Part 1 (2/2)
At this moment a gentleman who had just entered the bar came up to the counter, placed half a crown upon it and was served by the a.s.sistant bar keeper with a gla.s.s of sherry.
Jones, turning, found himself face to face with the stranger whom he had seen in the lounge, the stranger whose face he knew but whose name he could not remember in the least.
Jones was a direct person, used to travel and the forming of chance acquaintances.h.i.+ps. He did not hang back.
”'Scuse me,” said he. ”I saw you in the lounge and I'm sure I've met you somewhere or another, but I can't place you.”
CHAPTER II
THE STRANGER
The stranger, taking his change from the a.s.sistant bar tender, laughed.
”Yes,” said he, ”you have seen me before, often, I should think. Do you mean to say you don't know where?”
”Nope,” said Jones--he had acquired a few American idioms--”I'm clear out of my reckoning--are you an American?”
”No, I'm English,” replied the other. ”This is very curious, you don't recognise me, well--well--well--let's sit down and have a talk, maybe recollection will come to you--give it time--it is easier to think sitting down than standing up.”
Now as Jones turned to take his seat at the table indicated by the stranger, he noticed that the bar keeper and his a.s.sistant were looking at him as though he had suddenly become an object of more than ordinary interest.
The subtlety of human facial expression stands unchallenged, and the faces of these persons conveyed the impression to Jones that the interest he had suddenly evoked in their minds had in it a link with the humorous.
When he looked again, however, having taken his seat, they were both was.h.i.+ng gla.s.ses with the solemnity of undertakers.
”I thought those guys were laughing at me,” said Jones, ”seems I was wrong, and all the better for them--well, now, let's get to the bottom of this tangle--who are you, anyway?”
”Just a friend,” replied the other, ”I'll tell you my name presently, only I want you to think it out for yourself. Talk about yourself and then, maybe, you'll arrive at it. Who are you?”
”Me,” cried Jones, ”I'm Victor Jones of Philadelphia. I'm the partner of a skunk by name of Stringer. I'm the victim of a British government that doesn't know the difference between tin plate and Harveyised steel. I'm a man on the rocks.”
The flood gates of his wrath were opened and everything came out, including the fact of his own desperate position.
When he had finished the only remark of the stranger was:
”Have another.”
”Not on your life,” cried Jones. ”I ought to be making tracks for the consul or somewhere to get my pa.s.sage back to the States--well--I don't know. No--no more c.o.c.ktails. I'll have a sherry, same as you.”
The sherry having been despatched, the stranger rose, refusing a return drink just at that moment.
”Come into the lounge with me,” said he, ”I want to tell you something I can't tell you here.”
They pa.s.sed up the stairs, the stranger leading the way, Jones following, slightly confused in his mind but full of warmth at his heart, and with a buoyancy of spirit beyond experience. Stringer was forgotten, the British Government was forgotten, contracts, hotel bills, steerage journeys to the States, all these were forgotten. The warmth, the sumptuous rooms, and the golden lamps of the Savoy were sufficient for the moment, and as he sank into an easy chair and lit a cigarette, even his interest in the stranger and what he had to say was for a moment dimmed and diminished by the fumes that filled his brain, and the ease that lapped his senses.
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