“Good morning,” said Mr. Salter. “I thought I’d better get you early. I expect you’ve been up and about for hours, eh? Used to milking and cubbing and so on?”
“No,” said William.
“No? Well I don’t get to the office much before eleven or twelve. I wondered if everything was clear about your journey or are there one or two little things you’d like to go into first?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, I thought there might be. Well, come round to the office as soon as you’re ready.”
Groping, William found one of the dozen or so switches which controlled the lighting of various parts of the bedroom. He found his watch and learned that it was ten o’clock. He found a row of bell-pushes and rang for valet and waiter.
The evening before he had been too much surfeited with new impressions to pay particular attention to the room to which eventually he had been led. It was two o’clock when Mr. Salter left him; they had returned to the Megalopolitan office after dinner; William had been led from room to room; he had been introduced to the Managing Editor, the Assistant Managing Editor, the Art Editor (who had provided the camera), the Accounts Manager, the Foreign Contacts Adviser, and a multitude of men and women with visible means of support but no fixed occupation who had popped in from time to time on the various officials with whom William was talking. He had signed a contract, an application for Life Insurance, receipts for a camera, typewriter, a portfolio full of tickets, and a book of traveler’s checks to the value of £1,000. He had reached the hotel in a daze; the management had been told to expect him; they had led him to a lift, then, aloft, along a white, unnaturally silent passage and left him in his room with no desire except to sleep and awake from his nightmare in the familiar, shabby surroundings of Boot Magna.
The room was large and faultless. A psychologist, hired from Cambridge, had planned the decorations—magenta and gamboge; colors which—it had been demonstrated by experiments on poultry and mice—conduce to a mood of dignified gaiety. Every day carpet, curtains and upholstery were inspected for signs of disrepair. A gentle whining note filled the apartment, emanating from a plant which was thought to “condition” the atmosphere. William’s crumpled clothes lay on the magenta carpet; his typewriter and camera had been hidden from him by the night porter. The dressing-table was fitted with a “daylight” lamp so that women, before retiring to sleep, could paint their faces in a manner that would be becoming at dawn; but it was bare of brushes.
Presently a valet entered, drew back four or five layers of curtain and revealed the window—a model of ingenuity, devised to keep out the noise of traffic and admit the therapeutic elements of common daylight. He picked up William’s clothes, inclined gracefully towards the bed in a High Anglican compromise between nod and genuflection and disappeared from the room leaving it bereft of any link with William’s previous existence. Presently a waiter came with a bill of fare and William ordered breakfast.
“And I want a toothbrush.”
The waiter communicated this need to the hall porter and presently a page with a face of ageless evil brought it on a tray. “It was five shillings,” he said. “And two bob for the cabfare.”
“That’s too much.”
“Oh, come on,” said the knowing midget. “It isn’t you that pays.”
William indicated some loose change on the table. The boy took it all. “You want some pajamas too,” he said. “Shall I get you some?”
“No.”
“Please yourself,” said this vile boy leaving the room.
William ate his breakfast and rang for the valet.
“I want my clothes please.”
“Here are your shoes and cuff-links, sir. I have sent the shirt and underclothes to the laundry. The suit is being cleaned. Your tie is being ironed by one of the ironing maids.”
“But I never told you to do that.”
“You gave no instructions to the contrary, sir. We naturally send everything away always unless we are specifically asked not to… Would that be all, sir?”
“I want something to wear, now.”
“No doubt the hall porter will be able to arrange something.”
Sometime later the same abominable child brought him a series of parcels.
“Reach-me-downs,” he said. “Not what I’d care to wear myself. But it’s the best I could get. Twenty quid. Shall I have it put down?”
“Yes.”
“Nice job journalism. May take to it myself one day.”
“I’m sure you’d be very good at it.”
“Yes, I think I should. I didn’t get you a razor. The barber is six floors down.”
*
The bells of St Bride’s were striking twelve when William reached Copper House. He found Mr. Salter in a state of agitation. “Oh, dear, oh dear, you’re late, Boot, and Lord Copper himself has asked for you twice. I must go and see if he is still accessible.”
William was left standing in the passage. Metal doors snapped in and out: “Going up,” “going down,” cried the Caucasian lift girls; on all sides his colleagues in the great concern came and went, bustling past him—haggard men who had been up all night, elegant young ladies bearing trays of milk, oily figures in overalls bearing bits of machinery. William stood in a daze, fingering the stiff seams of his new suit. After a time he heard himself addressed: “Hi, you,” said a voice, “wake up.”
“If only I could,” said William.
“Eh?”
“Nothing.”
The man speaking to him was exactly the type William recognized as belonging to the film he had seen in Taunton; a short, shock-headed fellow in shirt sleeves, dicky and eye-shade, waistcoat pocket full of pencils, first finger pointing accusingly.
“You. You’re the new man, aren’t you?”
“Yes, suppose I am.”
“Well, here’s a chance for you.” He pushed a typewritten slip into William’s hand. “Cut along there quick. Take a taxi. Don’t bother about your hat. You’re in a newspaper office now.”
William read the slip. “Mrs. Stitch. Gentlemen’s Lavatory Sloane Street.”
“We’ve just had this “phoned through from the policeman on duty. Find out what she is doing down there. Quick!”
A lift door flew open at their side. “Going down,” cried a Caucasian.
“In there.”
The door snapped shut; the lift shot down; soon William was in a taxi making for Sloane Street.
There was a dense crowd round the public lavatory. William bobbed hopelessly on the fringe; he could see nothing above the heads except more heads, hats giving way to helmets at the hub. More spectators closed in behind him; suddenly he felt a shove more purposeful than the rest and a voice said, “Way, please. Press. Make way for the Press.” A man with a camera was forging a way through. “Press, please, Press. Make way for the Press.”
William joined in behind him and followed those narrow, irresistible shoulders on their progress towards the steps. At last they found themselves at the railings, among the policemen. The camera man nodded pleasantly to them and proceeded underground. William followed.
“Hi,” said a sergeant, “where are you going?”
“Press,” said William, “I’m on the Beast.”
“So am I,” said the sergeant. “Go to it. She’s down there. Can’t think how she did it, not without hurting herself.”
At the foot of the steps, making, for the photographer, a happy contrast to the white tiles about it, stood a little black motor-car. Inside, her hands patiently folded in her lap, sat the most beautiful woman William had ever seen. She was chatting in a composed and friendly manner to the circle of reporters and plain clothes men.
“I can’t think what you’re all making such a fuss about,” she said. “It’s simply a case of mistaken identity. There’s a man I’ve been wanting to speak to for weeks and I thought I saw him popping in here. So I drove down after him. Well it was someone quite different but he behaved beautifully about it an
d now I can’t get out; I’ve been here nearly half an hour and I’ve a great deal to do. I do think some of you might help, instead of standing there asking questions.”
Six of them seized the little car and lifted it, effortlessly, on their shoulders. A cheer rose from the multitude as the jet back rose above the spikes of the railings. William followed, his hand resting lightly on the running board. They set Mrs. Stitch back on the road; the police began to clear a passage for her. “A very nice little story,” said one of William’s competitors. “Just get in nicely for the evening edition.”
The throng began to disperse; the policemen pocketed their tips; the camera men scampered for their dark rooms. “Boot. Boot,” cried an eager, slightly peevish voice. “So there you are. Come back at once.” It was Mr. Salter. “I came to fetch you for Lord Copper and they told me you had gone out. It was only by sheer luck that I found where you had gone. It’s been a terrible mistake. Someone will pay for this; I know they will. Oh dear, oh dear, get into the cab quickly.”
*
Twenty minutes later William and Mr. Salter passed the first of the great doors which divided Lord Copper’s personal quarters from the general office. The carpets were thicker here, the lights softer, the expressions of the inhabitants more care-worn. The typewriters were of a special kind; their keys made no more sound than the drumming of a bishop’s fingertips on an upholstered prie-dieu; the telephone buzzers were muffled and purred like warm cats. The personal private secretaries padded through the ante-chambers and led them nearer and nearer to the presence. At last they came to massive double doors, encased in New Zealand rose-wood, which by their weight, polish and depravity of design, proclaimed unmistakably, “Nothing but Us stands between you and Lord Copper.” Mr. Salter paused, and pressed a little bell of synthetic ivory. “It lights a lamp on Lord Copper’s own desk,” he said reverently. “I expect we shall have a long time to wait.”
But almost immediately a green light overhead flashed their permission to enter.
Lord Copper was at his desk. He dismissed some satellites and rose as William came towards him.
“Come in, Mr. Boot. This is a great pleasure. I have wanted to meet you for a long time. It is not often that the Prime Minister and I agree but we see eye to eye about your style. A very nice little style indeed… You may sit down too, Salter. Is Mr. Boot all set for his trip?”
“Up to a point, Lord Copper.”
“Excellent. There are two invaluable rules for a special correspondent—Travel Light and Be Prepared. Have nothing which in a case of emergency you cannot carry in your own hands. But remember that the unexpected always happens. Little things we take for granted at home like…” he looked about him, seeking a happy example; the room though spacious was almost devoid of furniture; his eye rested on a bust of Lady Copper; that would not do; then, resourcefully, he said “… like a coil of rope or a sheet of tin, may save your life in the wilds. I should take some cleft sticks with you. I remember Hitchcock—Sir Jocelyn Hitchcock, a man who used to work for me once; smart enough fellow in his way, but limited, very little historical backing—I remember him saying that in Africa he always sent his dispatches in a cleft stick. It struck me as a very useful tip. Take plenty.
“With regard to Policy, I expect you already have your own views. I never hamper my correspondents in any way. What the British public wants first, last and all the time is News. Remember that the Patriots are in the right and are going to win. The Beast stands by them four square. But they must win quickly. The British public has no interest in a war which drags on indecisively. A few sharp victories, some conspicuous acts of personal bravery on the Patriot side and a colorful entry into the capital. That is the Beast Policy for the war.
“Let me see. You will get there in about three weeks. I should spend a day or two looking around and getting the background. Then a good, full-length dispatch which we can feature with your name. That’s everything, I think, Salter?”
“Definitely, Lord Copper.” He and William rose.
It was not to be expected that Lord Copper would leave his chair twice in the morning, but he leant across the desk and extended his hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Boot, and the best of luck. We shall expect the first victory about the middle of July.”
When they had passed the final ante-room and were once more in the humbler, frequented byways of the great building, Mr. Salter uttered a little sigh. “It’s an odd thing,” he said, “that the more I see of Lord Copper, the less I feel I really know him.”
The affability with which William had been treated was without precedent in Mr. Salter’s experience. Almost with diffidence he suggested, “It’s one o’clock; if you are going to catch the afternoon aeroplane, you ought to be getting your kit, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t suppose that after what Lord Copper has said there is anything more you want to know.”
“Well, there is one thing. You see I don’t read the papers very much. Can you tell me who is fighting who in Ish-maelia?”
“I think it’s the Patriots and the Traitors.”
“Yes, but which is which?”
“Oh, I don’t know that. That’s Policy, you see. It’s nothing to do with me. You should have asked Lord Copper.”
“I gather it’s between the Reds and the Blacks.”
“Yes, but it’s not quite as easy as that. You see they are all Negroes. And the fascists won’t be called black because of their racial pride, so they are called White after the White Russians. And the Bolshevists want to be called black because of their racial pride. So when you say black you mean red, and when you mean red you say white and when the party who call themselves blacks say traitors they mean what we call blacks, but what we mean when we say traitors I really couldn’t tell you. But from your point of view it will be quite simple. Lord Copper only wants Patriot victories and both sides call themselves patriots and of course both sides will claim all the victories. But of course it’s really a war between Russia and Germany and Italy and Japan who are all against one another on the patriotic side. I hope I make myself plain?”
“Up to a point,” said William, falling easily into the habit.
*
The Foreign Contacts Adviser of the Beast telephoned the emporium where William was to get his kit and warned them of his arrival; accordingly it was General Cruttwell, F.R.G.S., himself who was waiting at the top of the lift shaft. An imposing man: Cruttwell Glacier in Spitzbergen, Cruttwell Falls in Venezuela, Mount Cruttwell in the Pamirs, Cruttwell’s Leap in Cumberland, marked his travels; Cruttwell’s Folly, a waterless and indefensible camp near Salonika, was notorious to all who served with him in the war. The shop paid him six hundred a year and commission, out of which, by contract, he had to find his annual subscription to the R.G.S. and the electric treatment which maintained the leathery tan of his complexion.
Before either had spoken the General sized William up; in any other department he would have been recognized as a sucker; here, amid the trappings of high adventure he was, more gallantly, a greenhorn.
“Your first visit to Ishmaelia, eh? Then, perhaps I can be some help to you. As no doubt you know I was there in ’97 with poor @Sprat@ Larkin…”
“I want some cleft sticks, please,” said William firmly.
The General’s manner changed abruptly. His leg had been pulled before, often. Only last week there had been an idiotic young fellow dressed up as a missionary…”What the devil for?” he asked tartly.
“Oh, just for my dispatches you know.”
It was with exactly such an expression of simplicity that the joker had asked for a tiffin gun, a set of chota pegs and a chota mallet. “Miss Barton will see to you,” he said, and turning on his heel he began to inspect a newly arrived consignment of rhinoceros hide whips in a menacing way.
Miss Barton was easier to deal with. “We can have some cloven for you,” she said brightly. “If you will make your selection I will send them down to our clea
ver.”
William, hesitating between polo sticks and hockey sticks, chose six of each; they were removed to the workshop. Then Miss Barton led him through the departments of the enormous store. By the time she had finished with him, William had acquired a well-, perhaps rather over-, furnished tent, three months’ rations, a collapsible canoe, a jointed flagstaff and Union Jack, a hand-pump and sterilizing plant, an astrolabe, six suits of tropical linen and a sou’wester, a camp operating table and set of surgical instruments, a portable humidor, guaranteed to preserve cigars in condition in the Red Sea, and a Christmas hamper complete with Santa Claus costume and a tripod mistletoe stand, and a cane for whacking snakes. Only anxiety about time brought an end to his marketing. At the last moment he added a coil of rope and a sheet of tin; then he left under the baleful stare of General Cruttwell.
*
It had been arranged for him that William should fly to Paris and there catch the Blue Train to Marseilles. He was just in time. His luggage, which followed the taxi in a small pantechnicon, made him a prominent figure at the office of the Air Line.
“It will cost you one hundred and three pounds supplement on your ticket,” they said after it had all been weighed.
“Not me,” said William cheerfully, producing his travelers’ checks.
They telephoned to Croydon and ordered an additional aeroplane.
Mr. Pappenhacker of The Twopence, was a fellow passenger. He travelled as a man of no importance; a typewriter and a single, “featherweight” suitcase constituted his entire luggage; only the unobtrusive Messageries Maritimes labels distinguished him from the surrounding male and female commercial travelers. He read a little Arabic Grammar, holding it close to his nose, unconscious of all about him. William was the center of interest in the motor omnibus, and in his heart he felt a rising, wholly pleasurable excitement. His new possessions creaked and rattled on the roof, canoe against astrolabe, humidor against ant-proof clothes box; the cleft sticks lay in a bundle on the opposite seat; the gardens of South London sped past. William sat in a happy stupor. He had never wanted to go to Ishmaelia, or, for that matter, to any foreign country, to earn £50 a week or to own a jointed flagstaff or a camp operating table; but when he told Mr. Salter that he wanted nothing except to live at home and keep his job, he had hidden the remote and secret ambition of fifteen years or more. He did, very deeply, long to go up in an aeroplane. It was a wish so far from the probabilities of life at Boot Magna, that William never spoke of it; very rarely consciously considered it. No one at home knew of it except Nannie Bloggs. She had promised him a flight if she won the Irish Sweepstake, but after several successive failures she had decided that the whole thing was a popish trick and refused to take further tickets, and with her decision William’s chances seemed to fade beyond the ultimate horizon. But it still haunted his dreams and returned to him, more vividly, in the minutes of transition between sleep and wakefulness, on occasions of physical exhaustion and inner content, hacking home in the twilight after a good day’s hunt, fuddled with port on the not infrequent birthdays of the Boot household. And now its imminent fulfillment loomed through the haze that enveloped him as the single real and significant feature. High over the chimneys and the giant monkey-puzzle, high among the clouds and rainbows and clear blue spaces, whose alternations figured so largely and poetically in Lush Places, high above the most ecstatic skylark, above earthbound badger and great crested grebe, away from people and cities to a region of light and void and silence—that was where William was going in the Air Line omnibus; he sat mute, rapt, oblivious of the cleft sticks and the portable typewriter.