Part 17 (1/2)
”In simpler and more archaic phrase, I can't afford you, Burgess, unless I pilfer for a living.”
”I don't eat much, sir.”
”No, you don't eat much.”
”I could quit drinking, sir.”
”That is really touching, Burgess. This alcohol pickled integument of yours covers a trusting heart. But it won't do. Heroics in a hall bedroom cut no coupons, my poor friend. Our paths to glory and the grave part just outside the door-sill yonder.”
”She said I could stay, sir.”
”Which she?”
”The landlady. I'm to fetch coal and run errants and wait on table. But you'll get the best cuts, sir. And after hours I can see to your clothes and linen and boots and hats, and do your errants same like the usual.”
”Now this is nearly as pathetic as our best fiction,” said Berkley; ”ruined master, faithful man-won't leave-starves slowly at his master's feet-tootle music very sneaky-'transformation! Burgess in heaven, blinking, puzzled, stretching one wing, reflectively scratching his halo with right hind foot. Angel chorus. Burgess appears to enjoy it and lights one of my best cigars--”
”Sir?” said Burgess, very red.
Berkley swung around, levelled his walking-stick, and indicated the pit of his servant's stomach:
”Your face is talking now; wait till that begins to yell. It will take more than I'm earning to fill it.”
He stood a moment, smiling, curious. Then:
”You've been as faithless a valet as any servant who ever watered wine, lost a gimcrack, or hooked a weed. Studs, neckcloths, bootjacks, silk socks, pins, underwear-all magically and eventually faded from my wardrobe, wafted to those silent bournes of swag that valets wot of. What in h.e.l.l do you want to stay here for now, you amusing wastrel?”
”Yes, sir. I'd prefer to stay with you.”
”But there'll be no more pleasant pickings, my poor and faithless steward! If you should convert anything more to your own bank account I'll be obliged to stroll about naked.”
”Yes, sir,” muttered Burgess; ”I brought back some things last night-them socks, s.h.i.+rt-pins and studs, and the fob... . Yes, sir; I fetched 'em back, I did-” A sudden and curious gleam of pride crossed the smirk for an instant;-”I guess my gentleman ain't agoing to look no worse than the next Fifth Avenue swell he meets-even if he ain't et no devilled kidneys for breakfast and he don't dine on no canvas-back at Delmonico's. No, sir.”
Berkley sat down on the bed's edge and laughed until he could scarcely see the man, who observed him in patient annoyance. And every time Berkley looked at him he went into another fit of uncontrollable laughter, as he realised the one delightful weakness in this thorough-paced rogue-pride in the l.u.s.tre cast upon himself by the immaculate appearance of a fas.h.i.+onable master. But after reflection, it did not astonish him too much; the besetting weakness of rogues is vanity in one form or another. This happened to be an unusual form.
”Burgess,” he said, ”I don't care how you go to h.e.l.l. Go with me if you like or go it alone.”
”Thank you, sir.”
”You're welcome,” replied Berkley gravely, and, tucking his cane up under one arm, he went out to business, drawing on a pair of lemon-coloured kid gloves.
Later he searched his pockets for the cigar he had denied himself the evening before. It was not there. In fact, at that moment, Burgess, in the boarding-house backyard, was promenading up and down, leering at the Swedish scullion, and enjoying the last expensive cigar that his master was likely to purchase in many a day.
The street, and avenue were seething with people; people stood at their windows looking out at the news-boys who swarmed everywhere, shouting endless extras; people were gathering on corners, in squares, along park railings, under porticos of hotels, and every one of them had a newspaper and was reading.
In front of the St. Nicholas Hotel a lank and shabby man had mounted a cracker box, and was evidently making a speech, but Berkley could distinguish nothing he said because of the wild cheering.
Everywhere, threading the throng, hurried boys and men selling miniature flags, red-white-and-blue rosettes, and tricoloured c.o.c.kades; and everybody was purchasing the national colours-the pa.s.sing crowd had already become bright with badges; the Union colours floated in streamers from the throats or sleeves of pretty girls, glinted in the lapels of dignified old gentlemen, decorated the hats of the stage-drivers and the blinders of their horses.
”Certainly,” said Berkley, buying a badge and pinning it in his b.u.t.ton-hole. ”Being a hero, I require the trade-mark. Kindly permit that I offer a suggestion-” a number of people waiting to buy badges; were now listening to him-”those gentlemen gathered there in front of the New York Hotel seem to be without these marks which distinguish heroes from citizens. No doubt they'll be delighted to avail themselves of your offered c.o.c.kades.”