“That’s the sort of woman to cultivate, Morty, my boy!” advised Thompson Jowell, smiling and rubbing his hands. “With a little managing and cleverness, she ought to get you into the swim. The Goldfish Tank, I mean, where the titled heiresses are. You represent Money, solid Money!—but what we want—to set our Money off, is Rank! And the men of the British Aristocracy are easy enough to get at, and easy enough to get on with, provided you don’t happen to tread on their damned exclusive corns. But their women, confound ’em!—their high-nosed, long-necked women—they’re as hard to get on a level of chatty equality with as Peter Wilkins’ flying females were; and the mischief of it is, my boy, you can’t do without their good word. So cultivate Lady A! Wink at her cheating at cards—it’s in the blood of all these tip-top swells—and get her to take you about with her. And one of these days we may be hearing how Lady Rosaline Jowell, second daughter of the Earl, or the Marquess, or the Duke of Something-or-other, was Presented, on her marriage with Mr. Mortimer Jowell, of the Foot Guards; and what sort of figure her husband cut at the Prince’s Levée. And, by Gosh! though I don’t keep a coffer full of diamonds as big as pigeons’ eggs in my safe, we’ll see what Bond Street can do in the way of a Tiara for the head, and a Zone for the waist, and a necklace and bracelets of the biggest shiners that can be got, for her Ladyship, Thompson Jowell’s daughter-in-law! And what I say I’ll do, I do! My name’s Old Trusty, ain’t it, Morty boy?”
His round eyes goggled almost appealingly at his son.
“And if I’m—what you say—a bit of a Squeezer as regards making people pay; and a bit of a Grinder—though that I don’t admit—at driving hard bargains; and Mister Sharp of Cutters’ Lane when it comes to getting the best of So-and-So, and Such-and-Such—who’d cheerfully skin me alive, only give ’em the chance of it—you’re the last person in the world, Morty, who ought to throw it in my face.”
He spoke with almost weeping earnestness; there were blobs of moisture in the corners of his eyes; his blustering Boreas-voice was almost soft and pleading as Thompson Jowell bid for the good opinion of his son. “Not that I reproach you,” was the refrain of his song, “but you ought to be the last!”
“Old Gov!” The large young man repeated his previous action of taking Thompson Jowell by his fleshy shoulders with the extra-sized hands, encased in the lemon kid gloves, and pleasantly shaking him backwards and forwards, as though he had been a large, plain, whiskered doll.
“There’s the Commission in the Guards, Morty. You wouldn’t believe—having set my heart on making a first-class gentleman of my boy—what an uncommon sight of trouble I’ve taken to bring that sealed paper with Her Majesty’s signature on it, down from the sky-high branch it hangs on! His Honor the Commissary-General kept his word in presenting me to my Lord Dalgan, His Grace the Commander-in-Chief’s confidential Secretary, yesterday, and after a little general chit-chat, I felt my way to a hint, for we must be very humble with such great folks,” said Thompson Jowell, rattling the tills, “and watch for times and opportunities. My Lord was very high and lofty with me, as you may suppose.... ‘So you have a son, Mr. Thompson Jowell,’ says he. ‘I congratulate you, my dear sir, on having done your duty to Posterity. And it is your ambition that this young man should enjoy the privilege of wearing Her Majesty’s uniform? Well, well! We will see what we can do with His Grace, Mr. Thompson Jowell, towards procuring the young gentleman an ensigncy in some regiment of infantry.’ ‘Humbly thanking you, my Lord,’ says I, ‘for the gracious encouragement you have given to a man who might be called by persons less grand, and noble, and generous-minded than your Lordship, an ambitious tradesman;—since you permit me to speak my mind’—and he bows over his stock in his stiff-necked, gracious way—‘I dare to say I fly higher for my boy,’ says I, ‘than a mere marching regiment. And what I have set my heart upon, and likewise my son his, is, plainly speaking, a Commission in the Foot Guards, White Tufts or Cut Red Feathers.’ Up go his eyebrows at that, Morty, and he taps with his shiny nails—a real nobleman’s nails—on the carved arm of his chair, smiling. ‘Really, Mr. Thompson Jowell’—and he leans back and throws his foot over his knee, showing the Wellington boot with gold spurs and the white strap of the pearl-gray trouser—‘ambition is, to a certain extent, laudable and to be encouraged. But at the same time, permit me to say that you do fly high!’ ‘Begging your Lordship’s leave once more,’ says I, ‘to speak out—and Plain’s my name and nature!—I have come to beg the greatest nobleman in the land to make a hay-and-straw-and-flour merchant’s son a gentleman. A word in the ear of His Grace, the Duke, and a stroke of your pen will do it, my Lord,’ I says; ‘and when I find myself in the presence of a power as lofty and as wide as yours, and am graciously encouraged to ask a favor, I don’t ask a little one that a lesser influence could grant. I plump for the Guards, and your Lordship can but refuse me!’”
“You clever old Codger! Rubbin’ him down with a wisp of straw, and ticklin’ him in all the right places.... But look here, you know!” objected Morty, with a darkening brow, “I don’t half cotton to all that patter about making a gentleman of a merchant’s son. Egad, sir, I’m dam’ if I do like it!”
He sat upon the knee-hole table and folded his arms upon his waistcoat, a garment of brown velvet embroidered with golden sprigs, worn in conjunction with a satin cravat of dazzling green, peppered with scarlet horseshoes and adorned with pins of Oriental pearl; and blew out his round cheeks quite in the paternal manner as he shook his bullet head.
“You mustn’t mind a bit of humble-pie, my boy!” pleaded Thompson Jowell, “seeing what a great thing is to be got by eating it, and looking as if you liked it. You don’t suppose I’m any fonder of the dish than you are—but it’s for my son’s sake; and so, down it goes! These stately swells will have you flatter ’em, stiff-necked, and fawn upon ’em, and lick their boots for ’em. They were born to have men cringe to ’em, and by Gosh, sir! can you stand upright and milk a cow at the same time? You can’t, and you know it!—so you squat and whistle to her, and down comes the milk between your fingers, squish!”
“I ain’t a dairymaid,” asserted Morty sulkily.