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The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Knight on Wheels
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Title: A Knight on Wheels

Author: Ian Hay

Release date: December 22, 2011 [eBook #38368]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Suzanne Shell, Ernest Schaal, and the

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A KNIGHT ON

WHEELS ***
 By Ian Hay
A KNIGHT ON WHEELS.
HAPPY-GO-LUCKY. Illustrated
by Charles E. Brock.
A SAFETY MATCH. With
frontispiece.
A MAN'S MAN. With
frontispiece.
THE RIGHT STUFF. With
frontispiece.

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

Boston and New York
A KNIGHT ON WHEELS
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY IAN HAY BEITH
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Published September 1914

TO
H. M. S.
 CONTENTS
BOOK ONE

THE MISOGYNISTS

I. Environment 3
II. Le Premier Pas 19
III. Samson and Delilah 31
IV. Heredity 46
V. Mistaken Identity 59
VI. Renovare Dolorem 66
VII. The Inconsistency of Uncle Joseph 78
VIII. The Hampstead Heath Conspiracy 90
IX. Genus Irritabile 100
X. The Eccentric Gentleman 109
XI. Red Gables 129
XII. The Official Demise of Tommy Smith 133

BOOK TWO

LABOR OMNIA VINCIT

XIII. The Golden Age 141

XIV. The Iron Age 174
XV. Omega, Certainly Not 182
XVI. Things 194
XVII. People 203
XVIII. My Son Timothy 216
XIX. Plain Men and Fair Women 225
XX. The Proving of the Brake 248

BOOK THREE
 OMNIA VINCIT

XXI. The Big Thing 263

XXII. The Inarticulate Knight 272
XXIII. Mainly Commercial 283
XXIV. La Belle Dame sans Merci 294
XXV. Confessional—Masculine and Feminine 305
XXVI. The Rivals 318
XXVII. Second Best 329
XXVIII. A Brand from the Burning 348
XXIX. The First Epistle of Theophilus 373
XXX. The Silent Knight 386
XXXI. The Eleventh Hour 398

A KNIGHT ON WHEELS
BOOK ONE
THE MISOGYNISTS
A KNIGHT ON WHEELS
 CHAPTER I
ENVIRONMENT

Thursday morning was always an interesting time for Philip, for it

was on that day that he received letters from ladies.

On Mondays he used to write to them, from the dictation of Uncle

Joseph. On Tuesdays he had an easy time of it, for Uncle Joseph
was away all day, interviewing East End vicars, and Salvation Army
officials, and editors of newspapers which made a speciality of
discriminating between genuine and bogus charities. Uncle Joseph
was a well-known figure in the philanthropic world,—that part of it
which works without limelight and spends every penny it receives
upon relieving distress, and knows nothing of Charity Balls and
Grand Bazaars, with their incidental expenses and middlemen's
profits,—and it was said that no deserving case was ever brought to
his notice in vain. He would serve on no committees, and his name
figured on no subscription list; but you could be quite certain that
when Uncle Joseph wrote a cheque that cheque relieved a real want;
for he had an infallible nose for an impostor and a most uncanny
acquaintance with the habits and customs of the great and
prosperous brotherhood of professional beggars.

Hard-worked curates and overdriven doctors, who called—and

never in vain—at the snug but unpretentious house in Hampstead on
behalf of some urgent case, sometimes wondered, as they walked
away with a light heart and a heavy pocket, what Uncle Joseph was
worth; for it was said by those who were supposed to know that his
benefactions ran into four figures annually. As a matter of fact his
income from all sources was exactly seven hundred and fifty pounds
a year, and none of this was spent on charity.
 Uncle Joseph had one peculiarity. He transacted no business with
the female sex. If help was required of him, application must be
made by a man.

On Wednesdays Philip wrote—or more usually typed—more

letters, but none to ladies. On this day he addressed himself to
gentlemen, tersely informing such that if they made search in the
envelope they would find a cheque enclosed, "in aid of the most
excellent object mentioned in your letter," which it would be a
kindness to acknowledge in due course. Uncle Joseph used to sign
these.

This brings us round to Thursday again; and, as already indicated,

this was Philip's field day. On Thursday morning one James Nimmo,
the factotum of the establishment, used to arrive shortly after
breakfast in a cab, from an excursion into regions unknown, with
quite a budget of letters. They were all from ladies, and were replies
to Philip's letters of Monday. Most of them contained cheques,
chaperoned by lengthy screeds; some enclosed lengthy screeds but
no cheques; while a few, written in a masculine hand, stated briefly
that "If my wife is pestered in this fashion again," Yours Faithfully
proposed to communicate with the police.

Although these letters were all addressed to Philip, Uncle Joseph

opened them himself, ticking off the cheques and postal orders and
dictating the names and addresses of their senders to Philip, who
posted them up in a big book.

On Fridays Philip wrote acknowledging the letters. For a boy of

fourteen he was a very fair stenographer, and could take down the
sentences almost as quickly as Uncle Joseph could dictate them. His
typing, too, was almost first-class, and he possessed the useful, if
risky, accomplishment of being able to write two separate and
distinct hands.

Saturday was a particularly delightful day, for then Uncle Joseph

and Philip put all business cares behind them and held high revel.
Sometimes they went up the River; sometimes they went to Lords;
and sometimes they took the train into the country and tramped
over the Hog's Back or the South Downs.

It was upon these occasions that Uncle Joseph would discourse

upon Woman, and wonder, with Philip, why she had been sent into
the world.

"There appears to be no parallel to the female mind," Uncle

Joseph would say, "in any of the works of nature. It seems almost
incredible that God should invent such a wonderful piece of
mechanism as Man—invent him for the express purpose of
controlling and developing this marvellous world of ours—and then
deliberately stultify his own work and handicap his own beautifully
designed and perfectly balanced engines by linking them up with
others which are conspicuous for nothing but bias and instability.
What a world this might have been, Philip, if all its inhabitants had
been constructed upon a rational plan, instead of only one half! Why
is it, I wonder?"

Philip, who could not remember having spoken to a woman for

ten years, except once or twice across a counter, would shake his
head despondingly.

"Put it another way," continued Uncle Joseph. "What master-

mariner, having set up a carefully designed, perfectly balanced
compass upon the bridge of his ship, would then proceed to
surround that compass—upon the steadiness of which the very life
of the ship depends—with a casual collection of bar-magnets or soft
iron bolts? What compass could be expected to point to the
Magnetic North for one moment in such a field of force? It would not
even be a constant field of force; for the magnets would come and
go, or at least wax and wane in attractive power, altering the
resultant intensity from year to year—from day to day, even. No
compass could give a true bearing under such circumstances. And
yet the Supreme Architect of the Universe has done that to us! He
creates man, and having set him to direct the course of this planet,
surrounds him with women! Why, Philip? Why?"

At this Philip would endeavour to look as wise as possible, but

once more would find himself unable to contribute to the debate.

Uncle Joseph would nod his head.

"Quite right, Philip," he would say. "We don't know why, and we
never shall. All we can do is to bow to God's will, accept the
situation, and adopt the best means at our disposal of mitigating our
disabilities. There is only one thing to do. What is it, Philip?"

Philip was always quite ready this time.

"Avoid women," he would reply gravely, "at all times and in all
places."

After that they would talk about bird-migration, or high-tension

magnetos—subjects affording easier and more profitable ground for
speculation.

On the particular Thursday morning with which we are dealing,

Philip and Uncle Joseph sat in the library prepared for business.
Philip was installed at the broad writing-table, with a reporter's
notebook and a pencil. Beside him, ready for use, stood the
typewriter. Uncle Joseph sprawled for the moment in an easy-chair,
industriously perusing a copy of the current issue of the
"Searchlight," a weekly organ whose editor possessed an almost
indecent acquaintance with the private lives of most of the rogues
and quacks who batten upon the British Public. He even went so far
as to publish an annual list of their names, aliases, and addresses.
Uncle Joseph had figured therein more than once, but not as Uncle
Joseph.
 There was a knock at the door, and James Nimmo entered,
carrying a cowhide bag. This he opened, and poured its contents
upon the table—letters of every shape, size, colour, and scent.

"A heavy post this week, James Nimmo," commented Uncle

Joseph.

"Mph'm," replied James Nimmo (who was a Scotsman). "Could I

get speaking with you, Colonel?" he added. He called Uncle Joseph
"Colonel" because he was a colonel.

Uncle Joseph looked up sharply.

"Anything wrong?" he asked.

James Nimmo looked at him, and like the Eldest Oyster, shook his
heavy head. Uncle Joseph rightly took this to be a sign of assent.

"Where?" he asked.

"At Commercial Road." (As a matter of fact James Nimmo said

"Commaircial Rod," but it will be simpler to transcribe as we go.)

"I expected it," said Uncle Joseph. He held up the "Searchlight."

"These people say they have been making enquiries. Listen."

Do any of my readers happen to know anything of the

Reverend Aubrey Buck? He appears to be devoting his
undoubted talents to the furtherance of a crusade against what
he calls "The Popish Invasion of the English Home"; and to that
end he is circularising the country with a passionate appeal for
funds. A copy of this appeal has been forwarded to me by a
correspondent. The head offices of the Anti-Popery League
(from which this document emanates) are situated at 374a
Commercial Road. Noting this illuminating fact, and failing to
find any reference to the establishment in the Post-Office
Directory, I last week despatched a representative to the
Commercial Road, to seek out and interrogate the Anti-Popish
 Buck. As I expected, 374a Commercial Road proved to be a
small greengrocer's shop—an "accommodation address" of the
most ordinary type—whose proprietor admitted that he was in
the habit of taking in letters on behalf of some of his customers,
but declined any further information. Enthusiastic but credulous
Protestants should therefore be on their guard. The Reverend
Aubrey is evidently an experienced hand, for his dupes are most
judiciously selected, being entirely maiden ladies of independent
means and advanced Evangelical views. From his epistolary
style I cherish a shrewd suspicion that Aubrey is nearly related
to my old friend Howard Glennie ("Searchlight" Rogues'
Catalogue, No. 847), who—

"Man, he's a marvel, yon felly!" observed James Nimmo

admiringly. He was referring apparently to the editor of the
"Searchlight."

—Who, not long ago, as regular students of the "Searchlight"

will recollect, spent a very profitable two years raising the small
sum necessary to enable him to make provision for his aged
mother before leaving this country for good, in order to devote
his life to spiritual work in a leper colony—a colony situated in
an island so distant that I was ultimately able to prove, to the
profound chagrin of Howard Glennie, that it did not exist at all.
The name of Aubrey Buck, I may add, not does appear in
"Crockford."

Uncle Joseph laid down the paper.

"And what do you think of that?" he enquired.

"We shall need to be getting another address," replied James

Nimmo.

"We shall have to drop Aubrey Buck, too," said Uncle Joseph.
"However, we can't complain. We have done pretty well out of him.
Let me think. I know! We will turn him into a retired University Don
with paralysis in both legs, who has to do typewriting for a living. He
shall send an appeal for work to every lady novelist in the country.
Their name is legion. In nine cases out of ten they will send money
instead of manuscript."

"And if they do send manuscript?" enquired James Nimmo

dubiously.

"We will keep it for a week," replied Uncle Joseph readily, "and
then return it, accompanied by a manly but resigned letter
announcing that the paralysis has spread to the Don's arms as well,
and he supposes there is nothing for it now but the workhouse. That
ought to bring in a double donation. Tell your brother to move from
Commercial Road to Islington. We have never had an address there.
Were the other places all right?"

While James Nimmo proceeded with his report Philip sorted the
letters on the table. The conversation did not interest him—he was
accustomed to it. But the editor of the "Searchlight" would have
appreciated it keenly.

Presently James Nimmo departed, and Uncle Joseph and Philip

went through their correspondence. The letters were arranged into
three heaps. The first addressed itself to Master T. Smith, care of the
Reverend Vitruvius Smith, 172 Laburnum Road, Balham. The other
two were directed to The Honorary Secretary of the International
Brotherhood of Kind Young Hearts, Pontifex Mansions, Shaftesbury
Avenue, and The Reverend Aubrey Buck, Head Office, The Anti-
Popery League, 374a Commercial Road, respectively.

Most of Master T. Smith's envelopes contained postal orders,

some of them accompanied by lengthy epistles which blended
heavy-handed patronage and treacly sentiment in equal proportions.
Uncle Joseph read one or two aloud.

My dear little Tommy,—I feel that I must send you something

in response to your little letter, which has touched me to the
 depths of my heart.

"Only five shillings," commented Uncle Joseph, referring to the

postal order.

I hope your father is better, and will soon be about his parish
work again. The expense of his illness must have been very
great, and I cannot wonder that you should have overheard
your mother crying in the night, when she thought you were all
fast asleep. Perhaps it was wrong of you to write to me for help
without consulting your parents; but, as you point out, it would,
indeed, be a splendid surprise if you could go to your father's
study with a little money in your hand and say:—"That is for
household expenses, dear Father, from an anonymous well-
wisher." I think it was clever of you to spell "anonymous"
correctly.

"It was infernally silly of you," amended Uncle Joseph, looking up

for a moment. "However:—

I feel therefore that I must fall in with your little plot. I am

not allowed by law to send actual coin through the post, or you
should have had a bright new five-shilling piece. [This woman
ought to be put into a Home.] So I enclose what is called a
postal order. If you sign your name on it and take it round to
the nearest Post-Office, they will give you five shillings in
exchange.
Do not apologise for your handwriting. I think it is quite good
for a boy of ten. Give my love to your baby brother.
Your sincere friend,
Jane Roper.
P.S. I wonder how you heard of me.
 "They all want to know that," grunted Uncle Joseph. "None of the
silly creatures seem ever to have heard of directories."

Master Thomas Smith gravely signed the postal order which Uncle
Joseph had pushed over to him, remarking that it was a good thing
Miss Roper had not filled up the name of the post-office.

There were fifteen more letters in a very similar strain. They were
not all read right through, but the name and address of the sender
were always entered in the book and the postal orders were
carefully extracted and filed.

Their total value was found to be seven pounds ten—this despite

a disappointment caused by the last letter in the heap, which bore a
small coronet on the back and promised a cheque at least. It ran:—

My dear little boy,—I read your letter with great interest and
indignation. It only proves what I have always said, that some
of our noble clergy are shamefully underpaid. I do not send you
any money, for to do so would be to insult a sacred profession,
and I am quite sure that your little plan of offering a
contribution of your own towards your household expenses,
though creditable to your feelings, would meet with your dear
father's deepest disapproval. I will do better than that. I have
some little influence with the kind Bishop of your diocese, and if
you will send me your father's full name and the name of his
church and parish,—all I have at present is your home address,
—I will make strong representations to His Lordship on your
behalf. Indeed, I expect to meet him at dinner next week. I
have been unable to verify your father's name in "Crockford's
Clerical Directory," which I always keep by me. But you see,
there are so many Smiths—

"Quite so," murmured Uncle Joseph, in tones of deep satisfaction.

—And the task is too difficult. However, if you will send me

the details I ask for, I feel sure that the dear Bishop will make a