Hemming, the adventurer

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

The old people were immensely interested in Hemming and his work. They even persuaded him to read some of the chapters of his book aloud to them. It was plain to Hemming that Mrs. Thomson's signs of appreciation were matters more of the heart than the head; but not so with Thomson. He would applaud a convincing argument or a well-turned sentence by slapping his hand on his knee, and for hours after a reading would sit by the chimney and mumble curses on the heads of the Turks. One morning, while Hemming was watching him at his work, he turned from the bonfire he had been tending and, without preamble, grasped his lodger's hand.

"You've a power of brains inside your head, sir," he said, with vehemence. Hemming felt that, even from O'Rourke, he had never received a more pleasing compliment. He rewarded the gaffer with a cigar from his own case.

By Christmas "Where Might Is Right" was finished, and posted to a London publisher. With this work done, restlessness returned to Hemming. He fought it off for awhile, but at last packed a bag with his best clothes, and, telling Mrs. Thomson to take care of his letters until his return, went up to London. First of all he called on the publishers to whom he had sent his book. The manager was in, and received Hemming cordially. He said that he had not yet looked at Hemming's manuscript, and that at present it was in town, having been taken away to a house-party by their literary adviser. However, he had followed Captain Hemming's career as a war-correspondent and writer of army stories with interest, and felt that it was altogether likely that the firm would want to do business with him. The genial glow of the season must have been in the gentleman's blood, for he cordially invited Hemming to lunch with him at his club. Upon reaching the street Hemming found the fog, which had been scarcely noticeable a short time before, was rapidly thickening.

"Let us walk—it is but a step," said the publisher, "and I've made the trip in every kind of weather for the last twenty years."

On the steps of the club Hemming stumbled against a crouched figure. There was a dull yellow glare from the lamp above, and by it Hemming saw the beggar's bloated, hungry face, bedraggled red beard, and trembling hand. The eyes were cunning and desperate, but pitiful just then. Hemming passed the poor fellow a coin,—a two-shilling piece,—and followed his guide into the warm, imposing hall of the club, wondering where he had seen those unscrupulous eyes before. The club was brightly lighted. The lunch was long and complicated and very good. The publisher was vastly entertaining, and seemed in no hurry to get back to his work. Hemming's thoughts, in spite of the cheer, busied themselves with the beggar on the steps.

"Did you notice the beggar outside?" he asked, at last.

"The chap with the bushy beard?—why, yes, he is new to this quarter," replied the other.

"He was a desperate-looking devil, and I think the beard was false," remarked Hemming. But as his host did not seem interested in either the beggar or his beard, the subject was dropped.

Next day, with an unnamed hope in his heart that something might happen, Hemming passed the Travers house. But the hope died at sight of it, for it was clearly unoccupied! He remained in town a few days longer, seeking familiar faces in familiar haunts, and finding none to his mind. He thought it strange that romance, and everything worth while, should have deserted the great city in so brief a time. But, for that matter, when he came to think of it, the whole world had lost colour. He decided that he was growing old—and perhaps too wise. After standing the genial publisher a dinner, and receiving a promise of a speedy decision on "Where Might Is Right," he returned to Maidmill-on-Dee, to spend weary months awaiting rumour of war. At last the rumour came, closely followed by sailing orders.