Part 11 (1/2)
”For maybe a few more years of quiet usefulness.”
PART II
CHAPTER I
Down the steep street where stands the office of Walkingshaw & Gilliflower, careers a hat. It is a silk hat and of a large size, the hat of a professional man of the most dignified standing and evident brain capacity. Nothing could show better the innate depravity of March winds than their choice of such a hat to play with. They had thousands to choose from--bowlers, caps, wideawakes, all kinds of commonplace head-gear--and here they have selected for their sport this cylinder of silk, symbolical of all most worthy of the city's respect. It leaps and b.u.mps and slides, propelled by the breeze and the law of gravitation, down the decorously paved hill, in company with a little cloud of dust and some sc.r.a.ps of dirty paper. And behind it, now at a canter, now at a panting trot, ambles the portly form of Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw. The very devil must be in the wind to-day.
At the corner of Queen Street the hat met the full force of the easterly blast, and bidding good-by to gravitation, turned at right angles and skimmed for forty yards through s.p.a.ce as though the brothers Wright had mounted it. Then it resumed the action of a Rugby football, pitching now on its end and now on its middle, and behaving accordingly each time. Mr. Walkingshaw, perceiving that it was now bouncing in the direction he desired to go, fell for a moment to a walk and looked around for some a.s.sistant. But the only spectators within hail happened to be two errand boys who had not seen a circus for some time and evinced no desire to interrupt the entertainment. So off he started again, his white spats twinkling beneath his flapping overcoat, and covered the first fifty yards in such promising fas.h.i.+on that he was able to strike the revolving rim a series of smart raps with his umbrella before the wind had recovered its breath. Then suddenly up leapt the hat, cannoned from a lamp-post on to the railings of the Queen Street Gardens, from them across the pavement into the gutter, and there, getting nicely on edge, careered like a hoop, with the thud of Heriot's footsteps growing fainter behind.
Down the next cross street came two acquaintances of the Writer to the Signet, and they stopped at the corner in amazement.
”Good G.o.d, that's Heriot Walkingshaw!” cried one.
”A man of his age!” replied the other; ”he's running like a wing three-quarter--look at his stride!”
A benevolent lady half stopped the hat with her umbrella. The W.S. was up to it. He stooped to reach it--a quick grab and he had it by the rim.
”Well picked up, sir!” cried one of the acquaintances.
Mr. Walkingshaw did not hear. He was on the other side of the street and engrossed in brus.h.i.+ng his quarry with his coat sleeve.
”It's a wonderful performance,” remarked the other acquaintance; ”but it ought just about to finish him.”
”Will it? Look at him--he hasn't turned a hair!”
”It's amazing--positively amazing!” they murmured together as they watched their elderly friend not only replace his trophy on his head, but c.o.c.k it at an angle that breathed reckless defiance to the March winds.
”Did you ever see Heriot Walkingshaw with his hat at that angle before?”
”As often as I've seen him do even time chasing it!”
Off he strode, breathing faster than usual, and his hat still a little ruffled, but otherwise as jaunty a figure as ever left an office; while his two acquaintances went away to narrate to the wondering city what their astonished eyes had seen.
Meanwhile the junior partner was unburdening his soul to the confidential clerk.
”That's the end of Guthrie and Co.!” he exclaimed wrathfully. ”The whole thing settled in a fortnight--we might be a marriage registry! It's just been 'we agree to this,' 'we agree to that,' 'we agree to anything you suggest.' We haven't fought a single point. I'd have made those creditors whistle a bit before they saw yon five thousand pounds! But what's my father say? You heard him yourself--'moral obligation'--'might be fought!'--'get it settled.' He's botched the whole business.”
Mr. Thomieson shook his grizzled head.
”It's certainly not been our usual way of doing business.”
Andrew glowered at his desk.
”He said he was going to leave the business to me, and in forty-eight hours he was taking more responsibilities on his shoulders than he had for years! He barely has the decency to ask me for my opinion now; and when I give it, he tells me it's timid. Timid!” The junior partner's voice rose to a shout. ”He just goes at things like a bull, and before I've time to get in two words edgeways, the thing is settled and he's out of the office whistling!”