'I daresay I'm wrong,' said Mr Egg. 'But isn't there a fable about the man who cried 'Wolf!' so often that nobody would believe him when the wolf really came? There's a motto in the Salesman's Handbook that I always admire very much. It says: 'Discretion plays a major part in making up the salesman's art, for truths that no one can believe are calculated to deceive.' I think that's rather subtle, don't you?'
MAHER-SHALAL-HASHBAZ
A Montague Egg Story
............
No Londoner can ever resist the attraction of a street crowd. Mr Montague Egg, driving up Kingsway, and observing a group of people staring into the branches of one of the slender plane-trees which embellish that thoroughfare, drew up to see what all the excitement was about.
'Poor puss!' cried the bystanders, snapping encouraging fingers. 'Poor pussy, then! Kitty, kitty, kitty, come on!'
'Look, baby, look at the pretty pussy!'
'Fetch her a bit of cat's-meat.'
'She'll come down when she's tired of it.'
'Chuck a stone at her!'
'Now then, what's all this about?'
The slender, shabby child who stood so forlornly holding the empty basket appealed to the policeman.
'Oh, do please send these people away! How can he come down, with everybody shouting at him? He's frightened, poor darling.'
From among the swaying branches a pair of amber eyes gleamed wrathfully down. The policeman scratched his head.
'Bit of a job, ain't it, missie? However did he come to get up there?'
'The fastening came undone, and he jumped out of the basket just as we were getting off the bus. Oh, please do something!'
Mr Montague Egg, casting his eye over the crowd, perceived on its outskirts a window-cleaner with his ladders upon a truck. He hailed him.
'Fetch that ladder along, sonnie, and we'll soon get him down, if you'll allow me to try, miss. If we leave him to himself, he'll probably stick up there for ages. 'It's hard to reassure, persuade or charm the customer who once has felt alarm.' Carefully, now. That's the ticket.'
'Oh, thank you so much! Oh, do be gentle with him. He does so hate being handled.'
'That's all right, miss; don't worry. Always the gentleman, that's Monty Egg. King about the house and clean with children. Up she goes!'
And Mr Egg, clapping his smart trilby upon his head and uttering crooning noises, ascended into the leafage. A loud explosion of spitting sounds and a small shower of twigs floated down to the spectators, and presently Mr Egg followed, rather awkwardly, clutching a reluctant bunch of ginger fur. The girl held out the basket, the four furiously kicking legs were somehow bundled in, a tradesman's lad produced a piece of string, the lid was secured, the window-cleaner was rewarded and removed his ladder, and the crowd dispersed. Mr Egg, winding his pocket-handkerchief about a lacerated wrist, picked the scattered leaves out of his collar and straightened his tie.
'Oh, he's scratched you dreadfully!' lamented the girl, her blue eyes large and tragic.
'Not at all,' replied Mr Egg. 'Very happy to have been of assistance, I am sure. Can I have the pleasure of driving you anywhere? It'll be pleasanter for him than a bus, and if we pull up the windows he can't jump out, even if he does get the basket open again.'
The girl protested, but Mr Egg firmly bustled her into his little saloon and inquired where she wanted to go.
'It's this address,' said the girl, pulling a newspaper cutting out of her worn handbag. 'Somewhere in Soho, isn't it?'
Mr Egg, with some surprise, read the advertisement:
'Wanted: hard-working, capable Cat (either sex), to keep down mice in pleasant villa residence and be companion to middle-aged couple. Ten shillings and good home to suitable applicant. Apply personally to Mr John Doe, La Cigale Bienheureuse, Frith St., W., on Tuesday between 11 and 1 o'clock.'
'That's a funny set-out,' said Mr Egg, frowning.
'Oh! do you think there's anything wrong with it? Is it just a joke?'
'Well,' said Mr Egg, 'I can't quite see why anybody wants to pay ten bob for an ordinary cat, can you? I mean, they usually come gratis and f.o.b. from somebody who doesn't like drowning kittens. And I don't quite believe in Mr John Doe; he sounds like what they call a legal fiction.'
'Oh, dear!' cried the girl, with tears in the blue eyes. 'I did so hope it would be all right. You see, we're so dreadfully hard up, with father out of work, and Maggie--that's my stepmother--says she won't keep Maher-shalal- hashbaz any longer, because he scratches the table-legs and eats as much as a Christian, bless him!--though he doesn't really--only a little milk and a bit of cat's-meat, and he's a beautiful mouser, only there aren't many mice where we live--and I thought, if I could get him a good home--and ten shillings for some new boots for Dad, he needs them so badly--'
'Oh, well, cheer up,' said Mr Egg. 'Perhaps they're willing to pay for a full-grown, certified mouser. Or--tell you what--it may be one of these cinema stunts. We'll go and see, anyhow; only I think you'd better let me come with you and interview Mr Doe. I'm quite respectable,' he added hastily. 'Here's my card. Montague Egg, travelling representative of Plummet & Rose, wines and spirits, Piccadilly. Interviewing customers is my long suit. 'The salesman's job is to get the trade--don't leave the house till the deal is made'--that's Monty's motto.'
'My name's Jean Maitland, and Dad's in the commercial line himself--at least, he was till he got bronchitis last winter, and now he isn't strong enough to go on the road.'
'Bad luck!' said Monty sympathetically, as he turned down High Holborn. He liked this child of sixteen or so, and registered a vow that 'something should be done about it.'
It seemed as though there were other people who thought ten shillings good payment for a cat. The pavement before the grubby little Soho restaurant was thick with cat-owners, some carrying baskets, some clutching their animals in their arms. The air resounded with the mournful cries of the prisoners.
'Some competition,' said Monty. 'Well, anyhow, the post doesn't seem to be filled yet. Hang on to me, and we'll try what we can do.'
They waited for some time. It seemed that the applicants were being passed out through a back entrance, for, though many went in, none returned. Eventually they secured a place in the queue going up a dingy staircase, and, after a further eternity, found themselves facing a dark and discouraging door. Presently this was opened by a stout and pursy-faced man, with very sharp little eyes, who said briskly: 'Next, please!' and they walked in.
'Mr John Doe?' said Monty.
'Yes. Brought your cat? Oh, the young lady's cat. I see. Sit down, please. Name and address, miss?'
The girl gave an address south of the Thames, and the man made a note of it, 'in case,' he explained, 'the chosen candidate should prove unsuitable, and I might want to write to you again. Now, let us see the cat.'
The basket was opened, and a ginger head emerged resentfully.
'Oh, yes. Fine specimen. Poor pussy, then. He doesn't seem very friendly.'
'He's frightened by the journey, but he's a darling when he once knows you, and a splendid mouser. And so clean.'
'That's important. Must have him clean. And he must work for his living, you know.'
'Oh, he will. He can tackle rats or anything. We call him Maher-shalal-hashbaz, because he 'makes haste to the spoil.' But he answers to Mash, don't you, darling?'
'I see. Well, he seems to be in good condition. No fleas? No diseases? My wife is very particular.'
'Oh, no. He's a splendid healthy cat. Fleas, indeed!'
'No offence, but I must be particular, because we shall make a great pet of him. I don't care much for his
