Young Men in Spats Page 14

  ‘You have,’ the bookie assured him.

  ‘Come down here for a nice holiday, what? Taking a perfect rest, eh? Going to bask in the lovely sunshine and put all thoughts of business completely out of your head, yes?’

  ‘Well, not quite all,’ said the bookie, producing the little black book. ‘Now, let me see, Mr Widgeon. . . . Ah, yes, five pounds on Marmalade to cop in the second at Ally Pally. Should have won by the form-book, but ran third. Well, that’s life, isn’t it? I think it comes to a little more than four hundred and fifty francs, really, but we’ll call it four-fifty. One doesn’t want any haggling among friends.’

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ said Freddie. ‘Some other time, what? I can’t manage it just at the moment. I haven’t any money.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I mean to say, I want this for a poor man.’

  ‘So do I,’ said the bookie.

  And the upshot and outcome, of course, was that poor old Freddie had to brass up. You can’t appeal to a bookie’s better feelings, because he hasn’t any. He pushed over the four hundred and fifty.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ he said. ‘Here you are. And let me tell you, Mr McIntosh, that the curse of the Widgeons goes with it.’

  ‘Right,’ said the bookie.

  So there Freddie was with five hundred and fifty francs in his kick, and needing a thousand.

  I must say I wouldn’t have blamed him if, in these circs., he had decided to give a miss to the old school-friend. Allowing fifty francs for lushing up the girl Drusilla at the tea-table, he would in that case have had a cool five hundred with which to plunge into the variegated pleasures of Cannes in the summer-time. A very nice sum, indeed.

  But, though tempted, he was strong. This old admirer of his – Muttlebury? . . . Jukes? . . . Ferguson? . . . Braithwaite? . . . – had said that he needed a mille, and a mille he must have.

  But how to raise the other five hundred? That was the prob.

  For some moments he toyed with mad schemes like trying to borrow it from his uncle. Then it suddenly flashed upon him that the sum he required was the exact amount which the intelligent Gaul had offered him if he would come down to the jamboree by the harbour and judge the Peasant Mothers Baby Competition.

  Now, Freddie’s views on babies are well defined. He is prepared to cope with them singly, if all avenues of escape are blocked and there is a nurse or mother standing by to lend aid in case of sudden hiccoughs, retchings, or nauseas. Under such conditions he has even been known to offer his watch to one related by ties of blood in order that the little stranger might listen to the tick-tick. But it would be paltering with the truth to say that he likes babies. They give him, he says, a sort of grey feeling. He resents their cold stare and the supercilious and upstage way in which they dribble out of the corner of their mouths on seeing him. Eyeing them, he is conscious of doubts as to whether Man can really be Nature’s last word.

  This being so, you will readily understand that, even for so stupendous a fee as five hundred francs, he shrank from being closeted with a whole platoon of the little brutes. And I think it is greatly to his credit that after only the shortest of internal struggles he set his teeth, clenched his fists, and made for the harbour with a steady step. How different it would all have been, he felt wistfully, if he were being called upon to judge a contest of Bathing Belles.

  There was the possibility, of course, that in the interval since he had met the intelligent Gaul the post of judge would have been filled. But no. The fellow welcomed him with open arms and led him joyfully into a sort of marquee place crowded with as tough-looking a bunch of mothers and as hard-boiled a gaggle of issue as anybody could wish to see. He made a short speech in French which was much too rapid for Freddie to follow, and the mothers all applauded, and the babies all yelled, and then he was conducted along the line, with all the mothers glaring at him in an intimidating way, as much as to warn him that if he dared give the prize to anybody else’s offspring he had jolly well better look out for himself. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, Freddie tells me, and I see his view-point.

  He kept his head, however. This was the first time he had ever been let in for anything of this nature, but a sort of instinct told him to adopt the policy followed by all experienced judges at these affairs – viz. to ignore the babies absolutely and concentrate entirely on the mothers. So many points for ferocity of demeanour, that is to say, and so many for possibility of knife concealed in stocking, and so on and so forth. You ask any curate how he works the gaff at the annual Baby Competition in his village, and he will tell you that these, broadly, are the lines on which he goes.

  There were, it seemed, to be three prizes and about the first one there could be no question at all. It went automatically to a heavy-weight mother with beetling eyebrows who looked as if she had just come from doing a spot of knitting at the foot of the guillotine. Just to see those eyebrows, Freddie tells me, was to hear the heads dropping into the basket, and he had no hesitation, as I say, in declaring her progeny the big winner.

  The second and third prizes were a bit more difficult, but after some consideration he awarded them to two other female plug-uglies with suspicious bulges in their stockings. This done, he sidled up to the intelligent Gaul to receive his wage, doing his best not to listen to the angry mutterings from the losers which were already beginning to rumble through the air.

  The brand of English which this bird affected was not of the best, and it took Freddie some moments to get his drift. When he did, he reeled and came very near clutching for support at the other’s beard. Because what the Gaul was endeavouring to communicate was the fact that, so far from being paid five hundred francs for his services, Freddie was expected to cough up that sum.

  It was an old Cannes custom, the man explained, for some rich visiting milord to take on the providing of the prizes on this occasion, his reward being the compliment implied in the invitation.

  He said that when he had perceived Freddie promenading himself on the Croisette he had been so struck by his appearance of the most elegant and his altogether of a superbness so unparalleled that he had picked him without another look at the field.

  Well, dashed gratifying, of course, from one point of view and a handsome tribute to the way Freddie had got himself up that day: but it was not long before he was looking in a tentative sort of manner at the nearest exit. And I think that, had that exit been just a shade closer, he would have put his fortune to the test, to win or lose it all.

  But to edge out and leg it would have taken that ten seconds or so which make all the difference. Those mothers would have been on his very heels, and the prospect of sprinting along the streets of Cannes under such conditions was too much for him. Quite possibly he might have shown a flash of speed sufficient to shake off their challenge, but it would have been a very close thing, with nothing in it for the first five hundred yards or so, and he could not have failed to make himself conspicuous.

  So, with a heavy sigh, he forked out the five h., and tottered into the open. So sombre was his mood that he scarcely heard the mutterings of the disappointed losers, who were now calling him an espèce de something and hinting rather broadly in the local patois that he had been fixed.

  And the thing that weighed so heavily upon him was the thought that, unless some miracle occurred, he would now be forced to let down his old chum Bulstrode, Waters, Parsloe, Bingley, Murgatroyd, or whatever the blighter’s name might be.

  He had told the fellow to meet him outside the Casino – which in summer at Cannes is, of course, the Palm Beach at the far end of the Croisette – so he directed his steps thither. And jolly halting steps they were, he tells me. The urge to give the school-chum his mille had now become with Frederick Widgeon a regular obsession. He felt that his honour was involved. And he shuddered at the thought of the meeting that lay before him. Up the chap would come frisking, with his hand outstretched and the light of expectation in his eyes, and what would ensue? The miss-in-baulk.

/>   He groaned in spirit. He could see the other’s pained and disillusioned look. He could hear him saying to himself: ‘This is not the old Widgeon form. The boy I admired so much in the dear old days of school would not have foozled a small loan like this. A pretty serious change for the worse there must have been in Frederick W. since the time when we used to sport together in the shade of the old cloisters.’ The thought was agony.

  All the way along the Croisette he pondered deeply. To the gay throng around him he paid no attention. There were girls within a biscuit-throw in bathing-suits which began at the base of the spine and ended two inches lower down, but he did not give them so much as a glance. His whole being was absorbed in this reverie of his.

  By the time he reached the Casino, he had made up his mind. Visionary, chimerical though the idea would have seemed to anybody who knew the latter and his views on parting with cash, he had resolved to make the attempt to borrow a thousand francs from his uncle. With this end, therefore, he proceeded to the Baccarat rooms. The other, he knew, was always to be found at this hour seated at one of the three-louis chemmy tables. For, definite though the Earl of Blicester’s creed was on the subject of his nephew gambling, he himself enjoyed a modest flutter.

  He found the old boy, as expected, hunched up over the green cloth. At the moment of Freddie’s arrival he was just scooping in three pink counters with a holy light of exaltation on his face. For there was nothing spacious and sensational about Lord Blicester’s methods of play. He was not one of those punters you read about in the papers who rook the Greek Syndicate of three million francs in an evening. If he came out one-and-sixpence ahead of the game, he considered his day well spent.

  It looked to Freddie, examining the counters in front of his relative, as if the moment were propitious for a touch. There must have been fully five bob’s worth of them, which meant that the other had struck one of those big winning streaks which come to all gamblers sooner or later. His mood, accordingly, ought to be sunny.

  ‘I say, uncle,’ he said, sidling up.

  ‘Get to hell out of here,’ replied Lord Blicester, not half so sunny as might have been expected. ‘Banco!’ he cried, and a second later was gathering in another sixty francs.

  ‘I say, Uncle . . .’

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘I say, Uncle, will you lend me . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I only want . . .’

  ‘Well, you won’t get it.’

  ‘It’s not for myself . . .’

  ‘Go to blazes,’ said old Blicester.

  Freddie receded. Though he had never really expected any solid results, his heart was pretty well bowed down with weight of care. He had shot his bolt. His last source of supply had proved a wash-out.

  He looked at his watch. About now, the old schoolmate would be approaching the tryst. He would be walking – so firm would be his faith in his hero – with elastic steps. Possibly he would even be humming some gay air. Had he a stick? Freddie could not remember. But if he had he would be twirling it.

  And then would come the meeting . . . the confession of failure . . . the harsh awakening and the brutal shattering of dreams . . .

  It was at this moment that he was roused from his meditations by the one word in the French language capable of bringing him back to the world.

  ‘Un mille.’

  It was the voice of the croupier, chanting his litany.

  ‘Cinquante louis à la banque. Un banco de mille.’

  I can’t do the dialect, you understand, but what he meant was that somebody holding the bank had run it up to a thousand francs. And Freddie, waking with a start, perceived that a pile of assorted counters, presumably amounting to that sum, now lay in the centre of the board.

  Well, a thousand francs isn’t much, of course, to the nibs at the big tables, but among the three-louis-minimum lizards if you run a bank up to a mille you make a pretty big sensation. There was quite a crowd round the table now, and over their heads Freddie could see that pile of counters, and it seemed to smile up at him.

  For an instant he hesitated, while his past life seemed to flit before him as if he had been a drowning man. Then he heard a voice croak ‘Banco’ and there seemed something oddly familiar about it, and he suddenly realized that it was his own. He had taken the plunge.

  It was a pretty agonizing moment for old Freddie, as you may well imagine. I mean to say, he had bancoed this fellow, whoever he was, and if he happened to lose the coup all he would have to offer him would be fifty francs and his apologies. There would, he could not conceal it from himself, be the devil of a row. What exactly, he wondered, did they do to you at these French Casinos if you lost and couldn’t pay up? Something sticky, beyond a question. Hardly the guillotine, perhaps, and possibly not even Devil’s Island. But something nasty, undoubtedly. With a dim recollection of a movie he had once seen, he pictured himself in the middle of a hollow square formed by punters and croupiers with the managing director of the place snipping off his coat-buttons.

  Or was it trouser-buttons? No, in a mixed company like this it would hardly be trouser-buttons. Still, even coat-buttons would be bad enough.

  And, if the moment was agonizing for Freddie, it was scarcely less so for his uncle, Lord Blicester. It was his bank which had been running up to such impressive proportions, and he was now faced with the problem of whether to take a chance on doubling his loot or to pass the hand.

  Lord Blicester was a man who, when in the feverish atmosphere of the gaming-rooms, believed in small profits and quick returns. He was accustomed to start his bank at the minimum, run it twice with his heart in his mouth, and then pass. But on the present occasion he had been carried away to such an extent that he had worked the kitty up to a solid mille. It was a fearful sum to risk losing. On the other hand, suppose he didn’t lose? Someone in the crowd outside his line of vision had said, ‘Banco!’ and with a bit of luck he might be two mille up instead of one, just like that.

  What to do? It was a man’s cross-roads.

  In the end, he decided to take the big chance. And it was as the croupier pushed the cards along the table and the crowd opened up a bit to let the challenger get at them that he recognized in the individual leaning forward his nephew Frederick.

  ‘Brzzghl!’ gasped Lord Blicester. ‘Gor! Woosh!’

  What he meant was that the deal was off because the young hound who had just come into the picture was his late sister’s son Frederick Fotheringay Widgeon, who had never had a penny except what he allowed him and certainly hadn’t a hundredth part of the sum necessary for cashing in if he lost. But he hadn’t made himself clear enough. The next moment, with infinite emotion, Freddie was chucking down a nine and the croupier was pushing all old Blicester’s hard-earned at him.

  It was as he was gathering it up that he caught the old boy’s eye. The effect of it was to cause him to spill a hundred-franc counter, two louis counters, and a five-franc counter. And he had just straightened himself after picking these up, when a voice spoke.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Widgeon,’ said the girl Drusilla.

  ‘Oh, ah,’ said Freddie.

  You couldn’t say it was a frightfully bright remark, but he considers it was dashed good going to utter even as much as that. In the matter of eyes, he tells me, there was not much to choose between this girl’s and his uncle’s. Their gazes differed in quality, it is true, because, whereas old Blicester’s had been piping hot and had expressed hate, fury and the desire to skin, the girl Drusilla’s was right off the ice and conveyed a sort of sick disillusionment and a loathing contempt. But as to which he would rather have met on a dark night down a lonely alley, Freddie couldn’t have told you.

  ‘You appear to have been lucky,’ said this Drusilla.

  ‘Oh, ah,’ said Freddie.

  He looked quickly away, and ran up against old Blicester’s eye again. Then he looked back and caught Drusilla’s. The whole situation, he tells me, was extraordinarily like that of
an African explorer who, endeavouring to ignore one of the local serpents, finds himself exchanging glances with a man-eating tiger.

  The girl was now wrinkling her nose as if a particularly foul brand of poison-gas had begun to permeate the Casino and she was standing nearest it.

  ‘I must confess I am a little surprised,’ she said, ‘because I was under the impression that you had told me that you never gambled.’

  ‘Oh, ah,’ said Freddie.

  ‘If I remember rightly, you described gambling as a cancer in the body politic.’

  ‘Oh, ah,’ said Freddie.

  She took a final sniff, as if she had been hoping against hope that he was not a main sewer and was now reluctantly compelled to realize that he was.

  ‘I am afraid I shall not be able to come to tea this afternoon. Goodbye, Mr Widgeon.’

  ‘Oh, ah,’ said Freddie.

  He watched her go, knowing that she was going out of his life and that any chance of the scent of orange-blossoms and the amble up the aisle with the organ playing ‘O perfect Love’ was now blue round the edges; and it was as if there was a dull weight pressing on him.

  And then he found that there was a dull weight pressing on him, viz. that of all the counters he was loaded down with. And it was at this point that it dawned upon him that, though he had in prospect an interview with old Blicester which would undoubtedly lower all previous records, and though a life’s romance had gone phut, he was at least in a position to satisfy the noblesse oblige of the Widgeons.

  So he tottered to the cashier’s desk and changed the stuff into a pink note, and then he tottered out of the Casino, and was tottering down the steps when he perceived the school-friend in the immediate offing, looking bright and expectant.

  ‘Here I am,’ said the school-friend.

  ‘Oh, ah,’ said Freddie.

  And with a supreme gesture of resignation he pressed the mille into the man’s hand.

  There was never any doubt about the chap taking it. He took it like a trout sucking down a may-fly and shoved it away in a pocket at the back of his costume. But what was odd was that he seemed stupefied. His eyes grew round, his jaw fell, and he stared at Freddie in awe-struck amazement.