Part 9 (1/2)

There are two entrances to Pepolo's restaurant, one leading to the ground floor, the other to the bra.s.serie in the bas.e.m.e.nt. I liked to spend an hour or so there occasionally, smoking and watching the crowd. Every sixth visit on an average I would happen upon somebody interesting among the ordinary throng of medical students and third-rate clerks--watery-eyed old fellows who remembered Cremorne, a mahogany derelict who had spent his youth on the sea when liners were sailing-s.h.i.+ps, and the apprentices, terrorised by bullying mates and the rollers of the Bay, lay howling in the scuppers and prayed to be thrown overboard. He told me of one voyage on which the Malay cook went mad, and, escaping into the ratlines, shot down a dozen of the crew before he himself was sniped.

The supper tables are separated from the bra.s.serie by a line of stucco arches, and as it was now a quarter to twelve the place was full. At a first glance it seemed that there were no empty supper tables.

Presently, however, we saw one, laid for four, at which only one man was sitting.

”Hullo!” said Julian, ”there's Malim. Let's go and see if we can push into his table. Well, Malim, how are you? Do you know Cloyster?”

Mr. Malim had a lofty expression. I should have put him down as a scholarly recluse. His first words upset this view somewhat.

”Coming to Covent Garden?” he said, genially. ”I am. So is Kit. She'll be down soon.”

”Good,” said Julian; ”may Jimmy and I have supper at your table?”

”Do,” said Malim. ”Plenty of room. We'd better order our food and not wait for her.”

We took our places, and looked round us. The hum of conversation was persistent. It rose above the clatter of the supper tables and the sudden bursts of laughter.

It was now five minutes to twelve. All at once those nearest the door sprang to their feet. A girl in scarlet and black had come in.

”Ah, there's Kit at last,” said Malim.

”They're cheering her,” said Julian.

As he spoke, the tentative murmur of a cheer was caught up by everyone.

Men leaped upon chairs and tables.

”Hullo, hullo, hullo!” said Kit, reaching us. ”Kiddie, when they do that it makes me feel shy.”

She was laughing like a child. She leaned across the table, put her arms round Malim's neck, and kissed him. She glanced at us.

Malim smiled quietly, but said nothing.

She kissed Julian, and she kissed me.

”Now we're all friends,” she said, sitting down.

”Better know each other's names,” said Malim. ”Kit, this is Mr.

Cloyster. Mr. Cloyster, may I introduce you to my wife?”

Chapter 7

I MEET MR. THOMAS BLAKE _(James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)_

Someone had told me that, the glory of Covent Garden Ball had departed.

It may be so. Yet the floor, with its strange conglomeration of music-hall artists, callow university men, shady horse-dealers, and raucous military infants, had an atmosphere of more than meretricious gaiety. The close of an old year and the birth of a new one touch the toughest.

The band was working away with a strident bra.s.siness which filled the room with noise. The women's dresses were a shriek of colour. The vulgarity of the scene was so immense as to be almost admirable. It was certainly interesting.

Watching his opportunity, Julian presently drew me aside into the smoking-room.