He pushed away the painted porcelain dessert-plate from before him so clumsily that it fell from the shining, slippery mahogany to the floor and was shattered; and went on, jabbing a thick stumpy finger at his son, to emphasize notable points; and sometimes banging a gross fist upon the table, so that choice hothouse fruit and crystallized dainties piled up in costly dishes escaped from their receptacles, and the lusters of the chandeliers trembled overhead.
“This here Eastern Expedition of the Army is the Big Thing I have been a-waiting for. It has put in my way opportunities such as I have only dreamed of up to now. If I didn’t grab ’em, other Contractors would—and small blame to ’em. That’s why I sank money in that fleet o’ nine sail and steam vessels, every one of ’em hired out to Government for Transport at up’ards o’ Two Hundred Pounds per day.”
He puffed and blew and snorted in his walrus-fashion, and, between wine, and the sense of his own importance, seemed to increase in bulk as he went on; punctuating his sentences with jabs of the podgy finger, and sometimes scratching in his stubby growth of hair with it, or tweaking at a gross and purple ear.
“I’m paid for the use o’ the ships, and I’m paid for the stuff that goes into ’em. Hay at Twenty Pounds per ton—thousands o’ tons—and thousands o’ barrels of Flour. Maybe some of the trusses of hay are packed round a core o’ cow-parsley, and road, or common-trimmings—them that talk of old hats and empty jam-tins are liars, and I’ll prove it in their teeth! Likely you’ll happen on a barrel o’ breadstuff here and there that’s sour or blue-moldy in the middle.... Fraud I scorn,” said Jowell, breathing noisily, “but Business is Business with me as other men. The bad with the good—the rotten with the sound—that’s the secret of successful dealing. Push the decanter over, will ye? David Drychops is my name this evening! Thanks, my own dear boy!”
He filled a bumper and drank with greedy, spluttering noises, and went on, sucking at his fleshy lips, that were moistened with the sweet red wine:
“Lord! if you knew as much of the tricks of the trade as I do!—you’d think your old Gov. a Angel without wings.... I tell you—and my name’s Nick Know—millions o’ golden pounds’ll be paid, before this here War is over, for Rot, and Rubbish—and nothing more. War Scares are got up—that’s what they are—to give opportunity for Cabbaging on the Grand Scale to Nobs and Bigwigs—War Office and Admiralty Bigwigs—whose names—if I whispered ’em—’ud take away your breath. And me and the other Contractors—men as they are lofty to, and patronize—are in their secrets, and up to every move and dodge of the game they couldn’t play without us—and their hands—white as they keep ’em—and with gems engraved with family crests that are heirlooms shining on ’em—are not a whit cleaner than what ours are—and there’s the naked truth!”
Fate spurred him on—who had never even to himself, or that gray confederate Cowell, spoken thus openly—to this unbosoming, else his son might have died believing him a worthy kind of man. In his urgent need for the love and respect and admiration of this hulking young scion of the house of Jowell, he emptied himself, to the foiling of his passionate desire.
“Take the case of a brand-new Government Transport I am a-loading with my own and other Contractors’ stuff at Portsmouth Dockyard,” he babbled on recklessly. “By Gosh! if you could see the inside of the barrels and crates and cases her holds are chock-full of—to the tune of Five Hundred Thousand Pounds! Thousands o’ barrels o’ salt beef and pickled pork that were laid down in brine before the Battle o’ Waterloo. Ay!—and thousands o’ tins of preserved meat that ’ud blow your head off with stink and stench—if they were ever to be opened!—and cases—thousands o’ cases o’ dead worms that were born of biscuit and lived on biscuit—and died when there was no more biscuit to live on—and ankers of Prime Jamaica Rum made of burnt sugar-and-water and Spirits of potato and beet—not to talk of the crates full of Shoell’s Army Boots that are boots—till you get down to where they’re nothing but odd sizes, and spoiled uppers, and scraps of old leather—and the Winter Clothing and comforts from Sewell’s Factories—watch-coats and guernsey frocks; coatees and trousers; woolen vests and drawers and socks atop, and Dunnage underneath—and nothing but Dunnage! Like the Medical Stores that are the sweepings of every Hospital in the United Kingdom. All packed under loose shot, and empty shell, and supplies of munitions for the Ordnance—to prevent ’em being too easily got at, d’ye twig?... Whoof! I’m short o’ breath!” snorted Jowell, fanning his large red face with his crumpled napkin. “Old Billy Blowhard, and no mistake about me!”
He had really talked himself into an apoplectic and congested condition, and now was fain to break off speech and muster a second wind, while his son, whose large ears were humming with these revelations, regarded him with a circular stare of surprise. But even as Morty’s mouth opened for speech, Thompson Jowell put up a coarse, ringed hairy hand and stopped him; and plunged back into the subject ere his son could get out a word.