“But we’ll keep on the shop,” he said after an interval for further reflection, “all the same. … I ’aven’t much trust in money after the things we’ve seen.”
That was two years ago, and as the whole world knows, the “Pestered Butterfly” is running still. It was true. It has made the fortune of a once declining little theatre in the Strand, night after night the great beetle scene draws happy tears from a house packed to repletion, and Kipps—for all that Chitterlow is not what one might call a business man—is almost as rich as he was in the beginning. People in Australia, people in Lancashire, Scotland, Ireland, in New Orleans, in Jamaica, in New York and Montreal, have crowded through doorways to Kipps’ enrichment, lured by the hitherto unsuspected humours of the entomological drama. Wealth rises like an exhalation all over our little planet, and condenses, or at least some of it does, in the pockets of Kipps.
“It’s rum,” said Kipps.
He sat in the little kitchen out behind the bookshop and philosophised and smiled, while Ann gave Arthur Waddy Kipps his evening tub before the fire. Kipps was always present at this ceremony unless customers prevented; there was something in the mixture of the odours of tobacco, soap and domesticity that charmed him unspeakably.
“Chuckerdee, o’ man,” he said, affably, wagging his pipe at his son, and thought incidentally, after the manner of all parents, that very few children could have so straight and clean a body.
“Dadda’s got a cheque,” said Arthur Waddy Kipps, emerging for a moment from the towel.
“ ’E gets ’old of everything,” said Ann. “You can’t say a word—”
“Dadda got a cheque,” this marvellous child repeated.
“Yes, o’ man, I got a cheque. And it’s got to go into a bank for you, against when you got to go to school. See? So’s you’ll grow up knowing your way about a bit.”
“Dadda’s got a cheque,” said the wonder son, and then gave his mind to making mighty splashes with his foot. Every time he splashed, laughter overcame him, and he had to be held up for fear he should tumble out of the tub in his merriment. Finally he was towelled to his toe-tips, wrapped up in warm flannel, and kissed, and carried off to bed by Ann’s cousin and lady help, Emma. And then after Ann had carried away the bath into the scullery, she returned to find her husband with his pipe extinct and the cheque still in his hand.
“Two fousand pounds,” he said. “It’s dashed rum. Wot ’ave I done to get two fousand pounds, Ann?”
“What ’aven’t you—not to?” said Ann.
He reflected upon this view of the case.
“I shan’t never give up this shop,” he said at last.
“We’re very ’appy ’ere,” said Ann.
“Not if I ’ad fifty fousand pounds.”
“No fear,” said Ann.
“You got a shop,” said Kipps, “and you come along in a year’s time and there it is. But money—look ’ow it come and goes! There’s no sense in money. You may kill yourself trying to get it, and then it comes when you aren’t looking. There’s my ’riginal money! Where is it now? Gone! And it’s took young Walshingham with it, and ’e’s gone, too. It’s like playing skittles. ’Long comes the ball, right and left you fly, and there it is rolling away and not changed a bit. No sense in it! ’E’s gone, and she’s gone—gone off with that chap Revel, that sat with me at dinner. Merried man! And Chit’low rich! Lor’!—what a fine place that Gerrik Club is, to be sure, where I ’ad lunch wiv’ ’im! Better’n any ’otel. Footmen in powder they got—not waiters, Ann—footmen! ’E’s rich and me rich—in a sort of way. … Don’t seem much sense in it, Ann, ’owever you look at it.” He shook his head.
“I know one thing,” said Kipps.
“What?”
“I’m going to put it in jest as many different banks as I can. See? Fifty ’ere, fifty there. ’Posit. I’m not going to ’nvest it—no fear.”
“It’s only frowing money away,” said Ann.
“I’m ’arf a mind to bury some of it under the shop. Only I expect one ’ud always be coming down at nights to make sure it was there. … I don’t seem to trust anyone—not with money.” He put the cheque on the table corner and smiled and tapped his pipe on the grate with his eyes on that wonderful document. “S’pose old Bean started orf,” he reflected. … “One thing, ’e is a bit lame.”
“ ’E wouldn’t,” said Ann; “not ’im.”
“I was only joking like.” He stood up, put his pipe among the candlesticks on the mantel, took up the cheque and began folding it carefully to put it back in his pocketbook.
A little bell jangled.
“Shop!” said Kipps. “That’s right. Keep a shop and the shop’ll keep you. That’s ’ow I look at it, Ann.”
He drove his pocketbook securely into his breast pocket before he opened the living-room door. …
But whether indeed it is the bookshop that keeps Kipps or whether it is Kipps who keeps the bookshop is just one of those commercial mysteries people of my unarithmetical temperament are never able to solve. They do very well, the dears, anyhow, thank Heaven!
The bookshop of Kipps is on the left-hand side of the Hythe High Street coming from Folkestone, between the yard of the livery stable and the shopwindow full of old silver and suchlike things—it is quite easy to find—and there you may see him for yourself and speak to him and buy this book of him if you like. He has it in stock, I know. Very delicately I’ve seen to that. His name is not Kipps, of course, you must understand that, but everything else is exactly as I have told you. You can talk to him about books, about politics, about going to Boulogne, about life, and the ups and downs of life. Perhaps he will quote you Buggins—from whom, by the by, one can now buy everything a gentleman’s wardrobe should contain at
