That same morning, at eleven precisely (when an insolent west wind
sprang up and tore the fog into ribbons and scarves and finally blew it
into smithereens, channelward) there stood before the windows of a
famous haberdashery in the Strand a young man, twenty-four years of
age, typically English, beardless, hair clipped neatly about his neck
and temples, his skin fresh colored, his body carefully but thriftily
clothed. Smooth-skinned he was about the eyes and nose and mouth,
unmarked by dissipation; and he stood straight; and by the set of his
shoulders (not particularly deep or wide) you would infer that when he
looked at you he would look straight. Pity, isn't it, that you never
really can tell what a man is inside by drawing up your brief from what
he is outside. There is always the heel of Achilles somewhere; trust
the devil to find that.
Of course you wish to know forthwith who returned the ruby, and why.
As our statesmen say, regarding any important measure for public
welfare, the time is not yet ripe. Besides, the young man I am
describing had never heard of the Nana Sahib's ruby, unless vaguely in
some Sepoy Mutiny tale.
His expression at this moment was rather mournful. He was regretting
the thirty shillings the week he had for several years drawn regularly
in this shop. Inside there he had introduced the Raglan shirt, the
Duke of Westminster four-in-hand, and the Churchill batwing collar. He
longed to enter and plead for reinstatement, but his new-found pride
refused to budge his legs door-ward. Thirty shillings, twelve for his
"third floor back," and the rest for clothes and books and simple
amusements. What a whirl he had been in, this past fortnight!
He pulled at his chin, shook his head and turned away. No, he simply
could not do it. What! suffer himself to be laughed at behind his
back? Impossible, a thousand times no! At the first news stand he
bought two or three morning papers, and continued on to his lodgings.
He must leave England at once, but the question was--How?
It was a comfortable room, as "third floor backs" go. He read the
"want" advertisements carefully, and at length paused at a paragraph
which seemed to suit his fancy perfectly. "Cabin stewards
wanted--White Star Line--New York and Liverpool." He cut out the
clipping, folded it and stored it away. Then he proceeded to pack up
his belongings, not a very laborious affair.
Manuscripts. He riffled the pages ruefully. Sonnets and chant-royals
and epics, fine and lofty in spirit; so fine indeed that they easily
sifted through every editorial office in London. There was even a
bulky romance. He had read so much about the enormous royalties which
American authors received for their work, and English authors who were
popular on the other side, that his ambition had been frenetically
stirred. The fortunes such men as Maundering and Piffle and Drool
made! And all he had accomplished so far had been the earnest support
of the postal service. Far back at the beginning he had been
unfortunate enough to sell a sonnet for ten shillings. Alack! You
sell your first sonnet, you win your first hand at cards, and then the
passion has you.