An Amiable Charlatan
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E. Phillips Oppenheim >> An Amiable Charlatan
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"I am sorry to hear it," I replied.
"I've looked into this little matter of politics," he continued; "I've
looked into it as thoroughly as I can and I can't support you. You're on
the wrong side, my boy! I've shaken hands with Mr. Horrocks, and that's
the man who'll get the votes in this constituency. I've promised to do
what I can to help him."
I was a little taken aback.
"You're not in earnest!" I exclaimed.
"Dead earnest!" Mr. Bundercombe regretted.
"The chap's convinced me. I feel it's up to me to lend him a hand."
"But surely," I expostulated, "even if you cannot see your way clear to
help me, there's no need for you to go over to the enemy like this! You're
not obliged to interfere in the election at all, are you?"
Mr. Bundercombe sighed.
"Matter of principle with me!" he explained. "I must be doing something. I
can't canvass for you. I'll have to look round a bit for the other chap."
"I really don't see," I began, just a little annoyed, "why you should feel
called upon to interfere in an English election at all, unless it is to
help a friend."
Mr. Bundercombe looked at me and solemnly winked!
"Say, that's the dinner gong!" he announced cheerfully. "Let's be getting
in."
"But I don't quite understand----"
Mr. Bundercombe repeated the wink upon a smaller scale. I followed him
into the drawing-room, still in the dark as to his exact political
position.
The movements of my prospective father-in-law were, for the next few days,
wrapped in a certain mystery. He arrived home one evening, however, in a
state of extreme indignation. As usual when anything had happened to upset
him he came to look for me in the library.
"My boy," he said, "of all the God-forsaken, out-of-the-world, benighted
holes, this Bildborough of yours absolutely takes the cake! For sheer
ignorance --for sheer, thick-headed, bumptious, arrogant ignorance--give
me your farmers!"
"What's wrong?" I asked him.
"Wrong? Listen!" he exclaimed, almost dramatically. "In this district--in
this whole district, mind--there is not a single farmer who has heard of
Bundercombe's Reapers!"
"I farm a bit myself," I reminded him, "and I had never heard of them."
Mr. Bundercombe went to the sideboard and mixed himself a cocktail with
great care.
"Bundercombe's Reapers," he said, as soon as he had disposed of it, "are
the only reapers used by live farmers in the United States of America,
Canada, Australia, or any other country worth a cent!"
"That seems to hit us pretty hard," I remarked. "Have you got an agent
over here?"
"Sure!" Mr. Bundercombe replied. "I don't follow the sales now, so I can't
tell you what he's doing; but we've an agent here--and any country that
doesn't buy Bundercombe's Reapers is off the line as regards agriculture!"
"What are you going to do about it?" I asked.
"Do!" Mr. Bundercombe toyed with his wine glass for a moment and then set
it down. "What I have done," he announced, "is this: I have wired to my
agent. I have ordered him to ship half a dozen machines--if necessary on a
special train--and I am going to give an exhibition on some land I have
hired, over by Little Bildborough, the day after tomorrow."
"That's the day of the election!" I exclaimed.
"You couldn't put it off, I suppose?" he suggested. "That's the day I've
fixed for my exhibition at any rate. I am giving the farmers a free lunch
--slap-up affair it's going to be, I can tell you!"
"I am afraid," I answered, with a wholly wasted sarcasm, "that the affair
has gone too far now for us to consider an alteration in the date."
"Well, well! We must try not to clash," Mr. Bundercombe said
magnanimously. "How long does the voting go on?"
"From eight until eight," I told him.
Mr. Bundercombe was thoughtful.
"It's a long time to hold them!" he murmured.
"To hold whom?" I demanded.
Mr. Bundercombe started slightly.
"Nothing! Nothing! By the by, do you know a chap called Jonas--Henry
Jonas, of Milton Farm?"
"I should think I do!" I groaned. "He's the backbone of the Opposition,
the best speaker they've got and the most popular man."
Mr. Bundercombe smiled sweetly.
"Is that so!" he observed. "Well, well! He is a very intelligent man. I
trust I'll be able to persuade him that any reaper he may be using at the
present moment is a jay compared to Bundercombe's--this season's model!"
"I trust you may," I answered, a trifle tartly. "I am glad you're likely
to do a little business; but you won't mind, my reminding you--will you?--
that you really came down here to give me a leg up with my election, and
not to sell your machines or to spend half your time in the enemy's camp!"
Mr. Bundercombe smiled. It was a curious smile, which seemed somehow to
lose itself in his face. Then the dinner gong sounded and he winked at me
slowly. Again I was conscious of some slight uneasiness. It began to dawn
upon me that there was a scheme somewhere hatching; that Mr. Bundercombe's
activity in the camp of the enemy might perhaps have an unsuspected
significance. I talked to Eve about this after dinner; but she reassured
me.
"Father talks of nothing but his reaping machines," she declared.
"Besides, I am quite sure he would do nothing indiscreet. Only yesterday I
found him studying a copy of the act referring to bribery and corruption.
Dad's pretty smart, you know!"
"I do know that," I admitted. "I wish I knew what he was up to, though."
The next day was the last before the election. The little market of
Bildborough was in a state of considerable excitement. Several open-air
meetings were held toward evening. Eve and I, returning from a motor tour
of the constituency, called at the office of my agent. We chatted with Mr.
Ansell for a little while and then he pointed across the square.
"There's an American there," he said, "that the other side seems to have
got hold of. He's their most popular speaker by a long way; but I gather
they're a little uneasy about him. Didn't I have the pleasure of meeting
him at your house?"
"Mr. Bundercombe!" I sighed. "He came down here to help me!"
Mr. Ansell put on his hat and beckoned mysteriously.
"Come out by the back way," he invited. "We shall hear him. He is going to
speak from the little platform there."
By crossing a hotel yard, a fragment of kitchen garden and a bowling
green, we were able to come within a few yards of where Mr. Bundercombe,
with several other of Mr. Horrocks' supporters, was standing upon a small
raised platform. Two local tradesmen and one helper from London addressed
a few remarks of the usual sort to an apathetic audience, which was
rapidly increasing in size. It was only when Mr. Bundercombe rose to his
feet that the slightest sign of enthusiasm manifested itself. Eve looked
at me with a pleased smile.
"Just look at all of them," she whispered, "how they are hurrying to hear
dad speak!"
"That's all very well," I grumbled; "but he ought to be doing this for
me."
Her fingers pressed my arm.
"Listen!" she said.
Mr. Bundercombe's style was breezy and his jokes were frequent. He stood
in an easy attitude and spoke with remarkable fluency. His first few
remarks, which were mainly humorous, were cheered to the echo. The crowd
was increasing all the time. Presently he took them into his confidence.
"When I came down here a few days ago," we heard him say, "I came meaning
to support my friend, Mr. Walmsley." (Groans and cheers.) "That's all
right, boys!" Mr. Bundercombe continued, "there's nothing the matter with
Mr. Walmsley; but I come from a country where there's a bit more kick
about politics, and I pretty soon made up my mind that the kick wasn't on
the side my young friend belongs to.
"Now just listen to this: As one business man to another, I tell you that
I asked Mr. Walmsley, the first night I was here: 'What are you getting
out of this? Why are you going into Parliament?' He didn't seem to
understand. He pleaded guilty to a four-hundred-a-year fee, but told me at
the same time that it cost him a great deal more than that in extra
charities. I asked him what pull he got through being in Parliament and
how many of his friends he could find places for. All he could do was to
smile and tell me that I didn't understand the way things were done in
this country. He wanted to make me believe that he was anxious to sit in
Parliament there and work day after day just for the honor and glory of
it, or because he thought it was his duty.
"You know I'm an American business man, and that didn't cut any ice with
me; so I dropped in and had a chat with Mr. Horrocks. I soon came to the
conclusion that the candidate I'm here to support to-night is the man who
comes a bit nearer to our idea of practical politics over on the other
side of the pond. Mr. Horrocks doesn't make any bones about it. He wants
that four hundred a year; in fact he needs it!" (Ironical cheers.) "He
wants to call himself M.P. because when he goes out to lecture on
Socialism he'll get a ten-guinea fee instead of five, on account of those
two letters after his name.
"Furthermore his is the party that understands what I call practical
politics. Every job that's going is given to their friends; and if there
aren't enough jobs to go round, why, they get one of their statesmen to
frame a bill--what you call your Insurance Bill is one of them, I believe
--in which there are several hundred offices that need filling. And there
you are!"
Mr. Ansell and I exchanged glances. The enthusiasm that had greeted Mr.
Bundercombe's efforts was giving place now to murmurs and more ironical
cheers. One of his coadjutors on the platform leaned over and whispered in
Mr. Bundercombe's ear. Mr. Bundercombe nodded.
"Gentlemen," he concluded, "I'm told that my time is up. I have explained
my views to you and told you why I think you ought to vote for Mr.
Horrocks. I've nothing to say against the other fellow, except that I
don't understand his point of view. Mr. Horrocks I do understand. He's out
to do himself a bit o'good and it's up to you to help him."
A determined tug at Mr. Bundercombe's coattails by one of the men on the
platform brought him to his seat amid loud bursts of laughter and more
cheers. Eve gripped my arm and we turned slowly away.
"It's a privilege," I declared solemnly, "to have ever known your father!
If I only had an idea what he meant about those reaping machines! You
couldn't give me a hint, I suppose, Eve?" She shook her head.
"Better wait!"
In the excitement of that final day I think both Eve and I completely
forgot all about Mr. Bundercombe. It was not until we were on our way back
from a motor tour through the outlying parts of the district that we were
forcibly reminded of his existence. Quite close to Little Bildborough, the
only absolutely hostile part of my constituency, we came upon what was
really an extraordinary sight. Our chauffeur of his own accord drew up by
the side of the road. Eve and I rose in our places.
In a large field on our left was gathered together apparently the whole
population of the district. In one corner was a huge marquee, through the
open flaps of which we could catch a glimpse of a sumptuously arranged
cold collation. On a long table just outside, covered with a white cloth,
was a vast array of bottles and beside it stood a man in a short linen
jacket, who struck me as being suspiciously like Fritz, the bartender at
one of Mr. Bundercombe's favorite haunts in London.
Toward the center of the field, seated upon a ridiculously inadequate seat
on the top of a reaping machine, was Mr. Bundercombe. He had divested
himself of coat and waistcoat, and was hatless. The perspiration was
streaming down his face as he gripped the steering wheel. He was followed
by a little crowd of children and sympathizing men, who cheered him all
the time.
At a little distance away, on the other side of a red flag, Henry Jonas,
the large farmer of the district, and the speaker on whom my opponent
chiefly relied, was seated upon a similar machine in a similar state of
undress. It was apparent, however, even to us, that Mr. Bundercombe's
progress was at least twice as rapid as his opponent's.
"What on earth is it all about?" I exclaimed, absolutely bewildered.
Eve, who was standing by my side, clasped her hands round my arm.
"It seems to me," she murmured sweetly, "as if dad were trying his reaping
machine against some one else's."
I looked at her demure little smile and I looked at the field in which I
recognized very many of my staunchest opponents. Then I looked at the
marquee. The table there must have been set for at least a hundred people.
Suddenly I received a shock. Seated underneath the hedge, hatless and
coatless, with his hair in picturesque disorder, was Mr. Jonas' cousin,
also a violent opponent of my politics, and a nonconformist. He had a huge
tumbler by his side, which--seeing me--he raised to his lips.
"Good old Walmsley!" he shouted out. "No politics to-day! Much too hot!
Come in and see the reaping match."
He took a long drink and I sat down in the car.
"You know," I said to Mr. Ansell, who was standing on the front seat,
"there'll be trouble about this!"
Mr. Ansell was looking a little grave himself.
"Is Mr. Bundercombe really the manufacturer of that machine?" he asked.
"Of course he is!" Eve replied. "It's the one hobby of his life--or,
rather, it used to be," she corrected herself hastily. "Even now, when he
begins talking about his reaping machine he forgets everything else."
Mr. Ansell hurried away and made a few inquiries. Meanwhile we watched the
progress of the match. Every time Mr. Bundercombe had to turn he rocked in
his seat and retained his balance only with difficulty. At every
successful effort he was loudly cheered by a little group of following
enthusiasts. Mr. Ansell returned, looking a little more cheerful.
"Everything is being given by the Bundercombe Reaping Company," he
announced, "and Mr. Bundercombe's city agent is on the spot prepared to
book orders for the machine. It seems that Mr. Bundercombe has backed
himself at ten to one in ten-pound notes to beat Mr. Jonas by half an
hour, each taking half the field."
"Who's ahead?" Eve asked excitedly.
"Mr. Bundercombe is well ahead," Mr. Ansell replied, "and they say that he
can do better still if he tries. It looks rather," Mr. Ansell concluded,
dropping his voice, "as though he were trying to make the thing last out.
Afterward they are all going to sit down to a free meal--that is, if any
of them are able to sit down," he added, with a glance round the field.
"Hello! Here's Harrison."
Mr. Harrison, recognizing us, descended from his car and came across. He
shook hands with Eve, at whom he glanced in a somewhat peculiar fashion.
"Mr. Walmsley," he said, "a week ago we were rather proud of having
inveigled away one of your adherents. All I can say at the present moment
is that we should have been better satisfied if you had left Mr.
Bundercombe in town."
"Why, he's been speaking against me at nearly every one of your meetings!"
I protested.
"That's all very well," Mr. Harrison complained; "but he's not what I
should call a convincing speaker. He is a democrat all right, and a
people's man--and all the rest of it; but he hasn't got quite the right
way of advocating our principles. I have been obliged to ask him to
discontinue public speaking until after the election. The fact of it is, I
really believe he's cost us a good many more votes than he's gained. All
he says is very well; but when he sits down one feels that our people are
all for what they can get out of it--and yours are prepared to give their
services for nothing."
"What's all this mean?" I asked, waving my hand toward the field.
Mr. Harrison looked at me very steadily indeed. Then he looked at Eve. I
can only hope that my own expression was as guileless as Eve's.
"I told you about that hint we were obliged to give Mr. Bundercombe," Mr.
Harrison went on. "I suppose this is the result of it. He seems to have
bewitched the whole of Little Bildborough. There's Jonas there, who was
due to speak in four places today--he will take no notice of anybody. I
walked by the side of his machine, begging him to get down and come and
keep his engagements, and he took no more notice of me than if I'd been a
rabbit!
"There's his cousin, who has more hold upon the nonconformists of the
district than any man I know--sitting under a hedge drinking out of a
tumbler! There are at least a score of men with their eyes glued on that
tent who ought to be hard at work in the district. I am beginning to doubt
whether they'll even be in in time to vote!"
"Well, we must be getting on, anyway," I said. "See you later, Mr.
Harrison!"
Mr. Harrison nodded a little gloomily and we glided off. Eve squeezed my
hand under the rug.
"Isn't dad a dear!" she murmured in my ear.
Eve was one of the first to congratulate me when, late that night, the
results came in and I found that by a majority of twenty-seven votes I had
been elected the member for the division.
"Aren't you glad now, Paul, dear, that we brought father down to keep him
out of mischief?" she whispered.
Mr. Bundercombe himself held out his hand.
"Paul," he said, "I congratulate you, my boy! I was on the other side; but
I can take a licking with the best of them. Congratulate you heartily!"
He held out his hand and gripped mine. Once more he winked.
CHAPTER XII--THE EMANCIPATION OF LOUIS
At about half past ten the following morning I turned into Prince's
Gardens, to find a four-wheel cab drawn up outside the door of Mr.
Bundercombe's house. On the roof was a dressing case made of some sort of
compressed cane and covered with linen. Accompanying it was a black tin
box, on which was painted, in white letters: "Hannah Bundercombe,
President W.S.F." Standing by the door was a footman with an article in
his hand that I believe is called a grip, which, in the present instance,
I imagine took the place of a dressing case.
I surveyed these preparations with some interest. The temporary departure
of Mrs. Bundercombe would, I felt, have an enlivening influence upon the
establishment. As I turned in at the gate Mrs. Bundercombe herself
appeared. She was followed by a young woman who looked distinctly bored
and whom I was not at first able to place. Mrs. Bundercombe was in a state
of unusual excitement.
"Say, Mr. Walmsley," she began, and her voice seemed to come from her
forehead--it was so shrill and nasal; "how long will it take me to get to
St. Pancras?"
I looked at the four-wheeler, on the roof of which another servant was now
arranging a typewriter in its tin case.
"I should say about thirty-five minutes--in that!" I replied. "A taxi
would do it in a quarter of an hour."
"None of your taxis for me!" Mrs. Bundercombe declared warmly. "I am not
disposed to trust myself to a piece of machinery that can be made to tell
any sort of lies. I like to pay my fare and no more. If thirty-five
minutes will get me to St. Pancras, then I guess I'll make my train."
"You are leaving us for a few days?" I remarked, suddenly catching a
glimpse of a face like a round moon beaming at me from the window.
"I have received a dispatch," Mrs. Bundercombe announced, drawing a letter
with pride from an article that I believe she called her reticule, "signed
by the secretary of the Women's League of Freedom, asking me to address
their members at a meeting to be held at Leeds to-night."
"Very gratifying!" I murmured.
"How the woman knew that I was in England," Mrs. Bundercombe continued,
carefully replacing the missive, "I cannot imagine; but I suppose these
things get about. In any case I felt it my duty to go. Some of us, Mr.
Walmsley," she added, regarding me with a severe air, "think of little
else save the various pleasures we are able to cram into our lives day by
day. Others are always ready to listen to the call of duty."
"I wish you a pleasant journey, Mrs. Bundercombe," I said, raising my hat.
"I suppose I shall find Eve in?"
"No doubt you will!" she snapped.
I glanced at the depressed young woman.
"I am taking a temporary secretary with me," Mrs. Bundercombe explained.
"Recent reports of my speeches in this country have been so unsatisfactory
that I have lost confidence in the Press. I am taking an experienced
shorthand-writer with me, who will furnish the various journals with a
verbatim report of what I say."
"Much more satisfactory, I am sure," I agreed, edging toward the house. "I
wish you a successful meeting, Mrs. Bundercombe. You mustn't miss your
train!"
"And I trust," Mrs. Bundercombe concluded, as she turned to enter the cab,
"that if you accompany Eve in her shopping expeditions to-day, or during
my absence, you will not encourage her in any fresh extravagances."
I made my way into the house and entered the morning room as the cab drove
off. Mr. Bundercombe and Eve were waltzing. Mr. Bundercombe paused at my
entrance and wiped his forehead. He was very hot.
"A little ebullition of feeling, my dear Paul," he explained, "on seeing
you. You met Mrs. Bundercombe? You have heard the news?"
"I gathered," I remarked, "that Mrs. Bundercombe's sense of duty is taking
her to Leeds."
Mr. Bundercombe breathed a resigned sigh.
"We shall be alone," he announced, with ill-concealed jubilation, "if we
have any luck at all, for three days! One never knows, though! I propose
that we celebrate to-night, unless," he added, with a sudden gloom, "you
two want to go off and dine somewhere alone."
"Not likely!" I assured him quickly.
"Daddy!" Eve exclaimed reproachfully.
Mr. Bundercombe cheered up.
"Then, if you're both agreeable," he proposed, "let us go and pay Luigi a
visit. I have rather a fancy to show him a reestablished Mr. Bundercombe.
You know, I sometimes think," he went on, "that Luigi was beginning to
regard me with suspicion!"
"There isn't any doubt about it," I observed dryly.
"We will dine there to-night," Mr. Bundercombe decided, "that is, if you
two are willing."
I hesitated for a moment. Eve was looking at me for my decision.
"I really see no reason why we shouldn't go there," I said. "I have to
take Eve to some rather dull relatives for luncheon, and I suppose we
shall be shopping afterward. It will brighten up the day."
"We will give Luigi no intimation of our coming," Mr. Bundercombe
suggested with relish. "We shall be in no hurry; so we can order our
dinner when we arrive there. At eight o'clock?"
"At eight o'clock!" I agreed.
"More presents, Paul!" Eve informed me, taking my arm. "Come along and
help me unpack! Isn't it fun?"
Luigi's reception of us that night was most gratifying. He escorted us to
the best table in the place, from which he ruthlessly seized the mystic
label that kept it from the onslaughts of less privileged guests. He
congratulated me upon my parliamentary honors and my engagement in the
same breath.
It was perfectly clear to me that Luigi knew all about us. He addressed
Mr. Bundercombe with an air of deep respect in which was visible, too, an
air of relieved apprehension. He took our order himself, with the aid of
an assistant _maitre d'hotel_, at whom Mr. Bundercombe glanced with some
surprise.
"Where is Louis?" he inquired.
"Gone--left!" Luigi answered.
Mr. Bundercombe was obviously disappointed.
"Say, is that so!" he exclaimed, "Why, I thought he was a fixture! Been
here a long time, had'nt he?"
"Nearly twelve years," Luigi admitted.
"Has he got a restaurant of his own?" Mr. Bundercombe asked.
Luigi shook his head.
"On the contrary, sir," he replied, "I think Louis has gone off his head.
He has taken a very much inferior post at a very inferior place. A
restaurant of a different class altogether--not at all _comme il faut_; a
little place for the multitude--Giatron's, in Soho. The foolishness of it
--for all his old clients must be useless! No one would eat in such a hole.
It is most mysterious!"
We dined well and gayly. Mr. Bundercombe renewed many restaurant
acquaintances and I am quite sure he thoroughly enjoyed himself. Every now
and then, however, a shadow rested on his face. Watching him, I felt quite
certain of the reason. It was only during the last few weeks that I had
begun to realize the immense good nature of the man. He was worrying about
Louis.
We sat there until nearly ten o'clock. When we rose to go Mr. Bundercombe
turned to us. "Say," he asked, a little diffidently, "would you people
object to just dropping in at this Giatron's? Or will you go off somewhere
by yourselves and meet me afterward?"
"We will go wherever you go, dad," Eve declared. "We are not going to
leave you alone when we do have an evening off."
"I should like to find out about Louis myself," I interposed. "I always
thought he was the best _maitre d'hotel_ in London."
We drove to Giatron's and found it in a back street--a shabby,
unpretentious-looking place, with a front that had once been white, but
that was now grimy in the extreme. The windows were hung with little
curtains in the French fashion, whose freshness had also long departed.
The restaurant itself was low and teeming with the odor of past dinners.
At this hour it was almost empty. Several untidy-looking waiters were
rearranging tables. In the middle of the room Louis was standing.
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