Part 14 (1/2)
”Lemme see what it says on the paper.”
Chitterlow handed him the fragment and turned away. ”You may say what you like,” he said, addressing a vast, deep laugh to the street generally.
Kipps attempted to read. ”'WADDY or KIPPS. If Arthur Waddy or Arthur Kipps, the son of Margaret Euphemia Kipps, who----'”
Chitterlow's finger swept over the print. ”I went down the column and every blessed name that seemed to fit my play I took. I don't believe in made-up names. As I told you. I'm all with Zola in that. Doc.u.ments whenever you can. I like 'em hot and real. See? Who was Waddy?”
”Never heard his name.”
”Not Waddy?”
”No!”
Kipps tried to read again and abandoned the attempt. ”What does it mean?” he said. ”I don't understand.”
”It means,” said Chitterlow, with a momentary note of lucid exposition, ”so far as I can make out that you're going to strike it Rich. Never mind about the Waddy--that's a detail. What does it usually mean? You'll hear of something to your advantage--very well. I took that newspaper up to get my names by the merest chance. Directly I saw it again and read that--I knew it was you. I believe in coincidences. People say they don't happen. _I_ say they do. Everything's a coincidence. Seen properly. Here you are. Here's one! Incredible? Not a bit of it! See?
It's you! Kipps! Waddy be d.a.m.ned! It's a Mascot. There's luck in my play. Bif! You're there. _I'm_ there. Fair _in_ it! Snap!” And he discharged his fingers like a pistol. ”Never you mind about the 'Waddy.'”
”Eh?” said Kipps, with a nervous eye on Chitterlow's fingers.
”You're all right,” said Chitterlow; ”you may bet the seat of your only breeches on that! Don't you worry about the Waddy--that's as clear as day. You're about as right side up as a billiard ball--whatever you do.
Don't stand there gaping, man! Read the paper if you don't believe me.
Read it!”
He shook it under Kipps' nose.
Kipps became aware of the second apprentice watching them from the shop.
His air of perplexity gave place to a more confident bearing.
”'---- who was born at East Grinstead.' I certainly was born there. I've 'eard my Aunt say----”
”I knew it,” said Chitterlow, taking hold of one edge of the paper and bringing his face close alongside Kipps'.
”'----on September the first, eighteen hundred and seventy-eight----'”
”_That's_ all right,” said Chitterlow. ”It's all, all right, and all you have to do is write to Watson and Bean and get it----”
”Get what?”
”Whatever it is.”
Kipps sought his moustache. ”You'd write?” he asked.
”Ra-ther.”
”But what d'you think it is?”
”That's the fun of it!” said Chitterlow, taking three steps in some as yet uninvented dance. ”That's where the joke comes in. It may be anything--it may be a million. If so! Where does little Harry come in?