For the first few miles there was nothing to see except the smoke-grimed roofs of Liverpool under heavy rain; Mr Franklin wondered why so much downpour didn't have the effect of cleaning the city, and concluded that the rain was probably as dirty as the buildings. He turned at last to his newspapers, and settled himself comfortably to discover what England, the great mother of Empire, was concerning herself with that week-end; it seemed to him essential, if he was to accustom himself to his new surroundings.
The news was mixed and, to him, confusing. Mr Cody had crashed his aeroplane at Doncaster on Saturday and had emerged from the wreckage congratulating himself on his amazing good luck; further evidence of the flying mania was contained in a report of a race at Clapton Ladies Swimming Club, in which the fair competitors had taken the water equipped with model flying machines. There were columns about the Budget which had been introduced months before, but was still exciting heated debate, although it was all Greek to Mr Franklin - he noted a prominent advertisement on a facing page strongly recommending him to write to an insurance company for advice on how to provide against Mr Lloyd George's new death duties. Jack Johnson, the highly unpopular black boxing champion, who had recently delighted the sporting public by his failure to defeat a rising young British heavyweight named Victor McLaglen, had somewhat restored his laurels by knocking out the formidable Stanley Ketchell in nine rounds; a French scientist, M. Flammarion, was proposing to harness the internal heat of the earth as a source of energy, Mr Bernard Shaw had made a witty speech on photography as an art form, and a Plymouth Rock hen had had its broken leg set at the London Hospital.
On the lighter side, questions had been asked in the House of Commons about the forcible feeding of suffragettes; the German army were reported to be buying flying torpedoes from Sweden, and El Roghi, a pretender to the Moroccan throne, had been exhibited in an iron cage at Fez and subsequently executed. Spain was at war with the Riffians.
Having brought himself abreast of current events, Mr Franklin studied the advertising pages. Here he was invited to subscribe to Cuban Telephones, Val d'Or Rubber, and Brazilian Railways; his custom was also solicited for Mexican Hair Renewer, Poudre d'Amour, Dr Deimel's celebrated porous undergarments, and the new chocolate 'massolettes' costing a penny-farthing each and containing 'ten million beneficent microbes' guaranteed to kill all pernicious germs and ensure perfect health if taken twice daily.
For his intellectual nourishment he was offered H. G. Wells' latest novel, Anna Veronica, E. Phillips Oppenheim's Mr Marx's Secret and a sensational new work entitled All At Sea: a novel of Life and Love on a Liner, by none other than Lily Langtry, whose outstanding attractions, displayed in an accompanying photograph, suggested to Mr Franklin that she was liable to outsell Mr Wells and Mr Oppenheim on appearance alone, whatever her prose was like. Her most serious competitor was obviously the Countess of Cardigan, whose Recollections promised a feast of scandal and included (according to the reviewer) 'at least two stories which should not have been printed'.
Mr Franklin betrayed his sad literary taste by laying the reviews aside unfinished, and taking up a recent back number of The Strand which the porter had particularly recommended, since it contained a new story by Conan Doyle which he judged would be to Mr Franklin's taste. And it might have been, for it was a spirited piece about a young prize-fighter hired by a vengeful beauty to beat up her brute of a husband, the Lord of Falconbridge, but the train had now left the grubby environs of Liverpool, and Mr Franklin was more interested in his first view of the English countryside. A glance at Baedeker informed him that he was passing through that fertile country famous for Cheshire cheese, and that the Welsh hills might be seen to the right, and like any dutiful tourist he sat looking out on the green fields and neat hedgerows, thinking how small and tidy and well-ordered they looked, like a little model toyland that a giant might have laid out for his children to play with.
Whether he enjoyed the prospect it would have been difficult for an onlooker to say, for he sat impassively surveying it, with his eyes far away, the dark face reflected in the carriage window, and did not even stir for the best part of an hour, when the spires of Lichfield came into view. The birthplace of Dr Johnson, the scene (at the George Hotel) of the 'Beaux Stratagem', according to Baedeker, but any philosophic reflections which this information might have inspired were interrupted by the arrival in his carriage, when the train had halted, of a beautifully-dressed old gentleman with a glossy top hat, an impressive white moustache spreading over his claret-enriched cheeks, and a copy of The Times in his hand.
He greeted Mr Franklin with a resounding 'Good afternoon to you', spread an enormous white handkerchief on the opposite corner seat, and carefully lowered himself on to it, remarking:
'The condition of modern trains is absolutely damnable. Dust an inch thick, haven't been cleaned since the jubilee by the look of them, might as well travel in a coal-cart. I should have gone on the Midland, but there isn't a dam' thing to choose between 'em, I dare say. Why the devil can't they have deluxe trains, like the Continentals, eh? No wonder traffic's falling off - but it's all of a piece, of course. Everything's running down, as I expect you've noticed.'
Gathering that a reply was called for, Mr Franklin considered his informant steadily and confessed that he was not in a position to make comparisons, since he was new to the country.
'Indeed?' said the old gentleman, and gave him back an equally steady stare. 'An American. I see.' He considered this. 'Well, filthy as they are, I suppose our trains could be worse. No doubt the French railways aren't a whit better, if one comes right down to it, which I for one have no intention of ever doing. I've no experience of your American system, of course, but I believe it's quite extensive.'
Mr Franklin, watching the platform slide by as the train pulled out, said he believed it was, and the old gentleman shook out his Times and remarked that he didn't suppose railways would last much longer anyway, what with these damned motor cars, to say nothing of aeroplanes; one thing was certain, that the combination of infernal machines would certainly mean the end of decent horsemanship, and did Mr Franklin ride? Mr Franklin admitted that he did.
'Hunt?' inquired the old gentleman, hopefully.
'Occasionally.'
'Where, would you tell me?'
'Colorado, mostly.'
The old gentleman looked doubtful. 'Didn't know they had hounds there.' He frowned. 'What d'you hunt?'
'Bear,' said Mr Franklin, and after a look of surprise the old gentleman laughed heartily and said, of course, he meant game, big game. Well, that was another matter; he had done something in the bear line himself, in India, and enjoyed it, in moderation, not like these damned Germans, who according to the shooting correspondent of The Field were going off to Spitzbergen and Greenland and slaughtering every bear in sight, which was just about what you would expect.
'If you're hoping to shoot in England, I'm afraid you won't find much sport, though,' he went on. 'Bad year for grouse, you know. Too few birds. Nesting badly, as they're bound to, of course, considering the way they're over-driven. No one seems to know how to look after a moor these days; like everything else, going to the dogs. Sport especially - why, in my young days, if anyone had suggested to me that an American polo team - yes, sir, your own Yankee riders - could come over here and open our eyes to the game, well, I should have laughed at him. But that's what they've done, sir - saw it myself, at Hurlingham. It's this new technique - meeting the ball. Magnificent! Changed the whole game. Well, you remember what it used to be - when the ball was coming at your goal, what did you do, eh?'
Mr Franklin considered this gravely, but the question was fortunately rhetorical.
'You swung round, sir,' cried the old gentleman, 'and you hit an orthodox back-hander. But not your fellows - no, they come to meet the ball, head-on, and damn the risk of missing at the gallop! Splendid! Mind you, there were those who didn't care for it, thought it too chancy - but that's our trouble. Hide-bound. Timo
rous. I was all for it, myself. If we won't change, won't show some enterprise, where shall we be? Polo's no different from anything else, I'd have thought. But we seem to have lost the spirit, you see.' He sighed, shaking his head, and since Mr Franklin offered no consolation, the old gentleman presently retired into his paper, leaving the American to continue gazing out of the window at the rainy green country speeding past.
He was not allowed to continue his silent contemplation for long, however; the old gentleman discovered a news item about the defence budget, and drew Mr Franklin's attention to the deplorable fact that the British Army seemed to be non-existent and was receiving only £27 million for maintenance against £38 million that the Germans were spending.
`And already they spend half as much on their navy as we do ourselves - depend upon it, they're greedy for empire, and we'll find ourselves face to face with them before very long. It's this damned Liberal Government - I take it you don't have a Liberal Party in America? Well, you can thank God for it. I must say your chap Roosevelt seems quite admirable - I'd love to see Asquith at the head of the Rough Riders, I don't think!' The old gentleman laughed derisively. `Fool seems to think it will be time enough to arm when we have the Kaiser at our throats! Immortal ass! But what can anyone look for in a party that seems bent on our ruin, helping the blasted Socialists to get on their feet - they'll find that that's a plant they've nourished to their own undoing, one of these fine days, let me tell you. In the meantime, they curry favour with the masses with their old age pensions, and use the country's parlous lack of defence as an excuse for bleeding us dry. But of course you know about the Budget
If Mr Franklin had been wise he would have said, untruthfully, yes, that he knew all about the Budget, but since he kept a polite silence his indignant informant took the opportunity to dilate on the iniquities of Mr Lloyd George, the Liberal Chancellor, who, aided and abetted by `young Churchill', of whom the old gentleman had expected better things, was proposing to increase death duties by one-third, raise income tax to one shilling and twopence in the pound, tax undeveloped land and unearned increases in land values, and generally subject the country to a flood of legislation which any right-thinking person could see was downright communistic.
`The Lords will throw it out, I imagine - which is what the little snake is after, of course. He wants them to provoke a crisis, and break 'em. God knows where it will end - in the ruin of the property-owning class, undoubtedly, and then heaven help us. You don't have a House of Lords in America. Well, you may be right; ours have their hearts in the right place, but they're damned short of intelligence. No match for the Welsh Wizard, anyway.' And the old gentleman retired glumly to his paper, emerging only once more to remark on the controversy about the North Pole; personally he doubted whether either Dr Cook or Commander Peary had reached it, and much good it would do anyone if they had. Thereafter he fell asleep, snoring peacefully in his corner with the fine white moustache fluttering gently with his breathing; Mr Franklin, absorbed in his own thoughts, continued to gaze out silently on the passing scene, watching the shadows of the trees lengthening in the hazy October afternoon.
It was dark when they reached London at last, after the full five-and-a-half hours conceded by the railway company, the train clanking slowly through mile after mile of suburbs with their yellow-flaring windows, of dark deserted warehouses and factories, of long wet streets with their flickering lights, of black roofs and viaducts - that same prospect which another newly-arrived American, Henry James, had found so ugly but delightful a generation before. Possibly Mr Franklin was meditating that this was the greatest city that the world had ever seen, the most important capital of earth since ancient Rome, the heart of an empire dominating a quarter f the globe - fourteen miles long by ten miles wide, and housing more than seven million people, half as many again as New York: if so, he gave no sign of it, thought the old gentleman, who had wakened silently and was watching him through half-open eyes. Interesting face, for all its impassivity, purposeful and yet curiously innocent, with those steady eyes that obviously saw everything and yet gave away nothing. Difficult chap to know, probably; not over-given to opinion, but he'd speak his mind succinctly when he had to. Not a city man, obviously - Colorado, of course, he'd said as much. Tough customer? No, that wasn't right - not with that almost gentle mouth and those long, slender hands. Not weak, though, by any means. And like Inspector Griffin and the Adelphi porter, the old gentleman wondered idly who he might be, and what brought him to England. Interesting bird.
`Give me a call if you feel like a week-end's shooting.' As the train rolled slowly into Euston, and they gathered up their hand-luggage, the old gentleman drew a card from his waist-pocket. `Turf Club will always find me. Can't promise you any bear or bison, but partridge is better than nothing, eh? Good evening to you.'
And to his astonishment, the old gentleman was rewarded first by a lift of the brows as Mr Franklin took the card, and then by a surprisingly bright, almost embarrassed smile.
'Thank you, sir. That's most companionable of you.'
Extraordinary word to use, thought the old gentleman, as he left the carriage; American, f course; rather pleasant. Hadn't exchanged cards, or even given his name. Still, Colorado . . . different conventions.
Mr Franklin left the station in a taxi, having made his customary comparison of fares and been astonished to find that the motor was fourpence a mile cheaper than the horse. He had never, in fact, ridden in an automobile before; possibly he felt it was more in keeping with the metropolitan atmosphere. The Cockney cabbie, having weighed up his fare with an expert eye, asked where he would like to go, and received the disconcerting reply: 'The best hotel convenient to Chancery Lane.'
'You mean - any 'otel, sir? Well, now, there's the Savoy, in the Strand, which is about the best in London, but just a bit farver on, there's the noo Waldorf, which is first-class, an' on'y arf the price. Closer to Chancery Lane, an' all, or there's - '
'The Waldorf,' said Mr Franklin, 'will do.'
'Right you are, sir. First time in London, sir? Ah, an' from America, very nice. Then we could go round by White'all, if you like, not far aht the way, an' let you see a few o' the sights ...'
And taking his fare's nod for consent, the cabbie cranked his machine into life and set off, shouting above the roar of his engine and the traffic, in his role as self-appointed guide. It was, he knew, an exciting ride for a stranger, and from experience he could guess to a nicety what the American made of it. First, that the streets were the most crowded he'd ever seen in his life, with the big omnibuses, taxis and cars, the two-wheel hansoms and the growlers, and the astonishing number of cyclists, including ladies, even at this time of day, weaving expertly through the traffic in their hobble skirts and hats tied down with scarves; second, that the noise, to which the cabby added with his running fire of incomprehensible comment, was deafening; third, that the buildings seemed uncommonly close together, and the streets far too narrow for their volume of traffic. That was what they always said - so when you'd given them their fill of jammed pavements, brilliantly-lit shop fronts, cursing drivers, and honking horns, and topped it off with a mild altercation with a helmeted policeman, just for local colour - then you wheeled them suddenly into one of the great majestic squares, with its tall buildings and towering trees above the central square of green, where the couples sauntered under the strings of lights, and it was possible for the taxi to crawl slowly along the inner pavement, to give the passenger the best view of the laughing girls tripping by on the arms of their top-hatted young men, with an organ-grinder going strong on the corner, and the constant stream f pleasure-seekers round the entrances of the brilliantly-lit hotels. The cabby thanked God for London's squares - depending what you wanted you could give 'em beautiful lamp-lit peace, with the throb f the metropolis muffled by the magnificence of the trees, or all the bustle and glitter of the richest city in the world, or the dignified quiet of the residential squares with their opulent fronts and the
carriages waiting patiently and perhaps a glimpse of a liveried footman pacing swiftly with a message from one great mansion to another. Variety, that was what they wanted - provided it wasn't raining.
This particular Yank wasn't like some of em, though; the cabby was used to an incessant yammer of nasal question, with demands for Buckingham Palace, but this bloke just sat sober and quiet, taking it in - judging to a nicety, the cabby decided to limit his diversionary route to Trafalgar Square and the Embankment, after first exposing his fare to the bedlam of St Martin's Lane, where the theatres were going in, and he could feast his eyes on everything from ladies glittering with diamonds and swathed in furs, sailing in stately fashion up the steps with their opera-cloaked escorts, to the raucous Cockney boys and girls f the gallery crowds, dressed in their raffish best, cackling like jackdaws, or the stage-door johnnies with their capes and tiles rakishly tilted, monocles a-gleam for the expensively painted and coiffured beauties sauntering in pairs - hard to tell 'em apart from the duchesses, the cabbie always thought, even when they were plying their trade after the show at the Empire Promenade in Leicester Square. He said as much to Mr Franklin, who nodded gravely.
'Trafalgar Square,' said the cabbie presently, and watched curiously as his fare surveyed the famous lions around the sparkling fountain and the immense pillar of Lord Nelson's monument; oh, well, thought the cabbie, you can't please everyone, but we'll startle even this one in a minute. Which he did by driving down Whitehall, wheeling out on to the Embankment, and stopping sharply; it was a cunning move, to confront the unwary suddenly with the magnificent sweep of Thames, and beyond it the great electric-jewelled pile of the Houses of Parliament, with the massive structure of Big Ben towering over all, framed against the glowing night sky. It never failed to win excited gasps, especially if the cabby was clever enough to time his run down Whitehall just as the chimes were beginning; well, why not, he thought; that's England, after all, in everyone's imagination.