Kipps by H. G. Wells (distant reading txt) 📕

out of the High Street towards the church, and he leant for a time over the gate that had once been the winning post of his race with Ann Pornick, and presently found himself in a sitting position on the top rail. He had to get things smooth again, he knew; his mind was like a mirror of water after a breeze. The image of Helen and his great future was broken and mingled into fragmentary reflections of remoter things, of the good name of Old Methusaleh Three Stars, of long dormant memories the High Street saw fit, by some trick of light and atmosphere, to arouse that afternoon.⁠ ⁠…

Abruptly a fine, full voice from under his elbow shouted, “What⁠—O Art!” and, behold, Sid Pornick was back in his world, leaning over the gate beside him, and holding out a friendly hand.

He was oddly changed and yet oddly like the Sid that Kipps had known. He had the old broad face and mouth, abundantly freckled, the same short nose, and the same blunt chin, the same odd suggestion of his sister Ann without a touch of her beauty; but he had quite a new voice, loud and a little hard, and his upper lip carried a stiff and very fair moustache.

Kipps shook hands. “I was jest thinking of you, Sid,” he said, “jest this very moment and wondering if ever I should see you again, ever. And ’ere you are!”

“One likes a look ’round at times,” said Sid. “How are you, old chap?”

“All right,” said Kipps. “I just been lef’⁠—”

“You aren’t changed much,” interrupted Sid.

“Ent I?” said Kipps, foiled.

“I knew your back directly I came ’round the corner. Spite of that ’at you got on. Hang it, I said, that’s Art Kipps or the devil. And so it was.”

Kipps made a movement of his neck as if he would look at his back and judge. Then he looked Sid in the face. “You got a moustache, Sid,” he said.

“I s’pose you’re having your holidays?” said Sid.

“Well, partly. But I just been lef’⁠—”

“I’m taking a bit of a holiday,” Sid went on. “But the fact is, I have to give myself holidays nowadays. I’ve set up for myself.”

“Not down here?”

“No fear! I’m not a turnip. I’ve started in Hammersmith, manufacturing.” Sid spoke offhand as though there was no such thing as pride.

“Not drapery?”

“No fear! Engineer. Manufacture bicycles.” He clapped his hand to his breast pocket and produced a number of pink handbills. He handed one to Kipps and prevented him reading it by explanations and explanatory dabs of a pointing finger. “That’s our make, my make to be exact, The Red Flag, see?⁠—I got a transfer with my name⁠—Pantocrat tyres, eight pounds⁠—yes, there⁠—Clinchers ten, Dunlop’s eleven, Ladies’ one pound more⁠—that’s the lady’s. Best machine at a democratic price in London. No guineas and no discounts⁠—honest trade. I build ’em⁠—to order. I’ve built,” he reflected, looking away seaward⁠—“seventeen. Counting orders in ’and.⁠ ⁠… Come down to look at the old place a bit. Mother likes it at times.”

“Thought you’d all gone away⁠—”

“What! after my father’s death? No! My mother’s come back, and she’s living at Muggett’s cottages. The sea air suits ’er. She likes the old place better than Hammersmith⁠ ⁠… and I can afford it. Got an old crony or so here.⁠ ⁠… Gossip⁠ ⁠… have tea.⁠ ⁠… S’pose you ain’t married, Kipps?”

Kipps shook his head, “I⁠—” he began.

“I am,” said Sid. “Married these two years and got a nipper. Proper little chap.”

Kipps got his word in at last. “I got engaged day before yesterday,” he said.

“Ah!” said Sid airily. “That’s all right. Who’s the fortunate lady?”

Kipps tried to speak in an offhand way. He stuck his hands in his pockets as he spoke. “She’s a solicitor’s daughter,” he said, “in Folkestone. Rather’r nice set. County family. Related to the Earl of Beaupres⁠—”

“Steady on!” cried Sid.

“You see, I’ve ’ad a bit of luck, Sid. Been lef’ money.”

Sid’s eye travelled instinctively to mark Kipps’ garments. “How much?” he asked.

“ ’Bout twelve ’undred a year,” said Kipps, more offhandedly than ever.

“Lord!” said Sid, with a note of positive dismay, and stepped back a pace or two.

“My granfaver it was,” said Kipps, trying hard to be calm and simple. “ ’Ardly knew I ’ad a granfaver. And then⁠—bang! When o’ Bean, the solicitor, told me of it, you could ’ave knocked me down⁠—”

“’Ow much?” demanded Sid, with a sharp note in his voice.

“Twelve ’undred pound a year⁠—’proximately, that is.⁠ ⁠…”

Sid’s attempt at genial unenvious congratulation did not last a minute. He shook hands with an unreal heartiness and said he was jolly glad. “It’s a blooming stroke of Luck,” he said.

“It’s a bloomin’ stroke of Luck,” he repeated; “that’s what it is,” with the smile fading from his face. “Of course, better you ’ave it than me, o’ chap. So I don’t envy you, anyhow. I couldn’t keep it, if I did ’ave it.”

“ ’Ow’s that?” said Kipps, a little hipped by Sid’s patent chagrin.

“I’m a Socialist, you see,” said Sid. “I don’t ’old with Wealth. What is Wealth? Labour robbed out of the poor. At most it’s only yours in Trust. Leastways, that ’ow I should take it.” He reflected. “The Present distribution of Wealth,” he said and stopped.

Then he let himself go, with unmasked bitterness. “It’s no sense at all. It’s jest damn foolishness. Who’s going to work and care in a muddle like this? Here first you do⁠—something anyhow⁠—of the world’s work, and it pays you hardly anything, and then it invites you to do nothing, nothing whatever, and pays you twelve hundred pounds a year. Who’s going to respect laws and customs when they come to damn silliness like that?” He repeated, “Twelve hundred pounds a year!”

At the sight of Kipps’ face he relented slightly.

“It’s not you I’m thinking of, o’ man; it’s the system. Better you than most people. Still⁠—”

He laid both hands on the gate and repeated to himself, “Twelve ’undred a year.⁠ ⁠… Gee-Whizz, Kipps! You’ll be a swell!”

“I shan’t,” said Kipps with imperfect conviction. “No fear.”

“You can’t