The Diary of a Nobody by George Grossmith and Weedon Grossmith (best sci fi novels of all time .txt) 📕

a position to buy a new one. Lupin replied carelessly: “I didn’t buy it; it was a present.”

I have such terrible suspicions of Lupin now that I scarcely like to ask him questions, as I dread the answers so. He, however, saved me the trouble.

He said: “I met a friend, an old friend, that I did not quite think a friend at the time; but it’s all right. As he wisely said, ‘all is fair in love and war,’ and there was no reason why we should not be friends still. He’s a jolly, good, all-round sort of fellow, and a very different stamp from that inflated fool of a Perkupp.”

I said: “Hush, Lupin! Do not pray add insult to injury.”

Lupin said: “What do you mean by injury? I repeat, I have done no injury. Crowbillon is simply tired of a stagnant stick-in-the-mud firm, and made the change on his own account. I simply recommended the new firm as a matter of biz—good old biz!”

I said quietly: “I don’t understand your slang, and at my time of life have no desire to learn it; so, Lupin, my boy, let us change the subject. I will, if it please you, try and be interested in your new hat adventure.”

Lupin said: “Oh! there’s nothing much about it, except I have not once seen him since his marriage, and he said he was very pleased to see me, and hoped we should be friends. I stood a drink to cement the friendship, and he stood me a new hat—one of his own.”

I said rather wearily: “But you have not told me your old friend’s name?”

Lupin said, with affected carelessness: “Oh didn’t I? Well, I will. It was Murray Posh.”

May 14.—Lupin came down late, and seeing me at home all the morning, asked the reason of it. Carrie and I both agreed it was better to say nothing to him about the letter I was writing, so I evaded the question.

Lupin went out, saying he was going to lunch with Murray Posh in the City. I said I hoped Mr. Posh would provide him with a berth. Lupin went out laughing, saying: “I don’t mind wearing Posh’s one-priced hats, but I am not going to sell them.” Poor boy, I fear he is perfectly hopeless.

It took me nearly the whole day to write to Mr. Crowbillon. Once or twice I asked Carrie for suggestions; and although it seems ungrateful, her suggestions were none of them to the point, while one or two were absolutely idiotic. Of course I did not tell her so. I got the letter off, and took it down to the office for Mr. Perkupp to see, but he again repeated that he could trust me.

Gowing called in the evening, and I was obliged to tell him about Lupin and Mr. Perkupp; and, to my surprise, he was quite inclined to side with Lupin. Carrie joined in, and said she thought I was taking much too melancholy a view of it. Gowing produced a pint sample-bottle of Madeira, which had been given him, which he said would get rid of the blues. I dare say it would have done so if there had been more of it; but as Gowing helped himself to three glasses, it did not leave much for Carrie and me to get rid of the blues with.

May 15.—A day of great anxiety, for I expected every moment a letter from Mr. Crowbillon. Two letters came in the evening—one for me, with “Crowbillon Hall” printed in large gold-and-red letters on the back of the envelope; the other for Lupin, which I felt inclined to open and read, as it had “Gylterson, Sons, and Co. Limited,” which was the recommended firm. I trembled as I opened Mr. Crowbillon’s letter. I wrote him sixteen pages, closely written; he wrote me less than sixteen lines.

His letter was: “Sir,—I totally disagree with you. Your son, in the course of five minutes’ conversation, displayed more intelligence than your firm has done during the last five years.—Yours faithfully, Gilbert E. Gillam O. Crowbillon.”

What am I to do? Here is a letter that I dare not show to Mr. Perkupp, and would not show to Lupin for anything. The crisis had yet to come; for Lupin arrived, and, opening his letter, showed a cheque for £25 as a commission for the recommendation of Mr. Crowbillon, whose custom to Mr. Perkupp is evidently lost for ever. Cummings and Gowing both called, and both took Lupin’s part. Cummings went so far as to say that Lupin would make a name yet. I suppose I was melancholy, for I could only ask: “Yes, but what sort of a name?”

May 16.—I told Mr. Perkupp the contents of the letter in a modified form, but Mr. Perkupp said: “Pray don’t discuss the matter; it is at an end. Your son will bring his punishment upon himself.” I went home in the evening, thinking of the hopeless future of Lupin. I found him in most extravagant spirits and in evening dress. He threw a letter on the table for me to read.

To my amazement, I read that Gylterson and Sons had absolutely engaged Lupin at a salary of £200 a year, with other advantages. I read the letter through three times and thought it must have been for me. But there it was—Lupin Pooter—plain enough. I was silent. Lupin said: “What price Perkupp now? You take my tip, Guv.—‘off’ with Perkupp and freeze on to Gylterson, the firm of the future! Perkupp’s firm? The stagnant dummies have been standing still for years, and now are moving back. I want to go on. In fact I must go off, as I am dining with the Murray Poshs to-night.”

In the exuberance of his spirits he hit his hat with his stick, gave a loud war “Whoo-oop,” jumped over a chair, and took the liberty of rumpling my hair all over my forehead, and bounced out of the room, giving me no chance of reminding him of his age and the respect which was due to his parent. Gowing and Cummings came in the evening, and positively cheered me up with congratulations respecting Lupin.

Gowing said: “I always said he would get on, and, take my word, he has more in his head than we three put together.”

Carrie said: “He is a second Hardfur Huttle.”

CHAPTER XXII

Master Percy Edgar Smith James. Mrs. James (of Sutton) visits us again and introduces “Spiritual Séances.”

May 26, Sunday.—We went to Sutton after dinner to have meat-tea with Mr. and Mrs. James. I had no appetite, having dined well at two, and the entire evening was spoiled by little Percy—their only son—who seems to me to be an utterly spoiled child.

Two or three times he came up to me and deliberately kicked my shins. He hurt me once so much that the tears came into my eyes. I gently remonstrated with him, and Mrs. James said: “Please don’t scold him; I do not believe in being too severe with young children. You spoil their character.”

Little Percy set up a deafening yell here, and when Carrie tried to pacify him, he slapped her face.

I was so annoyed, I said: “That is not my idea of bringing up children, Mrs. James.”

Mrs. James said. “People have different ideas of bringing up children—even your son Lupin is not the standard of perfection.”

A Mr. Mezzini (an Italian, I fancy) here took Percy in his lap. The child wriggled and kicked and broke away from Mr. Mezzini, saying: “I don’t like you—you’ve got a dirty face.”

A very nice gentleman, Mr. Birks Spooner, took the child by the wrist and said: “Come here, dear, and listen to this.”

He detached his chronometer from the chain and made his watch strike six.

To our horror, the child snatched it from his hand and bounced it down upon the ground like one would a ball.

Mr. Birks Spooner was most amiable, and said he could easily get a new glass put in, and did not suppose the works were damaged.

To show you how people’s opinions differ, Carrie said the child was bad-tempered, but it made up for that defect by its looks, for it was—in her mind—an unquestionably beautiful child.

I may be wrong, but I do not think I have seen a much uglier child myself. That is my opinion.

May 30.—I don’t know why it is, but I never anticipate with any pleasure the visits to our house of Mrs. James, of Sutton. She is coming again to stay for a few days. I said to Carrie this morning, as I was leaving: “I wish, dear Carrie, I could like Mrs. James better than I do.”

Carrie said: “So do I, dear; but as for years I have had to put up with Mr. Gowing, who is vulgar, and Mr. Cummings, who is kind but most uninteresting, I am sure, dear, you won’t mind the occasional visits of Mrs. James, who has more intellect in her little finger than both your friends have in their entire bodies.”

I was so entirely taken back by this onslaught on my two dear old friends, I could say nothing, and as I heard the ’bus coming, I left with a hurried kiss—a little too hurried, perhaps, for my upper lip came in contact with Carrie’s teeth and slightly cut it. It was quite painful for an hour afterwards. When I came home in the evening I found Carrie buried in a book on Spiritualism, called There is no Birth, by Florence Singleyet. I need scarcely say the book was sent her to read by Mrs. James, of Sutton. As she had not a word to say outside her book, I spent the rest of the evening altering the stair-carpets, which are beginning to show signs of wear at the edges.

Mrs. James arrived and, as usual, in the evening took the entire management of everything. Finding that she and Carrie were making some preparations for table-turning, I thought it time really to put my foot down. I have always had the greatest contempt for such nonsense, and put an end to it years ago when Carrie, at our old house, used to have séances every night with poor Mrs. Fussters (who is now dead). If I could see any use in it, I would not care. As I stopped it in the days gone by, I determined to do so now.

I said: “I am very sorry Mrs. James, but I totally disapprove of it, apart from the fact that I receive my old friends on this evening.”

Mrs. James said: “Do you mean to say you haven’t read There is no Birth?” I said: “No, and I have no intention of doing so.” Mrs. James seemed surprised and said: “All the world is going mad over the book.” I responded rather cleverly: “Let it. There will be one sane man in it, at all events.”

Mrs. James said she thought it was very unkind, and if people were all as prejudiced as I was, there would never have been the electric telegraph or the telephone.

I said that was quite a different thing.

Mrs. James said sharply: “In what way, pray—in what way?”

I said: “In many ways.”

Mrs. James said: “Well, mention one way.”

I replied quietly: “Pardon me, Mrs. James; I decline to discuss the matter. I am not interested in it.”

Sarah at this moment opened the door and showed in Cummings, for which I was thankful, for I felt it would put a stop to this foolish table-turning. But I was entirely mistaken; for, on the subject being opened again, Cummings said he was most interested in Spiritualism, although he was bound to confess he did not believe much in it; still, he was willing to be convinced.

I firmly declined to take any part in it, with the result that my presence was ignored. I left the three sitting in the parlour at a small round table which they had taken out of the drawing-room. I walked into the hall with the ultimate intention of taking a little stroll. As I opened the door, who should come in but Gowing!

On hearing what was going on, he proposed that we should join the circle and he would go into a trance. He added that he knew a few things about old Cummings, and would invent a few about Mrs. James. Knowing how dangerous Gowing is, I declined to let him take part in any such foolish performance. Sarah asked me if she could go out for half an hour, and I gave her permission, thinking it would be more comfortable to sit with Gowing in the kitchen than in the cold drawing-room. We talked a good deal about Lupin and Mr. and Mrs. Murray Posh, with whom he is as usual spending the evening. Gowing said: “I say, it wouldn’t be a bad thing for Lupin if old Posh kicked the bucket.”

My heart gave a leap of horror, and I rebuked Gowing very sternly for joking on such a subject. I lay awake half the night thinking of it—the other half was spent in nightmares on the same subject.

May