II
As he moved slowly down Manchester Road, the press of fellow-spectators still thick about him, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd found himself brooding over the hollow vanities of this life. He felt unusually depressed. His physical condition may have had something to do with it, for he was hot, dusty, and tired; there had been a full morning‚Äôs hard work for him at the mill; he had hurried through his dinner; walked to the ground, and had been on his feet ever since. Manchester Road after a match had never seemed so narrow and airless; a chap could hardly breathe in such a crowd of folk. And what a match it had been! For once he was sorry he had come. No score at all. Not a single goal on either side. Even a goal against the United would have been something, would have wakened them up a bit. The first half had been nothing but exasperation, with the United all round the Wanderers‚Äô goal but never able to score; centres clean flung away, open goals missed, crazy football. The second half had not been even that, nothing but aimless kicking about on both sides, a kid‚Äôs game. During the time that it took him to progress three hundred yards down the crowded road, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd gave himself up to these bitter reflections. A little farther along, where there was more room, he was able to give them tongue, for he jostled an acquaintance, who turned round and recognized him.
“Na Jess!” said the acquaintance, taking an imitation calabash pipe out of his mouth and then winking mysteriously.
‚ÄúNa Jim!‚Äù returned Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. This ‚ÄúNa,‚Äù which must once have been ‚ÄúNow,‚Äù is the recognized salutation in Bruddersford, and the fact that it sounds more like a word of caution than a word of greeting is by no means surprising. You have to be careful in Bruddersford.
“Well,” said Jim, falling into step, “what did you think on ’em?”
‚ÄúThink on ‚Äôem!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd made a number of noises with his tongue to show what he thought of them.
“Ah thowt t’United’d ’a’ made rings rahnd ’em,” Jim remarked.
‚ÄúSo they owt to ‚Äôa‚Äô done,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with great bitterness. ‚ÄúAnd so they would ‚Äôa‚Äô done if they‚Äôd nobbut tried a bit. I‚Äôve seen ‚Äôem better ner this when they‚Äôve lost. They were better ner this when they lost to Newcastle t‚Äôother week, better bi far.‚Äù
‚ÄúAy, a seet better,‚Äù said the other. ‚ÄúDid you ivver see sich a match! Ah‚Äôd as soon go and see ‚Äôtschooil lads at it. A shilling fair thrawn away, ah call it.‚Äù And for a moment he brooded over his lost shilling. Then, suddenly changing his tone and becoming very aggressive, he went on: ‚ÄúYon new centre-forrard they‚Äôve getten‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMacDermott, or whativver he calls hissen‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôll nivver be owt, nivver. He wer like a great lass on t‚Äôjob. And what did they pay for him? Wer it two thahsand pahnd?‚Äù
‚ÄúAy.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd made this monosyllable very expressive.
‚ÄúTwo thahsand pahnd. That‚Äôs abaht a hundred for ivvery goal he missed today. Watson were worth twenty on ‚Äôim‚ÅÝ‚Äîah liked that lad, and if they‚Äôd let him alone, he‚Äôd ‚Äôa‚Äô done summat for ‚Äôem. And then they go and get this MacDermott and pay two thahsand pahnd for him to kick t‚Äôball ower top!‚Äù Jim lit his yellow monster of a pipe and puffed away with an air of great satisfaction. He had obviously found a topic that would carry him comfortably through that evening, in the taproom of The Hare and Hounds, the next morning, in the East Bruddersford Working Men‚Äôs Club, and possibly Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday nights.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd walked on in silence, quickening his pace now that the crowd was not so thick and there was room to move. At the corner of Manchester Road and Shuttle Street both men halted, for here their paths diverged.
‚ÄúAh‚Äôll tell tha what it is, Jess,‚Äù said his companion, pointing the stem of his pipe and becoming broader in his Yorkshire as he grew more philosophical. ‚ÄúIf t‚ÄôUnited had less brass to lake wi‚Äô, they‚Äôd lake better fooitball.‚Äù His eyes searched the past for a moment, looking for the team that had less money and had played better football. ‚ÄúTha can remember when t‚Äôclub had nivver set eyes on two thahsand pahnds, when t‚Äôjob lot wor not worth two thahsand pahnds, pavilion an‚Äô all, and what sort o‚Äô fooitball did they lake then? We knaw, don‚Äôt we? They could gi‚Äô thee summat worth watching then. Nah, it‚Äôs all nowt, like t‚Äôale an‚Äô baccy they ask so mich for‚ÅÝ‚Äîmoney fair thrawn away, ah calls it. Well, we mun ‚Äôa‚Äô wer teas and get ower it. Behave thi-sen, Jess!‚Äù And he turned away, for that final word of caution was only one of Bruddersford‚Äôs familiar goodbyes.
‚ÄúAy,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd dispiritedly. ‚ÄúSo long, Jim!‚Äù
He climbed to the upper deck of a tram that would carry him through the centre of the town to within a few hundred yards of Ogden Street. There he sat, his little briar pipe, unlit and indeed empty, stuck in the corner of his mouth, his cap still pushed back from his glistening forehead, staring out of a disenchantment. At times the tram jerked him forward, but only to return him, with a bang, against the hard back of the seat. People who were larger than usual, and all parcels and elbows, pushed past or trod on his toes. It is no joke taking a tram on Saturday in Bruddersford.
‚ÄúI call this two-pennorth o‚Äô misery, missis,‚Äù he said to a very large woman who wedged herself into the seat beside him. She turned a damp scarlet face, and he saw that it was Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, whose husband kept the little shop in Woolgate. Everybody in that district knew Buttershaw‚Äôs, for it was no ordinary shop. It catered to both body and soul, one half of it being given up to tripe and cow-heels and the other half to music, chiefly sixpenny songs and cheap gramophone records. Strangers frequently stopped in front of Buttershaw‚Äôs to stare and laugh, but strangers are easily amused: all the people round about recognized that this was a sensible arrangement, for some wanted tripe, some wanted music, and not a few wanted both.
‚ÄúEh, well, if it isn‚Äôt Mr.¬ÝOakroyd!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw knew him as both a patron (of the tripe counter) and an old neighbour. ‚ÄúI didn‚Äôt see yer. And ‚Äôow are yer?‚Äù
‚ÄúMiddlin‚Äô, middlin‚Äô,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with the air of one determined to give nothing away.
‚ÄúI‚Äôve been meaning to ask yer for a long time,‚Äù she went on, ‚Äúonly I haven‚Äôt seen yer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôow‚Äôs your Lily doin‚Äô in where‚Äôs it?‚ÅÝ‚ÄîAmeriky?‚Äù
‚ÄúCanada,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd announced promptly and rather proudly.
‚ÄúCanada‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs it. It‚Äôs all the same, isn‚Äôt it? Only some calls it one thing, and some calls it another. Well, ‚Äôow‚Äôs she getting on there? Eh, it doesn‚Äôt seem more than a week or two since she was a bit of a lass coming in for a pantymine song‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe liked a bit o‚Äô music, didn‚Äôt she?‚ÅÝ‚Äîand now she‚Äôs a married woman in Canada.‚Äù
‚ÄúShe‚Äôs doing all right,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, vainly trying to appear unconcerned. ‚ÄúI‚Äôd a letter t‚Äôother day.‚Äù But he did not add that that letter, which began, ‚ÄúMy dear Father and Mother, I write these few lines to let you know we are alright as I hope you are,‚Äù was reposing in his coat pocket, having been carried there‚ÅÝ‚Äîand brought out and reread at frequent intervals‚ÅÝ‚Äîthese last three days.
‚ÄúShe‚Äôs settled in, ‚Äôas she?‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, who apparently thought of Canada as a sort of house.
“Ay. She’s settling nicely, is Lily. Been there nearly a year.”
‚ÄúEh, fancy that! A year! Well, I never did!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw seemed to have these exclamations shaken out of her by the jerky movements of the tram. ‚ÄúWho was it she married? I owt to know, but I‚Äôve fergotten. I shall ferget me own name soon, I‚Äôm that bad at remembering.‚Äù
‚ÄúJack Clough, old Sammy‚Äôs youngest lad,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúHe were a fitter at Sharp‚Äôs.‚Äù
“Eh, of course!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “I knew ’im well. He were often in, buying a bit of comic song and suchlike. He were a nice lad, an’ a lively card. But then your Lily was a lively lass, full o’fun.”
‚ÄúAy, lively enough. You knew when she was abaht.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd tried to speak offhandedly, but his voice warmed and his eyes were alight with affectionate reminiscence. He had always adored this only daughter of his. She had been the funniest baby, the cleverest child, and the prettiest girl in that part of Bruddersford, or, for that matter, in any other part. There was something wonderful about everything she did and said. Even her naughtiness‚ÅÝ‚Äîand she had always had a will of her own‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad seemed to him only a special sort of fun and prettiness, as good as a play.
‚ÄúYer must miss ‚Äôer. I know I do meself. Even Joe was asking me about ‚Äôer t‚Äôother day. ‚ÄôE didn‚Äôt know she‚Äôd got married and gone away, ‚Äôe knows nowt, doesn‚Äôt Joe; ‚Äôe‚Äôs always a year or two be‚Äôind‚Äôand.‚Äù But she said this in such a way as to hint that Mr.¬ÝButtershaw, with one eye on his tripe and the other on his music, was rather above this business of knowing things, an absentminded genius. ‚ÄúTher wasn‚Äôt a nicer little lass came into t‚Äôshop, and yer can put that feather in yer cap.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was so shaken out of his reserve by this praise that he proclaimed very earnestly: ‚ÄúAy. I miss her all right. I didn‚Äôt know ah could miss anybody so much. Place fair seems empty like sometimes.‚Äù
For a minute or two nothing more was said. No doubt both of them felt that this last speech had reached the limits to which confession might be pushed. Beyond were extravagance and indecency, and a good Bruddersfordian left such wild regions to actors and Londoners and suchlike. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd looked out of the window.
The day was just crossing the little magical bridge between afternoon and evening. The early autumn sunlight was bent on working a miracle. A moment of transformation had arrived. It hushed and gilded the moors above, and then, just when Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs tram reached the centre of the town, passing on one side the Central Free Library and on the other the Universal Sixpenny Bazaar, it touched Bruddersford. All the spaces of the town were filled with smoky gold. Holmes and Hadley‚Äôs emporium, the Midland Railway Station, the Wool Exchange, Barclays Bank, the Imperial Music Hall, all shone like palaces. Smithson Square was like some quivering Western sea, and the Right Honourable Ebenezer Smithson himself, his marble scroll now a map of the Indies, was conjured into an Elizabethan admiral. The fa√ßades of Market Street towered strangely and spread a wealth of carven stone before the sun. Town Hall Square was a vast place of golden light; and its famous clock, as it moved to celebrate the enchanted moments, gave a great whirr and then shook down into the streets its more rapturous chimes, ‚ÄúThe Lass of Richmond Hill.‚Äù
To all this sudden magic, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, sucking at his empty pipe and staring through the window, might have seemed entirely unresponsive. He was not, however. One hand went fumbling up his shabby coat. It would have gone further, would have plunged into the inner pocket, if its owner had not been sharing a seat with Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, who was of a breadth beyond the dreams of the Tramways Department. But if the hand could not bring out a letter, it could feel that it was there, and having done so, it dropped, satisfied.
‚ÄúAnd ‚Äôow,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, looking with disapproval at the warehouse of Messrs. Hoggleby, Sons and Co. Ltd., in whose shadow they were, ‚Äúis that lad of yours gettin‚Äô on?‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs face immediately changed, putting on a grim and satirical expression. ‚ÄúI can‚Äôt say. He tells me nowt. I think he‚Äôll be all right as long as there‚Äôs still a good supply o‚Äô brilliantine an‚Äô fancy socks, and plenty o‚Äô young women wi‚Äô nowt to do but look for chaps.‚Äù Leonard might be the darling of his mother‚Äôs heart, as indeed he was, but it was clear that his father had no great opinion of him.
Neither, it appeared, had Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw. ‚ÄúI seen ‚Äôim o‚Äô Wednesday,‚Äù she said severely, ‚Äústanding outside a picture place‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI think it were t‚ÄôPlazzer‚ÅÝ‚Äîand yer‚Äôd have thought ‚Äôe owned it. ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs lad,‚Äô I ses to Joe, but Joe didn‚Äôt know him. Joe knows nobody, and bin in a shop for thirty year! Nay, I nivver seen such a man. ‚ÄòYer won‚Äôt know me next,‚Äô I tell him. But when I showed ‚Äôim your lad, Joe ses, ‚ÄòWell, if that‚Äôs Jess Oakroyd‚Äôs lad, ‚Äôe‚Äôs nowt like his father. ‚ÄôE looks a bit of a swankpot.‚Äô ‚ÄòNay, Joe,‚Äô I ses, ‚Äòyer know nowt about t‚Äôlad.‚Äô But I knew what ‚Äôe meant. ‚ÄôE doesn‚Äôt like to see these lads all toffed up, doesn‚Äôt Joe. Where‚Äôs your Leonard workin‚Äô now? Is ‚Äôe still in t‚Äô hair cutting?‚Äù
‚ÄúAy, he‚Äôs still at Bobsfill‚Äôs i‚Äô Woolgate,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who did not seem to resent these remarks.
‚ÄúWell,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, gathering together her assortment of packages and her immense form, ‚Äú‚Ää‚Äôe‚Äôll niwer get fat on what old Bobsfill gives ‚Äôim. I niwer reckoned nowt o‚Äô barbers, and Bobsfill‚Äôs one o‚Äô t‚Äô meanest. ‚ÄôE‚Äôd go blind lookin‚Äô for a thripenny bit.‚Äù And she heaved herself out of the seat and, as the tram slowed up, went waddling down the aisle.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, beginning to expand again into what he felt to be his natural size, fell to thinking of his daughter and her letter. As soon as Lily had gone, 51 Ogden Street had suddenly shrunk and darkened, and there was no family life in it, no real home, only the three of them there, eating and sleeping and sometimes squabbling, with Leonard and his doting mother on one side and him on the other. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt you have it, Dad. Don‚Äôt you put up with it. You look after yourself,‚Äù Lily had whispered just before she went, breaking up an old and happy alliance. Since then he had had a certain mournful pleasure in not putting up with it, in trying to look after himself. But it was a poor sort of business now.
He took the letter out of his pocket, but did not read it again. He had secretly hoped it would contain an invitation to him to go out there. He was ready to go at a word. A handy man like him could easily get work there. Six months‚Äô full time at the mill would easily raise the passage money. But no invitation had come, not a word about it. He hoped she had thought of it, had suggested it, and that it was only because Jack Clough, who was a decent young chap but, like the rest, bent on looking after Number One, had put his foot down that she had never said anything. He had mentioned it once or twice when he had written, just making a sort of little joke of it‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúWhat would your old Father look like in Canada!‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he did not feel like doing more than that. They had their own way to make, and a baby was coming. He looked down at the letter and then slowly tore it up and slipped the fragments under the seat.
The tram had ground its way to the Black Swan Inn (known locally as “t’Mucky Duck”), and this was his stop. He walked, rather slowly and heavily, the few hundred yards that brought him to Ogden Street.
Nobody could consider Ogden Street very attractive; it was very long and very drab, and contained two rows of singularly ugly black little houses; yet Ogden Street had its boasts, and its residents could claim to have both feet on the social ladder. You could, in fact, have a ‚Äúcomedown‚Äù from Ogden Street, and there were some people who even saw it as a symbol of a prosperity long vanished. To begin with, it was a respectable street, not one of those in which you heard sudden screams in the night or the sound of police whistles. Then too, it was entirely composed of proper houses, all with doors opening on to the street; and in this respect it was unlike its neighbours at the back, Velvet Street and Merino Street, which had nothing but ‚Äúpassage‚Äù or ‚Äúback-to-back‚Äù houses, the product of an ingenious architectural scheme that crammed four dwelling-places into the space of two and enabled some past citizens to drive a carriage-and-pair and take their wives and daughters to the Paris Exhibition in 1867. When you lived in Ogden Street, you did not disdain to talk to the occupants of passage houses, but nevertheless, if you were a woman who knew how to enjoy yourself, you could afford to be sympathetic towards a humble passage-houser or put a presumptuous one in her place. Many of these things had been known to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, an old resident, for many years, but he did not entertain himself now with any recollection of them.
The door, which led directly into the single living-room, stood ajar. There was no one in the room, but voices were coming from upstairs. Somebody shouted ‚ÄúHello!‚Äù as he flung his cap down on the end of the shiny black sofa. He grunted a reply, went through to the scullery, where he hastily washed, returning, with eyes still smarting from the yellow soap, to look very dubiously at the table. What he saw made him shake his head. It was indeed the miserable ruin of a Saturday tea. Three dirty cups, pushed to one end of the table, announced that there had been earlier arrivals, and everything had the air of having been closely examined and then rejected. There were two pieces of bread-and-butter on one plate, half a buttered currant teacake and a squashed lemon-cheese tart on another; and on a third‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor the tasty bit, the glory of the meal‚ÅÝ‚Äîwere the mere remains, the washy flotsam and jetsam, of a tin of salmon. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd poked about with a fork in this pink mush, shook his head again, and made little clicking noises. Then he lifted the teapot from the fender, where it had been stewing its contents for some time, sat him down and summoned what was left of a rapidly vanishing appetite.
‚ÄúYou‚Äôre back, are you!‚Äù This was Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, who had come downstairs. She was a thin woman, with gleaming eyes, prominent cheekbones, a pinched nose reddened at the tip, and a long prow of a chin. She had two passions, one for her son, Leonard, and the other for virtuous discomfort. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm house-proud,‚Äù she reported of herself; and if she could fill the living-room with steaming clothes a few minutes before her husband arrived home from work, she was happy. She had long regarded him neither as a friend nor as a partner but as a nuisance, somebody who was always coming in to upset the house, always demanding food and drink.
The nuisance gave her one quick glance, and saw at once that she was pleased about something, though ready at any moment to be quarrelsome about it. “Leonard’s in this,” he told himself, gave a nod, then gloomily poured some of the salmon on to his plate.
‚ÄúWe ‚Äôad our teas,‚Äù remarked Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, coming forward into the room.
“Ay, so I see,” returned her husband dryly. “I wish I’d been here. Ther seems to ha’ been a bit of a party like.”
“Leonard’s ’ere, come home this afternoon and brought Albert Tuggridge with ’im, so we all ’ad our teas together.”
‚ÄúOh, Leonard‚Äôs here, is he?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stared rather aggressively at his wife. ‚ÄúAnd what‚Äôs Leonard doing here at this time o‚Äô day? I suppose nobody i‚Äô Woolgate district wants a shave now o‚Äô Saturday.‚Äù As this was the only day on which many Woolgate residents ever did want a shave, this remark was the grimmest irony.
There was an added gleam in his wife’s eyes. “Leonard’s done wi’ Woolgate. Left this morning. And not afore ’e told old Bobsfill a thing or two either. Trust ’im,” she added proudly.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd laid down his knife and fork. ‚ÄúGotten t‚Äôsack, has he, or marched out? And what‚Äôs he going to do now? I call that daft. Lad‚Äôs got too big for his boots.‚Äù
The gleam was really triumphant now. She raised her voice: “I’ll tell yer what he’s going to do. He’s going to work at Gregson’s. There’s a chap finishing there today, and our Leonard takes his place o’ Monday. Gets two pound and what he makes, and you know what Gregson’s is. Now then, what ’ave you got to say to that?”
He had nothing to say to it. He did know what Gregson’s was, though he had never been a patron of such a lordly establishment. Gregson’s City Toilet Rooms were in the centre of the town, not two hundred yards from Town Hall Square, and heads worth a mint of money were continually being trimmed there. It was impossible to say a word against Gregson’s.
‚ÄúTwo pounds and tips galore!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôll be four pound ten, sometimes five pound, ‚Äôe tells me, in a good week, wi‚Äô regular customers coming in, wool men and travellers and suchlike. ‚ÄòWell,‚Äô I tells him, ‚Äòif it is, it‚Äôs better money than your poor father ever brought home, and you only fower-and-twenty.‚Äô Nay, I were that surprised! When I seen ‚Äôim walk in wi‚Äô Albert Tuggridge, middle o‚Äô t‚Äôafternoon, you could ha‚Äô knocked me down wi‚Äô a feather‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Ay,” her husband put in, “ ’an’ when I see the way they’d both walked into that salmon, you could ’a’ knocked me down wi’ t’same feather.”
‚ÄúGo on, go on! That‚Äôs right! Go on!‚Äù she cried, with the shrillest irony. ‚ÄúNext time t‚Äôlad gets a better job I‚Äôll turn ‚Äôim and ‚Äôis friend out without a bit o‚Äô tea. I‚Äôll tell him ‚Äôe can‚Äôt ‚Äôa‚Äô any, tell him it‚Äôs all for his father. You‚Äôve got as much there as we ‚Äôad. What you wan‚Äôs a caffy. What we sit down to isn‚Äôt good enough for a man as can afford a shilling every week for a football match. He ought to ‚Äôave ‚Äôam and eggs every night, he ought, steaks and chips every night, he ought, when he‚Äôs so well off‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúAll right, all right, all right,‚Äù growled Mr.¬ÝOakroyd and tried to look like a man who had had enough of that nonsense. His wife gave a sniff, collected some dirty cups and plates, gave another sniff, then marched the things into the scullery, where she contrived to make an extraordinary clatter. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd let his features relapse into their ordinary appearance, loudly yet mournfully sucked at a hollow tooth, then took an immense bite of currant teacake and washed it down with a gulp of tea.
“I’ll bet t’young women o’ Bruddersford will find it hard to keep their heads screwed on tonight,” he observed, when his wife returned. He nodded towards the stairs. “Is that Albert Tuggridge up there now wi’ Leonard?”
“Yes. Leonard’s getting ready to go out. They’re off to a social an’ dance at Shuttle Street Rooms.”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd smiled grimly. ‚ÄúI thought as much. There‚Äôll be some ‚Äôearts broken i‚Äô Shuttle Street tonight. It‚Äôs fair cruel to let them two loose on t‚Äôsame night, and a Saturday an‚Äô all. It don‚Äôt give lasses a chance. Them as doesn‚Äôt prostrate therselves afore Leonard ‚Äôull fall afore the all-conquering Albert. It‚Äôs an absolute walkover for the male sex.‚Äù
His wife bristled. “A body’ud think you’d never been young, Jess Oakroyd, the way you go on about them lads.”
‚ÄúNay, I‚Äôve been young. None so old yet, I‚Äôm thinking. But I were never so dam‚Äô soft as yon two. Lady-killers, I calls ‚Äôem‚ÅÝ‚ÄîShuttle Street heart-breakers! Tut‚Äët‚Äët‚Äët!‚Äù
It was not a bad description of Leonard and his friend, Albert. With them and their like was perishing, miserably and obscurely, an old tradition. Though they did not know it, they were in truth the last of a long line, the last of the Macaronis, the Dandies, the Swells, the Mashers, the Knuts. Their old home, the West End, knows these figures no longer; their canes and yellow gloves, their pearl-buttoned fawn overcoats, their brilliantine and scent and bouquets, their music-hall promenades, and their hansoms, their ladies, with elaborate golden coiffures, full busts, and naughty frills, all have gone, all went floating to limbo, long ago, on their last tide of champagne; and some foolish and almost forgotten song, in perky six-eight time, of ‚Äúboys and girls upon the spree, in Peek-a-deely or Le-hester Squer-hare,‚Äù is their requiem. But just as a tide of fashion, raging fiercely in Mayfair for a season, will go rolling on and on, depositing black vases or orange cushions in drawing-rooms more and more remote year after year, so too the tradition of dandyism and lady-killing, after it had forsaken its old home, lingered on in towns like Bruddersford and among such young men as Leonard and Albert. They lived for dress and girls, above all‚ÅÝ‚Äînot having the opportunities of a Brummell‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor girls. They ogled and pursued and embraced girls at the Bruddersford dances and socials, in all the local parks and woods, picture theatres and music halls; they followed them on the Bridlington sands, along the Morecambe piers, into the Blackpool ballrooms, and even went as far as Douglas, I.O.M., to treat them to eighteen-penny glasses of champagne and other notorious aphrodisiacs; they knew, and frequently discussed among themselves, the precise difference between the factory girls of Bruddersford and the factory girls of Bradford or Huddersfield, between the tailoresses of Leeds and the shopgirls of Manchester; they were masters of the art of ‚Äúpicking up‚Äù and, young as they were, already veteran strategists in the war against feminine chastity or prudence, and were untiring in the chase, tracking these bright creatures for weeks through the dark jungle of West Riding streets, but apt to be either bored or frightened by the kill. In the end, most of them‚ÅÝ‚Äîas they said‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúgot caught,‚Äù and were to be seen walking out of their old lives, those epics of gallantry, pushing a perambulator.
The two young men now descended the stairs. Leonard walked in first, still patting his purple silk tie. He is a thin youth, with a very elaborate and greasy arrangement of curls and waves in his hair, a hardening eye and a loosening mouth, and an unfortunate habit of becoming spotty about the forehead. His friend, Albert, clerk to Swullans, the noisiest and shadiest auctioneer in the town, is larger and louder, and likes to brighten all social occasions by imitating the public manner of his master. Having no family in Bruddersford, he lives in lodgings, a few streets away, where he says he is very uncomfortable. Already it has been suggested several times, both by Leonard and his mother, that Albert might lodge with them, but Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who does not want a lodger and especially does not want to see any more of Albert, rages at the mere hint of such a proceeding.
‚ÄúMy words, Leonard,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, wiping her hands at the scullery door, ‚Äúyou‚Äôre a swell tonight all right!‚Äù To see him standing there, in his new chocolate-coloured suit, with his purple socks and tie and handkerchief, was as good as an evening out to her, better than the pictures.
“Not so dusty, Mar,” said Leonard, tapping a cigarette against the back of his hand.
‚ÄúWell, well, well, well!‚Äù shouted Albert, winking at Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was pushing his chair back. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre we are, ‚Äôere we are! All merry and bright, the old firm! And ‚Äôow many runs did the old United make today?‚Äù And he winked at everybody. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who wanted to kick him, bent over his pipe and his packet of Old Salt tobacco, and grunted: ‚ÄúDrew. Nil, nil.‚Äù
“Not much for a bob there then, what do you say, Len?” Albert went to the hearth and straddled there. “The poor old United will ’ave to do better before they see my money.”
“Rorther, rorther!” said Leonard, who was fond of entertaining company, at times, with an imitation of a musical-comedy duke. This was one of the times.
“Quaite, quaite!” roared Albert, who knew his cue.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with the air of a man who had heard all this too many times already, very deliberately lit his pipe, then relieved his feelings by blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‚ÄúWell, they‚Äôll ‚Äôa‚Äô to try and get on without your money, Albert,‚Äù he remarked, relishing his irony. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôll ‚Äôa‚Äô to manage somehow, though it‚Äôll be a bad lookout for ‚Äôem, I can see that. Ha‚Äô you told ‚Äôem yet, or are you letting ‚Äôem find it out for themselves?‚Äù
At this moment Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd and Leonard disappeared into the scullery, where they could be heard whispering. Albert cocked an ear in that direction then opened fire himself. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve ‚Äôeard the news? Len‚Äôs new job. Good biz, good biz! Got a rise meself last week. Good biz! We‚Äôre making money, making money. What d‚Äôyou say?‚Äù
It was plain that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had very little to say and that it was not a subject that inspired him. He took out his pipe, looked at it and then looked at Albert, and asked very quietly if Mr.¬ÝSwullans had sold any more mahogany wardrobes lately. This was a malicious question because Mr.¬ÝSwullans had once got into trouble and a half-column report in the Bruddersford Evening Express because he sold a certain mahogany wardrobe.
But Albert was not abashed. “Now then, now then! We all know about that. Tricks in all trades! Did you know I was looking for fresh digs?”
“Ay, I heard summat about it.”
“Well then, what d’you say to having this little drop o’ sunshine in the old ’ome? What d’you think of that? Good company and a good payer, right on the nail every Friday night.”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd shook his head. ‚ÄúIt won‚Äôt wash, lad.‚Äù
“Right on the nail every Friday,” Albert repeated with gusto. “And all the family in favour.”
“It won’t wash. We don’t want no lodgers ’ere. There’s plenty as takes ’em without us. We don’t want ’em.”
‚ÄúOh, we don‚Äôt, don‚Äôt we!‚Äù This was from Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, standing, belligerent, in the scullery doorway.
Her husband gave a steady look, then raised his voice. “No, we don’t.”
“Well, some of us thinks we do.”
‚ÄúThen you mun think again, and think different,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with an air of finality. And before any of them could reply, he had taken his cap from the end of the sofa, clapped it on his head, and walked out.
He told himself that he wanted a little stroll, another ounce of Old Salt, an early edition of the Evening Express Sports. But he knew he was afraid of what was coming. Having fired, manfully, his one big gun, he felt compelled to retreat. All the way down Ogden Street, he kept repeating to himself, “Better money than your poor father ever brought home”; and didn’t like the look of things at all.