The Swoop! or How Clarence Saved England Part 7
"News, sir, that may be of vital importance."
"Say on."
Private Biggs, who had brought his sparkling limado and a bath-bun with him from the other table, took a sip of the former, and embarked upon his narrative.
"I am employed, sir," he said, "as a sort of junior clerk and office-boy by Mr. Solly Quhayne, the music-hall agent."
Clarence tapped his brow thoughtfully; then his face cleared.
"I remember. It was he who secured the engagements of the generals."
"The same, sir."
"Proceed."
The other resumed his story.
"It is my duty to sit in a sort of rabbit-hutch in the outer office, take the callers' names, and especially to see that they don't get through to Mr. Quhayne till he wishes to receive them. That is the most exacting part of my day's work. You wouldn't believe how full of the purest sw.a.n.k some of these pros. are. Tell you they've got an appointment as soon as look at you. Artful beggars!"
Clarence nodded sympathetically.
"This morning an Acrobat and Society Contortionist made such a fuss that in the end I had to take his card in to the private office. Mr. Quhayne was there talking to a gentleman whom I recognised as his brother, Mr. Colquhoun. They were engrossed in their conversation, and did not notice me for a moment. With no wish to play the eavesdropper, I could not help but overhear. They were talking about the generals. 'Yes, I know they're press-agented at eight seventy-five, dear boy,' I heard Mr. Quhayne say, 'but between you and me and the door-k.n.o.b that isn't what they're getting. The German feller's drawing five hundred of the best, but I could only get four-fifty for the Russian. Can't say why. I should have thought, if anything, he'd be the bigger draw. Bit of a comic in his way!' And then he saw me. There was some slight unpleasantness. In fact, I've got the sack. After it was over I came away to try and find you. It seemed to me that the information might be of importance."
Clarence's eyes gleamed.
"You have done splendidly, Private-no, Corporal Biggs. Do not regret your lost position. The society shall find you work. This news you have brought is of the utmost-the most vital importance. Dash it!" he cried, unbending in his enthusiasm, "we've got 'em on the hop. If they aren't biting pieces out of each other in the next day or two, I'm jolly well mistaken."
He rose; then sat down again.
"Corporal-no, dash it, Sergeant Biggs-you must have something with me. This is an occasion. The news you have brought me may mean the salvation of England. What would you like?"
The other saluted joyfully.
"I think I'll have another sparkling limado, thanks, awfully," he said.
The beverage arrived. They raised their gla.s.ses.
"To England," said Clarence simply.
"To England," echoed his subordinate.
Clarence left the shop with swift strides, and hurried, deep in thought, to the offices of the Encore in Wellington Street.
"Yus?" said the office-boy interrogatively.
Clarence gave the Scout's Siquand, the pa.s.s-word. The boy's demeanour changed instantly. He saluted with the utmost respect.
"I wish to see the Editor," said Clarence.
A short speech, but one that meant salvation for the motherland.
Chapter 5
SEEDS OF DISCORD
The days following Clarence's visit to the offices of the Encore were marked by a growing feeling of unrest, alike among invaded and invaders. The first novelty and excitement of the foreign occupation of the country was beginning to wear off, and in its place the st.u.r.dy independence so typical of the British character was rea.s.serting itself. Deep down in his heart the genuine Englishman has a rugged distaste for seeing his country invaded by a foreign army. People were asking themselves by what right these aliens had overrun British soil. An ever-growing feeling of annoyance had begun to lay hold of the nation.
It is probable that the departure of Sir Harry Lauder first brought home to England what this invasion might mean. The great comedian, in his manifesto in the Times, had not minced his words. Plainly and crisply he had stated that he was leaving the country because the music-hall stage was given over to alien gowks. He was sorry for England. He liked England. But now, all he could say was, "G.o.d bless you." England shuddered, remembering that last time he had said, "G.o.d bless you till I come back."
Ominous mutterings began to make themselves heard.
Other causes contributed to swell the discontent. A regiment of Russians, out route-marching, had walked across the bowling-screen at Kennington Oval during the Surrey v. Lancashire match, causing Hayward to be bowled for a duck's-egg. A band of German sappers had dug a trench right across the turf at Queen's Club.
The mutterings increased.
Nor were the invaders satisfied and happy. The late English summer had set in with all its usual severity, and the Cossacks, reared in the kindlier climate of Siberia, were feeling it terribly. Colds were the rule rather than the exception in the Russian lines. The coughing of the Germans at Tottenham could be heard in Oxford Street.
The att.i.tude of the British public, too, was getting on their nerves. They had been prepared for fierce resistance. They had pictured the invasion as a series of brisk battles-painful perhaps, but exciting. They had antic.i.p.ated that when they had conquered the country they might meet with the Glare of Hatred as they patrolled the streets. The Supercilious Stare unnerved them. There is nothing so terrible to the highly-strung foreigner as the cold, contemptuous, patronising gaze of the Englishman. It gave the invaders a perpetual feeling of doing the wrong thing. They felt like men who had been found travelling in a first-cla.s.s carriage with a third-cla.s.s ticket. They became conscious of the size of their hands and feet. As they marched through the Metropolis they felt their ears growing hot and red. Beneath the chilly stare of the populace they experienced all the sensations of a man who has come to a strange dinner-party in a tweed suit when everybody else has dressed. They felt warm and p.r.i.c.kly.
It was dull for them, too. London is never at its best in early September, even for the habitue. There was nothing to do. Most of the theatres were shut. The streets were damp and dirty. It was all very well for the generals, appearing every night in the glare and glitter of the footlights; but for the rank and file the occupation of London spelt pure boredom.
London was, in fact, a human powder-magazine. And it was Clarence Chugwater who with a firm hand applied the match that was to set it in a blaze.
Chapter 6
THE BOMB-Sh.e.l.l
Clarence had called at the offices of the Encore on a Friday. The paper's publishing day is Thursday. The Encore is the Times of the music-hall world. It casts its curses here, bestows its benedictions (sparely) there. The Encore criticising the latest action of the Variety Artists' Federation is the nearest modern approach to Jove hurling the thunderbolt. Its motto is, "Cry havoc, and let loose the performing dogs of war."
It so happened that on the Thursday following his momentous visit to Wellington Street, there was need of someone on the staff of Clarence's evening paper to go and obtain an interview from the Russian general. Mr. Hubert Wales had just published a novel so fruity in theme and treatment that it had been publicly denounced from the pulpit by no less a person than the Rev. Canon Edgar Sheppard, D.D., Sub-Dean of His Majesty's Chapels Royal, Deputy Clerk of the Closet and Sub-Almoner to the King. A morning paper had started the question, "Should there be a Censor of Fiction?" and, in accordance with custom, editors were collecting the views of celebrities, preferably of those whose opinion on the subject was absolutely valueless.
All the other reporters being away on their duties, the editor was at a loss.
"Isn't there anybody else?" he demanded.
The chief sub-editor pondered.
"There is young blooming Chugwater," he said.
(It was thus that England's deliverer was habitually spoken of in the office.)