military branch are needed at home—or at least are kept there.”
“Well, after he started, he got orders to stop at some place and wait for other orders. He did so, and he waited four years and eight months. Those orders never came. The hay all rotted, of course: the ships almost moulded away: I daresay some of the crew died of old age—But Mr Jones never stirred from his post. Finally, some English official came on him by accident—quite! and so he was recalled. Papa says very few men would have shown such tenacity of purpose and grasp of the situation. Mamma says his fidelity to duty was magnificent.”
“Magnificent—yes,” I commented; “but it wasn’t war.”
“Oh, bless you! there was no war then,” explained Ermyntrude. “The war had been ended for years. And all that while the pay for shipping that hay had been going on, so that the Government owed him—I think it was £45,000. Of course he got more contracts, and then he was made a baronet, and could build his own ships; and now he is a lord, and papa says the War Office would be quite helpless without him.”
“And the son,” I asked; “what does he do?”
“Why, nothing, of course!” said Ermyntrude, lifting her pretty brows a little in surprise. “He is the eldest son.”
“I didn’t know but he might have gone in for the Army, or Parliament, or something,” I explained weakly: “just to occupy his mind.”
She smiled to herself—somewhat grimly, I thought. “No,” she said, assuming a serious face, “he says doing things is all rot, if you aren’t obliged to do them. Of course, he goes in for hunting and shooting and all that, and he has a houseboat and a yacht, and one year he was in the All-Slumpshire eleven, but that was too much bother. He hates bother.”