A GENTLEMAN'S GENTLEMAN

By F. Hopkinson Smith

1909

I

I had left Sandy MacWhirter crooning over his smouldering wood fire theday Boggs blew in with news of the sale of Mac's two pictures at theAcademy, and his reply to my inquiry regarding his future plans (vaguelyconnected with a certain girl in a steamer chair), "By the next steamer, my boy, " still rang in my ears, but my surprise was none theless genuine when I looked up from my easel, two months later, atSonning-on-the-Thames and caught sight of the dear fellow, with Lonneganby his side, striding down the tow-path in search of me. 

"By the Great Horn Spoon!" came the cry. And the next minute his bigarms were about my shoulders, his cheery laugh filling the summer air. 

Lonnegan's greeting was equally hearty and spontaneous, but it came withless noise. 

"He's been roaring that way ever since we left London, " said thearchitect. "Ever since we landed, really, " and he nodded at Mac. "Awfully glad to see you, old man!"

The next moment the three of us were flat on the grass telling ourexperiences, the silver sheen of the river flashing between thelow-branched trees lining the banks. 

Lonnegan's story ran thus:

Mac had disappeared the morning after their arrival; had remained awaytwo weeks, reappearing again with a grin on his face that had frozenstiff and had never relaxed its grip. "You can still see it; turn yourhead, Mac, and let the gentleman see your smile. " Since that time he hadspent his nights writing letters, and his days poring aver the morning'smail. "Got his pocket full of them now, and is so happy he's no sort ofuse to anybody. " Mac now got his innings:

Lonnegan's airs had been insufferable and his ignorance colossal. Whattime he could spare from his English tailor--"and you just ought to seehis clothes, and especially his checkerboard waistcoats"--had been spentin abusing everything in English art that wasn't three hundred yearsold, and going into raptures over Lincoln Cathedral. The more he saw ofLonnegan the more he was convinced that he had missed his calling. Hemight succeed as a floorwalker in a department store, where his airs andhis tailor-made upholstery would impress the hayseeds from the country, but, as for trying to be--The rest was lost in a gurgle of smotheredlaughter, Lonnegan's thin, white fingers having by this time closed overthe painter's windpipe. 

My turn came now:

I had been at work a month; had my present quarters at the White HartInn, within a stone's throw of where we lay sprawled with our facesto the sun--the loveliest inn, by the way, on the Thames, and that wassaying a lot--with hand-polished tables, sleeve and trouser-polishedarm-chairs, Chippendale furniture, barmaids, pewter mugs, old andnew ale, tough bread, tender mutton, tarts--gooseberry and otherwise;strawberries--two would fill a teacup--and _roses!_ Millions ofroses! "Well, you fellows just step up and look at 'em. "

"And not a place to put your head, " said Mac. 

"How do you know?"

"Been there, " replied Lonnegan. "The only decent rooms are reservedfor a bloated American millionaire who arrives to-day--everything elsechock-a-block except two bunks under the roof, full of spiders. "

Mac drew up one of his fat legs, stretched his arms, pushed hisslouch hat from his forehead--he was still on his back drinking in thesunshine--and with a yawn cried:

"They ought to be exterminated. "

"The spiders?" grumbled Lonnegan. 

"No, millionaires. They throw their money away like water; they crowdthe hotels. Nothing good enough for them. Prices all doubled, everythingslimed up by the trail of their dirty dollars. And the saddest thing init all to me is that you generally find one or two able-bodied Americancitizens kotowing to them like wooden Chinese mandarins when the greatmen take the air. "

"Who, for instance?" I asked. No millionaires with any such outfit hadthus far come my way. 

"Lonnegan, for one, " answered Mac. 

The architect raised his head and shot a long, horizontal glance at theprostrate form of the painter. 

"Yes, Lonnegan, I am sorry to say, " continued Mac, his eyes fixed on theyellow greens in the swaying tree-tops. 

"I was only polite, " protested the architect. "Lambert is a client ofmine; building a stable for him. Very level-headed man is Mr. SamuelLambert; no frills and no swelled head. It was Tommy Wing who was doingthe mandarin act 32 the other day at the Carlton--not me. Got deadintimate with him on the voyage over and has stuck to him like a plasterever since. Calls him 'Sam' already--did to me. "

"Behind his back or to his face?" spluttered Mac, tugging at his pipe. 

"Give it up, " said Lonnegan, pulling his hat over his face to shield hiseyes from the sun. 

Mac raised himself to a sitting posture, as if to reply, fumbled in hiswatch-pocket for a match, instead; shook the ashes from his brier-wood, filled the bowl with some tobacco from his rubber pouch, drew thelucifer across his shoe, waited until the blue smoke mounted skyward andresumed his former position. He was too happy mentally--the girl in thesteamer chair was responsible--and too lazy physically to argue withanybody. Lonnegan rolled over on his elbows, and feasted his eyes onthe sweep of the sleepy river, dotted with punts and wherries, itsbackground of foliage in silhouette against the morning sky. The Thameswas very lovely that June, and the trained eye of the distinguishedarchitect missed none of its beauty and charm. I picked up my brushesand continued work. The spirit of perfect camaraderie makes suchsilences not only possible but enjoyable. It is the restless chattererthat tires. 

Lonnegan's outbreak had set me to thinking. Lambert I knew only byreputation---as half the world knew him--a man of the people: lumberboss, mill owner, proprietor of countless acres of virgin forest; manytimes a millionaire. Then came New York and the ice-cream palace withthe rock-candy columns on the Avenue, and "The Samuel Lamberts" in thesociety journals. This was all the wife's doings. Poor Maria! She hadforgotten the day when she washed his red flannel shirts and hung themon a line stretched from the door of their log cabin to a giant whitepine--one of the founders of their fortune. If Tommy Wing called him"Sam" it was because old "Saw Logs, " as he was often called, was lonely, and Tommy amused him. 

Tommy Wing--Thomas Bowditch Wing, his card ran--I had known for years. He was basking on the topmost branches now, stretched out in thesunshine of social success, swaying to every movement made by hispadrones. He was a little country squirrel when I first came across him, frisking about the root of the tree and glad enough to scamper close tothe ground. He had climbed a long way since then. All the blossomsand tender little buds were at the top, and Tommy was fond of buds, especially when they bloomed out into yachts and four-in-hands, countryhouses, winters in Egypt (Tommy an invited guest), house parties on LongIsland or at Tuxedo, or gala nights at the opera with seats in a firsttier. 

In the ascent he had forgotten his beginnings--not an unnatural thingwith Tommies: Son of a wine merchant--a most respectable man, too; then"Importer" (Tommy altered the sign); elected member of an athletic club;always well dressed, always polite;--invited to a member's house todine; was unobtrusive and careful not to make a break. Asked again tofill a place at the table at the last moment-accepted gracefully, notoffended--never offended at anything. Was willing to see that the youngson caught the train, or would meet the daughter at the ferry and escorther safely to school. "So obliging, so trustworthy, " the mother said. Soon got to be "among those present" at the Sherry and Delmonico balls. Then came little squibs in the society columns regarding the movementsof Thomas Bowditch Wing, Esquire. He knew the squibber, and often gaveher half a column. Was invited to a seat in the coaching parade, sawhis photograph the next morning in the papers, he sitting next to thebeautiful Miss Carnevelt. He was pretty near to the top now; only alittle farther to where the choicest buds were bursting into flower;too far up, though, ever to recognize the little fellows he had leftfrisking below. There was no time now to escort school-girls or fillunexpectedly empty seats unless they were exclusive ones. His excuse wasthat he had accepted an invitation to the branch above him. The motherof the school-girl now, strange to say, instead of being miffed, likedhim the better, and, for the first time, began to wonder whether shehadn't made too free with so important a personage. As a silent apologyshe begged an invitation for a friend to the Bachelor Ball, Tommy beinga subscriber and entitled to the distribution of a certain number oftickets. Being single and available, few outings were given withouthim--not only week-ends (Weak Odds-and-Ends, Mac always called them), but trips to Washington, even to Montreal in the winter. Then came theexcursions abroad--Capri, Tangier, Cairo. 

It was on one of these jaunts that he met "Saw Logs, " who, after sizinghim up for a day, promptly called him "Tommy, " an abbreviation instantlyadopted by Maria--so fine, you know, to call a fellow "Tommy" who kneweverybody and went everywhere. Sometimes she shrieked his name thelength of the deck. On reaching London it was either the Carlton orthe Ritz for Lambert. Tommy, however, made a faint demur. "Oh, hang theexpense, Tommy, you are my guest for the summer, " broke out Lambert. What a prime minister you would have made, Tommy, in some kitchencabinet!

There were no blossoms now out of his reach. Our little squirrel hadgained the top! To dazzle the wife and daughter with the pricelessvalue of his social position and then compel plain, honest, good-naturedSamuel Lambert to pay his bills, and to pay those bills, too, in sucha way, "by Heavens, sir, as not to wound a gentleman's pride":that, indeed, was an accomplishment. Had any other bushy tail of hisacquaintance ever climbed so high or accomplished so much?

A movement on my right cut short my revery. 

MacWhirter had lifted his big arms above his head, and was now twistinghis broad back as if for a better fulcrum. 

"Lonny--" he cried, bringing his body once more to a sitting posture. 

"Yes, Mac. "

"In that humiliating and servile interview which you had a short timeago with your other genuflector, the landlord of the White Hart Inn, did you in any way gain the impression that every ounce of grub inhis shebang was reserved for the special use of his highness, CountKerosene, or the Earl of Asphalt, or the Duke of Sausage, or whateverthe brute calls himself?--or do you think he can be induced to--"

"Yes, I think so. "

"Think what, you obtuse duffer?"

"That he can be induced. "

"Well, then, grab that easel and let us go to luncheon. "

II

I had not exaggerated the charm of the White Hart Inn--nobody can. Iknow most of the hostelries up and down this part of the river--the"Ferry" at Cookham, the "French Horn" across the Backwater, one or twoat Henley, and a lovely old bungalow of a tavern at Maidenhead; but thisgarden of roses at Sonning has never lost its fascination for me. 

For the White Hart is like none of these. It fronts the river, ofcourse, as they all do--you can almost fish out of the coffee-roomwindow of the "Ferry" at Cookham--and all the life of the boat-houses, the punts and wherries, with their sprawling cushions and bunches ofjack-straw oars, and tows, back and forth, of empty boats, goes on justas it does at the other boat-landings, up and down the river; but, atthe White Hart, it is the rose garden that counts! Planted in rows, likecorn, their stalks straight as walking-sticks and as big; then a flareof smaller stalks like umbrella ribs, the circle covered with PrinceAlberts, Cloth-of-Golds, Teas, Saffrons, Red Ramblers (the old gardenerknows their names; I don't). And the perfume that sweeps toward you andthe way it sinks into your soul! Bury your face in a bunch of them, ifyou don't believe it. 

Then the bridge! That mouldy old mass of red brick that makes threeclumsy jumps before it clears the river, the green rushes growing aboutits feet. And the glory of the bend below, with the fluff of elm, birchand maple melting into the morning haze!

Inside it is none the less delightful. Awnings, fronting the garden, stretch over the flowerbeds; vines twist their necks, the blossomspeeping curiously as you take your coffee. 

There is a coffee-room, of course, with stags' heads and hunting prints, and small tables with old-fashioned flowers in tiny vases, as well as along serving board the width of the room, where everything that can beboiled, baked or stewed and then served cold awaits the hungry. 

It was at this long board that we three brought up, and it was not longbefore Lonnegan and Mac were filling their plates, and with their ownhands, too, with thin cuts of cold roast beef, chicken and slivers ofham, picking out the particular bread or toast or muffin they likedbest, bringing the whole out under the low awning with its screen ofroses, the swinging blossoms brushing their cheeks--some of them almostin their plates. 

From where we sat over our boiled and baked--principally boiled--wecould see not only the suite of rooms reserved for the great man andhis party--one end of the inn, really, with a separate entrance--butwe could see, too, part of the tap-room, with its rows of bottles, andcould hear the laughter and raillery of the barmaid as she served thedroppers-in and loungers-about. We caught, as well, the small squarehall, flanked by the black-oak counter, behind which were banked bottlesof various shapes and sizes, rows of pewter tankards and the like, thewhole made comfortable with chairs cushioned in Turkey red, and neverempty--the chairs, I mean; the tankards always were, or about to be. 

This tap-room, I must tell you, is not a bar in the American sense, nor is the girl a barkeeper in any sense. It is the open club of thevillage, where everybody is welcome who is decent and agreeable. Eventhe curate drops in--not for his toddy, perhaps (although "You can'tgenerally sometimes almost always tell, " as Mac said), but for a wordwith anybody who happens to be about. And so does the big man of thevillage who owns the mill, and the gardener from Lord So-and-So'sestate, and the lord himself, for that matter, the groom taking his"bitter" from the side window, with one eye on his high stepper polishedto a piano finish. All have a word or a good-morning or a joke with thebarmaid. She isn't at all the kind of a girl you think she is. Try itsome day and you'll discover your mistake. It's Miss Nance, or MissEllen, or whatever else her parents fancied; or Miss Figgins, orConnors, or Pugby--but it is never Nance or Nell. 

Our luncheon over, we joined the circle, the curate making room forLonnegan, Mac stretching his big frame half over a settle. 

"From the States, gentlemen, I should judge, " said the curate in acheery tone--an athletic and Oxford-looking curate, his high whitecollar and high black waistcoat gripping a throat and chest that showedoars and cricket bats in every muscle. Young, too--not over forty. 

I returned the courtesy by pleading guilty, and in extenuation, presented my comrades to the entire room, Lonnegan's graceful bodystraightening to a present-arms posture as he grasped the outstretchedhand of a brother athlete, and Mac's heartiness capturing every onepresent, including the barmaid. 

Then some compounded extracts were passed over the counter and the talkdrifted as usual (I have never known it otherwise) into comparisonsbetween the two "Hands Across the Sea" people. That an Englishman willever really warm to a Frenchman or a German nobody who knows his racewill believe, but he can be entirely comfortable (and the well-bredEnglishman is the shyest man living) with the well-bred American. 

Lonnegan as chief spokesman, in answer to an inquiry, and with anassurance born of mastery of his subject instantly recognized by thelisteners, enlarged on the last architectural horror, the skyscraper, its cost, and on the occupations of the myriads of human bees who werehived between its floors, all so different from the more modest officestructures around the Bank of England: adding that he had the plans oftwo on his drawing table at home, a statement which confirmed the goodopinions they had formed of his familiarity with the subject. 

I floated in with some comparisons touching upon the technic of thetwo schools of water-color painting, and, finding that the curate had abrother who was an R. A. , backed out again and rested on my oars. 

Mac, more or less concerned over the expected arrival, and anxious thathis listeners should not consider the magnate as a fair example of hiscountrymen, launched out upon the absence of all class distinctionsat home-one man as good as another--making Presidents out of farmers, Senators out of cellar diggers, every man a king--that sort of thing. 

When Mac had finished--and these Englishmen _let you finish_--themill-owner, a heavy, red-faced man (out-of-doors exercise, notBurgundy), with a gray whisker dabbed high up on each cheek, and apair of keen, merry eyes, threw back the lapels of his velveteen coat(riding-trousers to match), and answered slowly:

"You'll excuse me, sir, but I stopped a while in the States, and I can'tagree with you. We take off our caps here to a lord because he is partof our national system, but we never bow down to the shillings he keepsin his strong box. You do. "

The lists were "open" now. Mac fought valiantly, the curate helping himonce in a while; Lonnegan putting in a word for the several professionsas being always exempt--brains, not money, counting in their case--Macwinning the first round with:

"Not all of us, my dear sir; not by a long shot. When any of our peopleturn sycophants, it is you English who have coached them. A lord withyou is a man who doesn't have to work. So, when any of us come overhere to play--and that's what we generally come for--everybody, to oursurprise, kotows to us, and we acknowledge the attention by giving ashilling to whoever holds out his hand. Now, nobody ever kotows to us athome. We'd get suspicious right away if they did and shift our walletsto the other pocket; not that we are not generous, but we don't likethat sort of thing. We do here--that is, some of us do, because it marksthe difference in rank, and we all, being kings, are tickled to deaththat your flunkies recognize that fact the moment they clap eyes on us. "

Lonnegan looked at Mac curiously. The dear fellow must be talkingthrough his hat. 

"Now, I got a sudden shock on the steamer on my way home last fall, and from an _American gentleman_, too--one of the best, if he was intarpaulins--and I didn't get over it for a week. No kotow about him, Itell you. I wanted a newspaper the worst way, and was the first man tostrike the Sandy Hook pilot as he threw his sea-drenched leg over therail. 'Got a morning paper?' I asked. 'Yes, in my bag. ' And he dumpedthe contents on the deck and handed me a paper. I had been away fromhome a year, mostly in England, and hadn't seen anybody, from a curatorin a museum to the manager of an estate, who wouldn't take a shillingwhen it was offered him, and so from sheer force of habit I dropped atrade dollar into his hand. You ought to have seen his face. 'What'sthis for?' he asked. 'No use to me. ' And he handed it back. I wanted togo out and kick myself full of holes, I was so ashamed. And, after all, it wasn't my fault. I learned that from you Englishmen. "

The toot-toot of an automobile cut short the discussion. 

The American millionaire had arrived!

Everybody now started on the run: landlord, two maids in blue dresseswith white cap strings flying, three hostlers, two garage men, fourdogs, all bowing and scraping--all except the dogs. 

"What did I tell you?" laughed Mac, tapping the curate's broad chestwith the end of his plump finger. "That's the way you all do. With us a porter would help him out, a hotel clerk assign him a room, and that would end it. The next morning the only man to do him reverencewould be the waiter behind his chair figuring for the extra tip. Look atthem. Same old kotow. No wonder he thinks himself a duke. "

The party had disembarked now and were nearing the door of the privateentrance, the two women in Mother Hubbard veils, the two men insteamer-caps and goggles--the valet and maid carrying the coats andparasols. The larger of the two men shed his goggles, changed hissteamer-cap for a slouch hat which his valet handed him, and disappearedinside, followed by the landlord. The smaller man, his hands and armsladen with shawls and wraps, gesticulated for an instant as if givingorders to the two chauffeurs, waited until both machines had backedaway, and entered the open door. 

"Who do you think the big man is, Mac?" Lonnegan asked. 

"Don't know, and don't want to know. "

"Lambert. "

"What! Saw Logs?"

"The same, and--yes--by Jove! That little fellow with the wraps isTommy. "

A moment later Tommy reappeared and made straight for the barmaid. 

"Get me some crushed ice and vermouth, " he said. "We carry our Hollandswith us. Why, Mr. MacWhirter! and Mr. Lonnegan! and--" (I was the"and"--but he seemed to have forgotten my name. ) "Well, this _is_ asurprise!" Neither the mill-owner nor the curate came within range ofhis eyes. 

"Where have I been? Well, I'll have to think. We did London for aweek--Savoy for supper--Prince's for luncheon--theatre every night--thatsort of thing. Picked up a couple of Gainsboroughs at Agnew's and sometapestries belonging to Lord--forget his name--had a letter. " (HereTommy fumbled in his pocket. ) "No, I remember now, I gave it to Sam. Then we motored to Ravenstock--looked over the Duke's stables--spent thenight with a very decent chap Sam met in the Rockies last year-son ofLord Wingfall, and--"

The ice was ready now (it was hived in a keg and hidden in the cellar, and took time to get at), and so was the vermouth and the glasses, allon a tray. 

"No, I'll carry it. " This to the barmaid, who wanted to call a waiter. "I never let anybody attend to this for Sam but myself"--this to us. "I'll be back in a minute. "

In a few moments he returned, picking up the thread of his discoursewith: "Where was I? Oh, yes, at Lord Wingfall's son's. Well, that'sabout all. We are on our way now to spend a few days with--" Here heglanced at the curate and the mill-owner, who were absorbing every wordthat fell from his lips. "Some of the gentry in the next county--can'tthink of their names--friends of Sam. " It became evident now thatneither Mac nor Lonnegan intended introducing him to either of theEnglishmen. 

The barmaid pushed a second tray over the counter, and Tommy drew up achair and waved us into three others. "Sam is so helpless, you know, " hechatted on. "I can't leave him, really, for an hour. Depends on me foreverything. Funny, isn't it, that a man worth--well, anywhere from fortyto fifty millions of dollars, and made it all himself--should be thatway? But it's a fact. Very simple man, too, in his tastes, when youknow him. Mrs. Lambert and Rosie" (Mac stole a look at Lonnegan at thefamiliar use of the last name, but Tommy flowed on) "got tired of the_Cynthia_--she's a hundred and ninety feet over all, sixteen knots, andcost a quarter of a million--and wanted Sam to get something bigger. But the old man held out; wanted to know what I thought of it, and, ofcourse, I had to say she was all right, and that settled it. Justthe same way with that new house on the Avenue--you know it, Mr. Lonnegan--after he'd spent one hundred and fifty thousand dollarsdecorating the music-room--that's the one facing the Avenue--she thoughtshe'd change it to Louis-Seize. Of course Sam didn't care for the money, but it was the dirt and plaster and discomfort of it all. By the way, after dinner, suppose you and Mr. Lonnegan, and you, too"--this tome--"come in and have a cigar with Sam. We've got some good ReinaVictorias especially made for him--glad to have you know him. "

Mac gazed out of the open door and shut his teeth tight. Lonnegan lookeddown into the custard-pie face of the speaker, but made no reply. Tommylaid a coin on the counter, shot out his cuffs, said: "See you later, "and sauntered out. 

No! There were no buds or blossoms--nothing of any kind, for thatmatter--out of Tommy's reach!

The mill-owner rose to his feet, straightened his square shoulders, madea movement as if to speak, altered his mind, shook Mac's hand warmly, and with a bow to the tap-room, and a special nod to the barmaid, mounted his horse and rode off. The curate looked up and smiled, hisgaze riveted on Mac. 

"One of your American gentlemen, sir?" he asked. The tone was mostrespectful--not a trace of sarcasm, not a line visible about the cornersof his mouth; only the gray eyes twinkled. 

"No, " answered Mac grimly; "_a gentleman's gentleman_. "

The next morning at sunrise Mac burst into our room roaring withlaughter, slapping his pajama-incased knee with his fat hand, the tearsstreaming from his eyes. 

"They've gone!" he cried. "Scooted! Saw Logs, Mrs. Saw, the piece ofkindling and her maid in the first car, and--"

He was doubled up like a jack-knife. 

"And left Tommy behind!" we both cried. 

"Behind!" Mac was verging on apoplexy now. "Behind! Not much. He wastucked away in the other car with the valet!"