CHAPTER II-HERR SCHWAB

One spring day, rather more than six years after the meeting of Mr.

Greatorex and Tom Dorrell by Five Oaks Bridge, a shabby pony cart was jogging along the road that led from the little railway station of Midfont, through the sleepy village of the same name, to Midfont House, the rural retreat to which Mr. Greatorex betook himself from his business in the great manufacturing town of Burlingham some dozen miles away. The sole occupant of the cart was a large florid man of about forty-five, who eyed the surroundings curiously through heavy gold-rimmed spectacles, the sluggish pony he drove requiring little attention.

His costume, no less than his spectacles, was strangely out of keeping with the cart. That would have been a fit setting for a farm-hand, or a carrier, or some other wearer of fustian. But its present occupant was attired in a well-cut grey frock-coat, silk lined, a glossy silk hat, a lilac-coloured necktie in which flashed a diamond pin, and trousers of large check pattern. His hands were gloved in brown kid; between his teeth he held a long cigar.

He looked about him with intention. Unfenced fields stretched on either side of the road. Every now and again the driver would pull up, stand on the seat, and throw a searching glance around. Then, muttering under his breath words that were certainly strange to that part of the English midlands, he would drive on again, looking to right and left as before.

By and by he came to a part of the road where a long wooden fence on the right-hand side indicated an enclosure. To this the driver gave his whole attention, and when the fence was broken by a wide wooden gate, within which a carriage drive ran past a little lodge and between hedges of evergreen, he pulled up, alighted from the cart, and, leading the pony by the nose, went to the gate and gave the bell-pull a vigorous tug. It might have been noticed that he walked a little lame.

In response to his summons a man came to the gate-a young man, thin, clean-shaven, with a slight cast in one eye. He was bareheaded, wore a red waistcoat over a flannel shirt, and brown corduroy breeches, supported by a leather belt and somewhat creased above brown leggings.

"So!" said the driver of the pony cart, as the lodgekeeper rested his arms on the second bar of the gate and looked at him. "Zis, my goot friend, is Midfont House?"

"You've got it right, guv'nor."

"So! Zen I ask, is Mr. Thomas Dorrell at home?"

"Nice day, guv'nor."

"I zank you, yes, it is not bad. Mr. Thomas Dorrell--"

"No; my name's Timothy Ball-T. B. on my collars."

"I zank you. Mr. Thomas Dorrell--"

"This 'ere place belongs to Mr. John Greatorex, Esquire, J.P., and he ain't at home, bein' engaged in trying a bad case of stealin' lamb and mint-sauce not a many miles from 'ere."

"My goot friend, I do not mind; I like it. I come not to see Mr.

Greatorex, I come to see Mr. Thomas Dorrell--"

"Now, look 'ere, guv'nor, we've had chaps 'ere before with cheap watches and dear books and thingummies of all sorts, and I tell you straight, we don't encourage 'em; in fact, I've got strict orders from Mr. Greatorex, J.P., to set the dog on any such that won't take no for an answer."

"My goot friend, you mistake. Vizout doubt I carry, some days, books, editions de luxe, and vatches and ozer zinks, but to-day-no, no. Look, here is my carte--"

"And a rum-lookin' ramshackle turn-out it is," quoth Timothy, ignoring the piece of pasteboard and eyeing the vehicle disdainfully. "I wonder you ain't ashamed to come out in a 'at like that, togged up to the nines, quite a torf, and your pony as looks as if he ain't had a currycomb on his hide for a month o' Sundays."

"Ah, you mistake me all ze time. Ze bony, he is not mine; I hire him to bring me to Midfont House. Here is my carte, my friend. Take it to Mr.

Thomas Dorrell, viz gompliments. He do not know my name, so! But he know ze name of ze firma I rebresent, and he vill like to see me, I know zat, because he place large orders, vair large, viz our gompany; he is vat you call a gustomer, you understand."

Timothy Ball looked doubtfully at the visitor, and at the card he offered to him.

"There's customers, and rum customers," he said.

"Rum!" interrupted the stranger. "If Mr. Dorrell like rum, we can subbly any quant.i.ty, in cask or bottle, at rock-bottom price."

Timothy sn.i.g.g.e.red and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Rum ain't the word for it," he said. "'Tis downright bloomin' funny, that's what it is. Well, guv'nor, hold hard a bit; I'll just 'phone through to Mr. Dorrell and tell him you're here. _'Ow_ do you say your name?"

"Schwab! Hildebrand Schwab, rebresentative of ze Schlagintwert Gombany of Dusseldorf."

"Can't say all that; telephone won't stand it. Wait a bit while I try Swob."

He rang up and put his ear to the receiver.

"Are you there? That you, Mr. Dorrell?... There's a man here ... a man ... a gentleman to see you, name Swib ... Swob! So he _said_, sir....

Travels for rum, by what I can make out--"

"No! no!" cried Schwab; but Timothy glared him into silence.

"Said you wouldn't know him, sir, but you're a customer of his firm....

No, sir, _not_ rum.... Can't say it, sir.... Very well, sir (glancing at the card): S C H L A G I N T W.... You've got it, sir.... He didn't say, sir.... Very well, sir."

"Mr. Dorrell wants to know what you've come for."

"Vill you be so kind as permit me to speak to him myself?"

"No; your trotter might run away.... Yes, sir, one minute.... Now, out with it, Mr. Swob; Mr. Dorrell's busy."

"Zen tell him I come from Dusseldorf on behalf of my firma to pay zeir respects and gompliments to zeir valued gustomer and to zay zat ve shall be alvays most pleased to subbly anyzink vatefer zat Mr. Dorrell vants in quickest possible tempo egzept our Number Six Photographic Sensitizer vich require fortnight notice--"

"Arf a mo!... Yes, sir, but there's such a lot of it I can't get hold of it all.... No, sir, not walk; the gentleman's rather lame, sir; came in a pony cart.... Very well, sir."

"Mr. Dorrell says he'll be here in a few minutes if you'll wait."

"Vy certainly. I can get no train for two hour. I vait in ze house?"

"No, Mr. Dorrell ain't in the house. He'll come here. We always interview rum customers at the gate."

"No, no, no; not rum, my friend; and Mr. Dorrell is ze gustomer. He buy of _us_; at least, he order; Mr. Greatorex pay."

"Well, it don't matter to you, I s'pose, so long as you get your money?

Mr. Greatorex's money is good enough for me, anyway. Paid for that topping cigar of yours, didn't it?"

"I have not ze honour to know Mr. Greatorex; but I have here a price list of cigars, and if--"

"Here's Mr. Dorrell."

"Vere? I see him not."

"Well, he's big enough, though he ain't as broad as he's long: that gentleman in the blue clothes comin' down the path."

"Zat Mr. Dorrell! Vy-he is a boy! Himmel!"

"Rum, ain't it? S'pose you never _was_ a boy, Mr. Swob."