Chapter II Over the Telephone
Old Dr Mortimer was, in every sense of the word, a hard man. Of massive build and handsome countenance, upright and commanding in presence, with a clear brain, a will of iron, and a resonant, penetrating voice, his was at once a dominating and notable personality.
Dr Mortimer’s sphere of action, it is true, was limited and local; but if, by the accident of circumstances, his lot had been cast in a military or political arena, he would assuredly have risen to a high place, and possibly cut his initials on the rock of fame.
Beginning on nothing, the Doctor had fought his way up to his present position by dint of sheer perseverance and strength of head. His indomitable will had cleared away all obstacles, and now he was seventy, hale and hearty, a man of wealth and a county magnate.
But Dame Fortune, while she gives with one hand, takes away with the other. The Doctor was now childless, and grandchildless, too, save for James. This man of iron had brought weaklings into the world; his wife had died before she was thirty, and as his riches increased, his brood had one by one faded into the grave. So now, when James—the only son of his eldest son—was in London, Dr Mortimer sat at his mahogany every night all alone—proud, rich, powerful, feared, obeyed on the instant—but alone.
His assistant, M’Pherson, a trustworthy, middle-aged Scotsman, of no especial brilliance, but conscientious to a hair, lived at the asylum and took most of his meals with the patients.
The Doctor had made his will years since, and James was absolutely heir to all he had, save for trifling legacies to his executors and such persons as Hughes, his cook, coachman, and gardeners. Every stick and stone was to be Jim’s, and Jim knew it.
But the Doctor was not satisfied with his grandson. Throughout Jim’s five years at Rugby the general tenor of his reports had been: “Has done well on the whole, but might have done much better.” His hospital career had been of a very similar character. Jim, though of a lazy temperament, had, nevertheless, won warm encomiums from great surgeons for his skill with the knife. Sir Savile Smart, the renowned specialist in abdominal matters, had written to Dr Mortimer—who was an old friend of his—in high praise of Jim. But there, as ever, was the qualifying clause: “Your lad can do wonders when he likes, which isn’t always.” And then again Jim was given to bursts of rowdyism, accounts of which had trickled down to Threeways, where Jim was regarded as a lovable, harum-scarum youth, who would come into all the Doctor’s money, “and so it would be all right.” This meant that his wild ways didn’t matter—he would never have to earn his living. Besides, he was only a youngster—he would sober down in time. He wouldn’t go on fighting policemen all his life—“and so it would be all right.”
At dinner on the preceding evening the Doctor, warmed by the generous grape, had been in an affable, not to say confiding mood, and it would have been well for Jim had this been their final conversation ere he departed for town, for the Doctor was in a high good-humour when they lit their bedroom candles, and even went so far as to pat his grandson on the back in a manner that was quite affectionate.
Jim guessed that this amiable frame of mind would decamp with the darkness, and his surmise proved correct, for when he got to the telephone and took the receiver off its peg, he knew by the sound of the Doctor’s voice that his grandfather was in an irritable mood.
“Are you there, James?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My carriage is waiting, and I must be off in a minute or two, but I want to have a word with you before you go.”
“Shall I come across?” suggested Jim,
“No, that will waste time, and I haven’t much to say.”
It occurred to the Long ’Un that what little his grandfather wished to say would not be of an overwhelmingly genial character.
“I—ah—I received a bill this morning for a plate-glass window you smashed in the Strand about six weeks ago,” began the Doctor; “I suppose you recollect it?”
“Seem to remember something of it,” replied Jim.
“That’s good of you. The bill is for twelve pounds.”
“Those big shop windows run into money,” hazarded Jim.
“Somewhat superfluous information,” snapped the Doctor; “what I want to say is that I won’t pay any more of these bills—do you clearly understand?”
“I do,” said the Long ’Un.
“And, moreover, I won’t have any more of your drunken frolics—it’s high time you stopped all that nonsense. I should also advise you to drop the acquaintance of that disreputable reporter friend of yours—he seems to have a bad influence on you—Coke, is that his name?”
Jim chuckled.
“What—Koko? Most harmless man on earth! Gets me out of scrapes, not into them!”
A fresh grievance now occurred to the Doctor. “I am not at all satisfied with the way you are working,” he said.
“We dig in pretty hard at Matt’s,” replied Jim, quite truthfully.
“Yes—but how about your degree? I expect more than a mere qualification from you.”
“I’ll read like a nigger this time, grandfather——”
“I’m glad to hear you say so,” interrupted the Doctor, in a mollified tone.
“Time and weather permitting,” concluded Jim, indiscreetly.
A short, ill-tempered cough sounded through the telephone. The Doctor was preparing his ultimatum; Jim’s addendum gave him his cue.
“I suppose ‘time and weather’ mean such dissolute companions as Coker, or whatever his absurd name is. Well, now, attend to me, James. I’m not squeamish, but I expect you to pull up. I won’t have any more playing the fool, either at the hospital or down here. For instance,” he added, with growing ire, “what on earth d’you mean by masquerading about the high road in a dressing-gown?”
“I prefer ease to elegance,” said Jim, cheekily.
“Well, sir,” shouted the Doctor across the vibrating wire, “I don’t intend that my grandson shall be taken for one of my patients!”
“Why—who took me for one of them?” demanded Jim in amazement.
“The Countess of Lingfield.”
“The who?” exclaimed Jim.
“The Countess of Lingfield. She spoke to you from her carriage half an hour ago.”
“By George!” Jim broke into a mellow laugh. “Was that a countess? I say, grandfather, who was the pretty girl with her?”
“Her daughter,” replied the Doctor; “and it was she who observed that you were probably one of the ‘harmless variety’!”
“Indeed!” said the Long ’Un, not quite so heartily.
“Yes, sir,” proceeded the Doctor, his ire rising again, “and I was placed under the ignominious necessity of having to admit that you were my grandson.”
“Awfully rough on you, grandpa.”
The Doctor was evidently fuming at the other end of the telephone.
“So,” was his next utterance, “I shall be obliged if you will behave more like a reasonable being in future. No more window-smashing, no more fighting with policemen, and no more drinking. I give you fair warning that if you cut any more capers, I’ll stop supplies, and you’ll have to get on as best you can by yourself. Good-bye!”
“Half a moment, sir! I should like to see you again before I go.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Can’t you spare a minute, sir?”
“No—I’ve wasted too much time already talking to you. Now remember! Any more nonsense, and you shan’t handle another penny of mine. Good-bye!”
Jim let the receiver go with a bang, and a few moments later was flying across the road, his dressing-gown waving gracefully behind him. But he was too late. He arrived at “Pangora” just in time to see the carriage vanishing through the gates of the drive leading to a by-road on the opposite side of the house.