The Face and the Mask by Robert Barr (books to read in your 20s female .txt) 📕

“I am considered rather a good judge of men. I am certain you will do what you say.”

“I’ll take the money. I doubt if there is anyone in London to-night who needs it much worse than I do.”

Bradley looked after the disappearing figure of the man who had befriended him.

“I have seen that man somewhere before,” he said to himself. But in that he was wrong. He hadn’t.

Wealth is most unevenly and most unfairly divided. All of us admit that, but few of us agree about the remedy. Some of the best minds of the century have wrestled with this question in vain. “The poor ye have always with you” is as true to-day as it was 1800 years ago. Where so many are in doubt, it is perhaps a comfort to meet men who have no uncertainty as to the cause and the remedy. Such a body of men met in a back room off Soho Square.

“We are waiting for you, Bradley,” said the chairman, as the carpenter took his place and the doors were locked. He looked better than he had done a year before on the Thames embankment.

“I know I’m late, but I couldn’t help it. They are rushing things at the exhibition grounds. The time is short now, and they are beginning to be anxious for fear everything will not be ready in time.”

“That’s it,” said one of the small group, “we are slaves and must be late or early as our so-called masters choose.”

“Oh, there is extra pay,” said Bradley with a smile, as he took a seat.

“Comrades,” said the chairman, rapping on the desk, “we will now proceed to business. The secret committee has met and made a resolution. After the lots are drawn it will be my task to inform the man chosen what the job is. It is desirable that as few as possible, even among ourselves, should know who the man is, who has drawn the marked paper. Perhaps it may be my own good fortune to be the chosen man. One of the papers is marked with a cross. Whoever draws that paper is to communicate with me at my room within two days. He is to come alone. It is commanded by the committee that no man is to look at his paper until he leaves this room and then to examine it in secret. He is bound by his oath to tell no one at any time whether or not he is the chosen man.”

The papers were put into a hat and each man in the room drew one. The chairman put his in his pocket, as did the others. The doors were unlocked and each man went to his home, if he had one.

Next evening Bradley called at the room of the chairman and said: “There is the marked paper I drew last night.”

The exhibition building was gay with bunting and was sonorous with the sounds of a band of music. The machinery that would not stop for six months was still motionless, for it was to be started in an hour’s time by His Highness. His Highness and suite had not yet arrived but the building was crowded by a well-dressed throng of invited guests—the best in the land as far as fame, title or money was concerned. Underneath the grand stand where His Highness and the distinguished guests were to make speeches and where the finger of nobility was to press the electric button, Bradley walked anxiously about, with the same haggard look on his face that was there the night he thought of slipping into the Thames. The place underneath was a wilderness of beams and braces. Bradley’s wooden tool chest stood on the ground against one of the timbers. The foremen came through and struck a beam or a brace here and there.

“Everything is all right,” he said to Bradley. “There will be no trouble, even if it was put up in a hurry, and in spite of the strain that will be on it to-day.”

Bradley was not so sure of that, but he said nothing. When the foreman left him alone, he cautiously opened the lid of his tool chest and removed the carpenter’s apron which covered something in the bottom. This something was a small box with a clockwork arrangement and a miniature uplifted hammer that hung like the sword of Damocles over a little copper cap. He threw the apron over it again, closed the lid of the chest, leaned against one of the timbers, folded his arms and waited.

Presently there was a tremendous cheer and the band struck up. “He is coming,” said Bradley to himself, closing his lips tighter. “Carpenter,” cried the policeman putting in his head through the little wooden door at the foot of the stage, “come here, quick. You can get a splendid sight of His Highness as he comes up the passage.” Bradley walked to the opening and gazed at the distinguished procession coming toward him. Suddenly he grasped the arm of the policeman like a vice.

“Who is that man in the robes—at the head of the procession?”

“Don’t you know? That is His Highness.”

Bradley gasped for breath. He recognized His Highness as the man he had met on the embankment.

“Thank you,” he said to the policeman, who looked at him curiously. Then he went under the grand stand among the beams and braces and leaned against one of the timbers with knitted brows.

After a few moments he stepped to his chest, pulled off the apron and carefully lifted out the machine. With a quick jerk he wrenched off the little hammer and flung it from him. The machinery inside whirred for a moment with a soft purr like a clock running down. He opened the box and shook out into his apron a substance like damp sawdust. He seemed puzzled for a moment what to do with it. Finally he took it out and scattered it along the grass-grown slope of a railway cutting. Then he returned to his tool chest, took out a chisel and grimly felt its edge with his thumb.

It was admitted on all hands that His Highness never made a better speech in his life than on the occasion of the opening of that exhibition. He touched lightly on the country’s unexampled prosperity, of which the marvelous collection within those walls was an indication. He alluded to the general contentment that reigned among the classes to whose handiwork was due the splendid examples of human skill there exhibited. His Highness was thankful that peace and contentment reigned over the happy land and he hoped they would long continue so to reign. Then there were a good many light touches of humor in the discourse— touches that are so pleasing when they come from people in high places. In fact, the chairman said at the club afterwards (confidentially, of course) that the man who wrote His Highness’s speeches had in that case quite outdone himself.