Part 8 (1/2)

”Oh, blast Mr. Young. I want to talk to you, my boy, about the ladies.”

”Do you?” Marsden half closed his eyes, and showed his strong teeth in a lazy smile. ”What do you think of our young lady?”

”Miss Thompson?” Mr. Whitehouse shrugged his shoulders. ”Oh, not bad.”

Then long thin Mr. Kenion returned.

”Let's try the new crock over your sticks,” said Mr. Kenion languidly.

”I suppose he _is_ a crock--or he wouldn't be here?”

”I won't bias your judgment,” said Mr. Whitehouse as he strolled across the tan. ”See for yourself,” and he rang a noisy bell. ”But I must make you known to each other;” and he introduced Mr. Marsden as ”one of the managers at Thompson's.”

Mr. Young's new purchase was brought in, and Mr. Kenion rode it. The horse at first appeared to resent the silly jumping performance; but Marsden heard the work of the rider's unspurred heels on the animal's flanks, watched the effective use Mr. Whitehouse made of his whip as he ran behind, and soon saw the hurdle negotiated in flying fas.h.i.+on, again and again--and faster and faster.

”_Not_ so fast! G.o.d bless my soul, I think you must all be mad this afternoon.” Old Young had come to his window, furious. ”Mr. Kenion, I'm surprised at you, yes, I am, sir.”

”How can I judge of a horse without trying him?”

”Well, I don't want my horses tried like that. You may buy 'em or leave 'em.”

”All right,” said Mr. Kenion, laughing. ”Come out and have a drink.

You've stood me a ride, and I'll stand you a drink.”

Mr. Kenion, Mr. Young, and the jumping horse all disappeared, and Marsden and the riding-master were left together on the tan. Here, in the dim twilight that the gla.s.s roof made of this bright June day, they had a long quiet chat about women.

”d.i.c.ky,” said the riding-master, ”I'm going to talk to you like a Dutch uncle.”

”Fire away.”

”All for your own good. See?... Now I suppose when you want a mash, you don't think of looking outside the shop.”

”I never have a mash inside it.”

”Is that so?” Mr. Whitehouse seemed astonished. ”Why, I thought you smart managers with all those shop girls round you were like so many grand Turks with their serrallyhos.”

”Not much. That's against etiquette--and a fool's game into the bargain.

You're safe to be pinched--and, second, you get so jolly sick of being mewed up with 'em all day that you never want to speak to 'em out of hours.”

”Then how do you get along? The customers?”

”Yes,” said Marsden; and he stroked his moustache, and smiled.

”Customers are often very kind.”

”Not real ladies?”

”We don't ask their pedigrees. Go down St. Saviour's Court any fine evening, and see the domestic servants waiting in their best clothes.

It'll remind you of Piccadilly Circus;” and both gentlemen laughed.

”There's a parlourmaid,” continued Marsden, ”out of Adelaide Crescent--who is simply a little lump of all right. Venetian red hair--a picture.”