Quinneys 34

Quinneys 34

With immense dignity Posy moved to the door. If she wanted to impress

upon her father that she was now a woman grown, she succeeded admirably.

As the door closed behind her, Tomlin said:

 

"Bit short with her, wasn’t you?"

 

"Do her good. I won’t have no _tête-à-têtin’_ between her and James

Miggott."

 

 

*I*

 

They sat down. Quinney pushed a box of cigars across his desk. It

annoyed him slightly that Tomlin selected one with unflattering

suspicion, smelling it, and putting it to his ear.

 

"It’s all right, Tom: I only smoke the best in this room."

 

Tomlin lit the cigar, inhaled the smoke, and nodded approvingly:

 

"Must admit, Joe, that you know a bit about most things. Come on

surprisingly, you have."

 

At this Quinney smiled complacently. Tomlin continued, eyeing his

companion shrewdly and genially:

 

"I’ve a proposition to lay before you, Joe."

 

"Go ahead."

 

Tomlin rose, walked to the door, and opened it. He closed it softly and

came back.

 

"Whatever are you up to, old man?"

 

Tomlin grinned.

 

"My women," he remarked pensively, "listen at doors."

 

Quinney exploded.

 

"And you dare to think that——?"

 

"Tch! Tch! Nothing like making cocksure. What I have to say is not for

other ears. Now, ain’t it a pity that we haven’t eight o’ them

Chippendale chairs on which we could fit them eight fine covers?"

 

"Pity? It’s a sinful shame."

 

"Almost a dooty we owe to society to turn them four into eight?"

 

"Hey?"

 

"James could do it."

 

"Are you mad, Tom? We know what James can do. I ain’t denyin’ that

he’s a wonder, but he can’t copy them chairs so that you and I, not to

mention the rest of ’em, wouldn’t know the difference if the new four

was shoved alongside o’ the old four."

 

"Right!"

 

"Then what the ’ell are you at?"

 

Sinking his voice to a hoarse whisper, and leaning forward across the

desk, the great Tomlin unfolded his scheme.

 

"I propose this," he said deliberately. "James can make eight chairs

out of them four by breaking up the four, half and half, half of the old

in each."

 

"Um!" said Quinney.

 

"If the worst came to the worst," continued Tomlin, "if any of ’em did

drop on to the fact that the set of eight had been very considerably

restored, what of it?"

 

"Um!" repeated Quinney.

 

"A set of eight chairs, slightly restored, with your covers on ’em, the

dead spit of the Pevensey chairs, would excite attention?"

 

"More than we might want. I don’t see Bundy a biddin’ for our set

without askin’ a lot of questions. He’d spot the repairs."

 

"Right again. I put these questions, Joe, to have the pleasure of

hearin’ you answer them as I would myself. In a sort o’ friendly

fashion I look upon you, my boy, as my pupil."

 

"Go on!"

 

Tomlin’s large face brightened till it shone like a harvest moon. He

had feared that his pupil would withhold those cheering progressive

words.

 

"Do you want to get back some o’ your hard-earned savings which you lost

over that commode?"

 

"Yes, I do."

 

"Follow me close. James goes to work on the quiet with my chairs; he

works alone in my room back o’ Wardour Street; he puts your covers on;

and then we pass judgment on the completed set. If we’re satisfied,

really satisfied, I don’t think we need to worry much about Bundy and

Pressland. Lark—thank the Lord!—is losin’ his eyesight. When the chairs

have passed our examination, they’ll go to Christopher’s. You can leave

all that to me. Nobody will know that you and I have ever seen the

chairs."

 

"Nobody? How about James?"

 

"Exactly. James must be squared. It’s time you raised his salary. I

shall make him a handsome present. Remember, you’ll lend James to me

for this little job. It don’t concern you."

 

"You take James for a fool?"

 

"Not me. James is a bit of a knave, but he knows which side his bread

is buttered. If he was a fool I wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole.

I’m afraid o’ fools. Now, we’ve got the chairs to Christopher’s, and

we’ll choose a small day for the sale, some day when the big men are

elsewhere."

 

"Then who’ll bid for ’em?"

 

"Me and you, my lad."

 

He lay back in his chair, winked triumphantly, and laughed. Quinney was

still puzzled.

 

"Bid for our own chairs? Pay a thumpin’ commission to find ’em on our

hands? Funny business!"

 

"Joe, you ain’t quite as sharp as I thought you was. We two, and

anybody else as likes, bid for the chairs. We bid up to nine hundred

pounds. Christopher’s commission would be ninety o’ that. The chairs

cost me fifty. What do you value them covers at?"

 

"Five-and-twenty—thirty."

 

"Call it thirty. Put James’s work at another thirty. That makes a

round two hundred quid. What have we got to show for that? A set of

eight chairs which have fetched nine hundred pounds at Christopher’s,

with Christopher’s receipt to prove that the money was paid down for

’em. Christopher returns that nine hundred, less their com., to my

agent, that is to us. You see to it that the buyin’ of the chairs by

you is properly paragraphed. You have them on exhibition in this very

room, and I bring a customer to whom you show Christopher’s receipt.

Everything square and simple. My customer offers you eleven hundred.

We share and share alike just nine hundred pounds. Four hundred and

fifty each. No risks!"

 

"Um!" said Quinney, for the third time. Tomlin rose with alacrity

considering his weight.

 

"You think it over. Take your time."

 

"Don’t like it!" growled the little man.

 

"I call it a perfectly legitimate transaction."

 

"Come off it, Tom!"

 

"Are you thinkin’ o’ your inside or your outside? Yer skin or yer

conscience? If it’s conscience——"

 

"Well——?"

 

"I’ll make this remark. One way and t’other I’ve paid you more than a

thousand pounds for ’restoration’ work done by James Miggott during the

past four years or more. Don’t forget that! So long!"

 

Quinney heard him chuckling as he made his way downstairs.

 

 

*III*

 

He became a party to the projected fraud, but not without perturbations

of spirit and rumblings of conscience. Ultimately he salved the latter

with the soothing reflection that he was much more honest than Tomlin or

Lark or Bundy. It is affirmed, with what truth I know not, that

gluttons who happen to be total abstainers are peculiarly virulent

against drunkards. Quinney, poor fellow, son of a dishonest father,

dishonest himself during his earlier manhood, reflected joyously that he

was an admirable husband and father. He said to Susan, who was in

blissful ignorance of his dealings with Tom Tomlin:

 

"Old Tomlin, hoary-headed sinner, went to Blackpool for the last

week-end, and he didn’t go alone, nor with Mrs. T., neither. He’s a

moral idiot is Tom. What would you say, Susie, if I went larkin’ off to

Brighton with Mabel Dredge—hey?"

 

He pinched her still blooming cheek, staring into her faithful eyes.

 

Susan replied artlessly:

 

"Joe, dear, it would break my heart."

 

"Gosh, I believe it would. Well, mother, your loving heart won’t be

broken that way."

 

Susan knew that this was true, and smiled delightfully.

 

"I’m a good hubby," said Quinney complacently, "and the very best of

fathers, by Gum!"

 

Whenever he "swanked" (we quote Posy) like this, Susan regarded him

anxiously.

 

James Miggott undertook his new job without protest, but there was an __EXPRESSION__ upon his handsome face which puzzled his employer. He summed up James as "downy." When he raised the young man’s salary to four pounds a week, that derisive smile of which mention has been made, played about James’s too thin lips. Quinney said sharply: