Part 17 (2/2)

The babble died away a little as Carshot began barking across the table at Kipps. ”You'll be a bit of a Swell, Kipps,” he said. ”You won't hardly know yourself.”

”Quite the gentleman,” said Miss Mergle.

”Many real gentlemen's families,” said the housekeeper, ”have to do with less.”

”See you on the Leas,” said Carshot. ”My gu--!” He met the housekeeper's eye. She had spoken about that before. ”My eye!” he said tamely, lest words should mar the day.

”You'll go to London, I reckon,” said Pierce. ”You'll be a man about town. We shall see you mas.h.i.+ng 'em, with violets in your b.u.t.ton'ole down the Burlington Arcade.”

”One of these West End Flats. That'd be my style,” said Pierce. ”And a first-cla.s.s club.”

”Aren't these clubs a bit 'ard to get into?” asked Kipps, open-eyed, over a mouthful of potato.

”No fear. Not for Money,” said Pierce. And the girl in the laces who had acquired a cynical view of Modern Society from the fearless exposures of Miss Marie Corelli, said, ”Money goes everywhere nowadays, Mr.

Kipps.”

But Carshot showed the true British strain.

”If I was Kipps,” he said, pausing momentarily for a knifeful of gravy, ”I should go to the Rockies and shoot bears.”

”I'd certainly 'ave a run over to Boulogne,” said Pierce, ”and look about a bit. I'm going to do that next Easter myself, anyhow--see if I don't.”

”Go to Oireland, Mr. Kipps,” came the soft insistence of Biddy Murphy, who managed the big workroom, flushed and s.h.i.+ning in the Irish way, as she spoke. ”Go to Oireland. Ut's the loveliest country in the world.

Outside Car-rs. Fis.h.i.+n', shootin', huntin'. An' pretty gals! Eh! You should see the Lakes of Killarney, Mr. Kipps!” And she expressed ecstasy by a facial pantomime and smacked her lips.

And presently they crowned the event.

It was Pierce who said, ”Kipps, you ought to stand Sham!”

And it was Carshot who found the more poetical word, ”Champagne.”

”Rather!” said Kipps hilariously, and the rest was a question of detail and willing emissaries. ”Here it comes!” they said as the apprentice came down the staircase. ”How about the shop?” said someone. ”Oh! _hang_ the shop!” said Carshot and made gruntulous demands for a corkscrew with a thing to cut the wire. Pierce, the dog! had a wire cutter in his pocket knife. How Shalford would have stared at the gold tipped bottles if he had chanced to take an early train! Bang with the corks, and bang!

Gluck, gluck, gluck, and sizzle!

When Kipps found them all standing about him under the gas flare, saying almost solemnly ”Kipps!” with tumblers upheld--”Have it in tumblers,”

Carshot had said; ”have it in tumblers. It isn't a wine like you have in gla.s.ses. Not like port and sherry. It cheers you up, but you don't get drunk. It isn't hardly stronger than lemonade. They drink it at dinner, some of 'em, every day.”

”What! At three and six a bottle!” said the housekeeper incredulously.

”_They_ don't stick at _that_,” said Carshot; ”not the champagne sort.”

The housekeeper pursed her lips and shook her head....

When Kipps, I say, found them all standing up to toast him in that manner, there came such a feeling in his throat and face that for the life of him he scarcely knew for a moment whether he was not going to cry. ”Kipps!” they all said, with kindly eyes. It was very good of them, it was very good of them, and hard there wasn't a stroke of luck for them all!

But the sight of upturned chins and gla.s.ses pulled him together again....

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