William Bannister at this time was at an age when he was beginning to talk a little and walk a little and take a great interest in things. His walking was a bit amateurish, and his speech rather hard to follow unless you had the key to it. But nobody could have denied that his walk, though staggery, was a genuine walk, and his speech, though limited, genuine speech, within the meaning of the act.
He made no objections to the expedition. On being told that he was going to see his grandpa he nodded curtly and said: “Gwa-wah,” after his custom. For, as a conversationalist, perhaps the best description of him is to say that he tried hard. He rarely paused for a word. When in difficulties he said something; he did not seek refuge in silence. That the something was not always immediately intelligible was the fault of his audience for not listening more carefully.
Perhaps the real mistake of the expedition was the nature of its baggage. William Bannister had stood out for being allowed to take with him his wheelbarrow, his box of bricks, and his particular favourite, the dying pig, which you blew out and then allowed to collapse with a pleasing noise. These properties had struck his parents as excessive, but he was firm; and when he gave signs of being determined to fight it out on these lines if it took all the summer, they gave in.
Steve had no difficulty in smuggling William into his grandfather’s house. He was a great favourite below stairs there. His great ally was the English butler, Keggs.
Keggs was a stout, dignified, pigeon-toed old sinner, who cast off the butler when not on duty and displayed himself as something of a rounder. He was a man of many parts. It was his chief relaxation to look in at Broadway hotels while some big fight was in progress out West to watch the ticker and assure himself that the man he had backed with a portion of the loot which he had accumulated in the form of tips was doing justice to his judgment, for in private Keggs was essentially the sport.
It was this that so endeared Steve to him. A few years ago Keggs had won considerable sums by backing Steve, and the latter was always given to understand that, as far as the lower regions of it were concerned, the house on Fifth Avenue was open to him at all hours.
Today he greeted Steve with enthusiasm and suggested a cigar in the pantry before the latter should proceed to his work.
“He ain’t ready for you yet, Mr. Dingle. He’s lookin’ over some papers in—for goodness’ sake, who’s this?”
He had caught sight of William Bannister, who having wriggled free of Steve, was being made much of by the maids.
“The kid,” said Steve briefly.
“Not—”
Steve nodded.
“Sure. His grandson.”
Keggs’ solemnity increased.
“You aren’t going to take him upstairs with you?”
“Surest thing you know. That’s why I brought him.”
“Don’t you do it, Mr. Dingle. ’E’s in an awful temper this morning—he gets worse and worse—he’ll fire you as soon as look at you.”
“Can’t be helped. I’ve got me instructions.”
“You always were game,” said Keggs admiringly. “I used to see that quick enough before you retired from active work. Well, good luck to you, Mr. Dingle.”
Steve gathered up William Bannister, the wheelbarrow, the box of bricks, and the dying pig and made his way to the gymnasium.
The worst of these prearranged scenes is that they never happen just as one figured them in one’s mind. Steve had expected to have to wait a few minutes in the gymnasium, then there would be a step outside and the old man would enter. The beauty of this, to Steve’s mind, was that he himself would be “discovered,” as the stage term is; the onus of entering and opening the conversation would be on Mr. Bannister. And, as everybody who has ever had an awkward interview knows, this makes all the difference.
But the minutes passed, and still no grandfather. The nervousness which he had with difficulty expelled began to return to Steve. This was exactly like having to wait in the ring while one’s opponent tried to get one’s goat by dawdling in the dressing room.
An attempt to relieve himself by punching the ball was a dismal failure. At the first bang of the leather against the wood William Bannister, who had been working in a preoccupied way at the dying pig, threw his head back and howled, and would not be comforted till Steve took out the rope and skipped before him, much as dancers used to dance before oriental monarchs in the old days.
Steve was just saying to himself for the fiftieth time that he was a fool to have come, when Keggs arrived with the news that Mr. Bannister was too busy to take his usual exercise this morning and that Steve was at liberty to go.
It speaks well for Steve’s character that he did not go. He would have given much to retire, for the old man was one of the few people who inspired in him anything resembling fear. But he could not return tamely to the studio with his mission unaccomplished.
“Say, ask him if he can see me for a minute. Say it is important.”
Keggs’ eye rested on William Bannister, and he shook his head.
“I shouldn’t, Mr. Dingle. Really I shouldn’t. You don’t know what an ugly mood he’s in. Something’s been worrying him. It’s what you might call courting disaster.”
“Gee! Do you think I want to do it? I’ve just got to. That’s all there is to it.”
A few moments later Keggs returned with the news that Mr. Bannister would see Dingle in the library.
“Come along, kid,” said Steve. “Gimme hold of the excess baggage, and let’s get a move on.”
So in the end it was Mr. Bannister who was discovered and Steve who
