' 'Yes,' he says, 'and I'd strike him again. Listen to me,' he says. 'You think just because I'm quiet I ain't got no spirit. You think all I can do is to sit and smile. You think-Bah! You aren't on to the hidden depths in me character. I'm one of them still waters that runs deep. I'm-Here, you get out of it! Yes, all of you. Except Jane. Jane and me wants this room to have a private talk in. I've got a lot of things to say to Jane. Are you going?'
'I turns to the crowd. I was awful disturbed. 'You mustn't take any notice,' I says. 'He ain't well. He ain't himself.' When just then the parrot outs with another of them squawks. Jerry jumps at it.
' 'You first,' he says, and flings the cage out of the window. 'Now you,' he says to the yellow dog, putting him out through the door. And then he folds his arms and scowls at us, and we all notice suddenly that he's very big. We looks at one another, and we begins to edge towards the door. All except Jane, who's staring at Jerry as if he's a ghost.
' 'Mr. Moore,' says Pa Tuxton, dignified, 'we'll leave you You're drunk.'
' 'I'm not drunk,' says Jerry. 'I'm in love.'
' 'Jane,' says Pa Tuxton, 'come with me, and leave this ruffian to himself.'
' 'Jane,' says Jerry, 'stop here, and come and lay your head on my shoulder.'
' 'Jane,' says Pa Tuxton, 'do you hear me?'
' 'Jane,' says Jerry, 'I'm waiting.'
'She looks from one to the other for a spell, and then she moves to where Jerry's standing.
' 'I'll stop,' she says, sort of quiet.
'And we drifts out.'
The waiter snorted.
'I got back home quick as I could,' he said, 'and relates the proceedings to Gentleman. Gentleman's rattled. 'I don't believe it,' he says. 'Don't stand there and tell me Jerry Moore did them things. Why, it ain't in the man. 'Specially after what I said to him about the way he ought to behave. How could he have done so?' Just then in comes Jerry, beaming all over. 'Boys,' he shouts, 'congratulate me. It's all right. We've fixed it up. She says she hadn't known me properly before. She says she'd always reckoned me a sheep, while all the time I was one of them strong, silent men.' He turns to Gentleman-'
The man at the other end of the room was calling for his bill.
'All right, all right,' said the waiter. 'Coming! He turns to Gentleman,' he went on rapidly, 'and he says, 'Bailey, I owe it all to you, because if you hadn't told me to insult her folks-' '
He leaned on the traveller's table and fixed him with an eye that pleaded for sympathy.
' 'Ow about that?' he said. 'Isn't that crisp? 'Insult her folks!' Them was his very words. 'Insult her folks!' '
The traveller looked at him inquiringly.
'Can you beat it?' said the waiter.
'I don't know what you are saying,' said the traveller. 'If it is important, write on it a slip of paper. I am stone deaf.'
Rough-hew Them How We Will
Paul boielle was a waiter. The word 'waiter' suggests a soft-voiced, deft-handed being, moving swiftly and without noise in an atmosphere of luxury and shaded lamps. At Bredin's Parisian Cafe and Restaurant in Soho, where Paul worked, there were none of these things; and Paul himself, though he certainly moved swiftly, was by no means noiseless. His progress through the room resembled in almost equal proportions the finish of a Marathon race, the star-act of a professional juggler, and a monologue by an Earl's Court side-showman. Constant acquaintance rendered regular habitues callous to the wonder, but to a stranger the sight of Paul tearing over the difficult between-tables course, his hands loaded with two vast pyramids of dishes, shouting as he went the mystic word, 'Comingsarecominginamomentsaresteaksareyessarecomingsare!' was impressive to a degree. For doing far less exacting feats on the stage musichall performers were being paid fifty pounds a week. Paul got eighteen shillings.
What a blessing is poverty properly considered. If Paul had received more than eighteen shillings a week he would not have lived in an attic. He would have luxuriated in a bed-sitting-room on the second floor; and would consequently have missed what was practically a genuine north light. The skylight which went with the attic was so arranged that the room was a studio in miniature, and, as Paul was engaged in his spare moments in painting a great picture, nothing could have been more fortunate; for Paul, like so many of our public men, lived two lives. Off duty, the sprinting, barking juggler of Bredin's Parisian Cafe became the quiet follower of Art. Ever since his childhood he had had a passion for drawing and painting. He regretted that Fate had allowed him so little time for such work; but after all, he reflected, all great artists had had their struggles-so why not he? Moreover, they were now nearly at an end. An hour here, an hour there, and every Thursday a whole afternoon, and the great picture was within measurable distance of completion. He had won through. Without models, without leisure, hungry, tired, he had nevertheless triumphed. A few more touches, and the masterpiece would be ready for purchase. And after that all would be plain sailing. Paul could forecast the scene so exactly. The picture would be at the dealer's, possibly-one must not be too sanguine-thrust away in some odd corner. The wealthy connoisseur would come in. At first he would not see the masterpiece; other more prominently displayed works would catch his eye. He would turn from them in weary scorn, and then!...Paul wondered how big the cheque would be.
There were reasons why he wanted money. Looking at him as he cantered over the linoleum at Bredin's, you would have said that his mind was on his work. But it was not so. He took and executed orders as automatically as the penny-in-the-slot musical-box in the corner took pennies and produced tunes. His thoughts were of Jeanne Le Brocq, his co-worker at Bredin's, and a little cigar shop down Brixton way which he knew was in the market at a reasonable rate. To marry the former and own the latter was Paul's idea of the earthly paradise, and it was the wealthy connoisseur, and he alone, who could open the gates.
Jeanne was a large, slow-moving Norman girl, stolidly handsome. One could picture her in a De Maupassant farmyard. In the clatter and bustle of Bredin's Parisian Cafe she appeared out of place, like a cow in a boiler-factory. To Paul, who worshipped her with all the fervour of a little man for a large woman, her deliberate methods seemed all that was beautiful and dignified. To his mind she lent a tone to the vulgar whirlpool of gorging humanity, as if she had been some goddess mixing in a Homeric battle. The whirlpool had other views-and expressed them. One coarse-fibred brute, indeed, once went so far as to address to her the frightful words, ' 'Urry up, there, Tottie! Look
