There was a magnificent library, mostly editions de luxe. Thomas
smiled over the many uncut volumes. True, Dickens, Dumas and Stevenson
were tolerably well-thumbed; but the host of thinkers and poets and
dramatists and theologians, in their hand-tooled Levant . . . ! Away
in an obscure corner (because of its cheap binding) he came across a
set of Lamb. He took out a volume at random and glanced at the
fly-leaf--"Kitty Killigrew, Smith College." Then he went into the body
of the book. It was copiously marked and annotated. There was
something so intimate in the touch of the book that he felt he was
committing a sacrilege, looking as it were into Kitty's soul. Most men
would have gone through the set. Thomas put the book away. Thou fool,
indeed! What a hash he had made of his affairs!
He saw Killigrew at breakfast only. The merchant preferred his club in
the absence of his family.
Early in the afternoon of the fourth day, Thomas received a telephone
call from Killigrew.
"Hello! That you, Webb?"
"Yes. Who is it?"
"Killigrew. Got anything to do to-night?"
"No, Mr. Killigrew."
"You know where my club is, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, be there at seven for dinner. Tell the butler and the
housekeeper. Mr. Crawford has a box to the fight to-night, and he
thought perhaps you'd like to go along with us."
"A boxing-match?"
"Ten rounds, light-weights; and fast boys, too. Both Irish."
"Really, I shall be glad to go."
"Webb?"
"Yes."
"Never use that word 'really' to me. It's un-Irish."
Thomas heard a chuckle before the receiver at the other end clicked on
the hook. What a father this hearty, kindly, humorous Irishman would
have made for a son!
In London Thomas' amusements had been divided into three classes.
During the season he went to the opera twice, to the music-halls once a
month, to a boxing-match whenever he could spare the shillings. He
belonged to a workingmen's club not far from where he lived; an empty
warehouse, converted into a hall, with a platform in the center, from
which the fervid (and often misinformed) socialists harangued; and in
one corner was a fair gymnasium. Every fortnight, for the sum of a
crown a head, three or four amateur bouts were arranged. Thomas rarely
missed these exhibitions; he seriously considered it a part of his
self-acquired education. What Englishman lives who does not? Brains
and brawn make a man (or a country) invincible.
At seven promptly Thomas called at the club and asked for Mr.
Killigrew. He was shown into the grill, where he was pleasantly
greeted by his host and Crawford and introduced to a young man about
his own age, a Mr. Forbes. Thomas, dressed in his new stag-coat, felt
that he was getting along famously. He had some doubt in regard to his
straw hat, however, till, after dinner, he saw that his companions were
wearing their Panamas.