“P.R.”
Percy Roden was usually in haste, and wrote a bad letter in a beautiful handwriting.
Cornish turned to the telegrams. They were one and all applications from malgamite makers—from Venice to Valparaiso—to be enrolled in the Scheveningen group. He was still reading them when Lord Ferriby came into the little office. His lordship was wearing a new fancy waistcoat. It was the month of April—the month assuredly of fancy waistcoats throughout all nature. Lord Ferriby was, as usual, rather pleased with himself. He had walked down Piccadilly with great effect, and a bishop had bowed to him, recognizing, in a sense, a lay bishop.
“What have you got there, Tony?” he asked, affably, laying his smart walking-stick on an inlaid bureau, which was supposed to be his, and was always closed, and had nothing in it.
“Telegrams,” answered Cornish, “from malgamite makers, who want to join the works at Scheveningen. Seventy-six of them. I don't quite understand this business.”
“Neither do I,” admitted Lord Ferriby, in a voice which clearly indicated that if he only took the trouble he could understand anything. “But I fancy it is one of the biggest things in charity that has ever been started.”
In the company of men, and especially of young men, Lord Ferriby allowed himself a little license in speech. He at times almost verged on the slangy, which is, of course, quite correct and de haut ton, and he did not want to be taken for an old buffer, as were his contemporaries. Therefore he called himself an old buffer whenever he could. Qui s'excuse s'accuse.
“Of course,” he added, “we must take the poor fellows.”
Without comment, Cornish handed him Roden's letter, and while Lord Ferriby read it, employed himself in making out a list of the names and addresses of the applicants. Cornish was, in fact, rising to the occasion. In other circumstances Anthony Cornish might with favourable influence—say that of a Scottish head clerk—have been made into what is called a good business man. Without any training whatever, and with an education which consisted only of a smattering of the classics and a rigid code of honour, he usually perceived what it was wise to do. Some people call this genius; others, luck.
“I see,” said Lord Ferriby, “that Roden is of the same opinion as myself. A shrewd fellow, Roden.” And he pulled down his fancy waistcoat.