"In what?"

"Upsidonia. Look here, I'm not what I seem to be. Surely you can tell that from the way I speak! Stop trying to play with me, and explain yourself."

"Tell me first what town this is."

"Culbut."

He said it in much the same tone as I might have answered "Manchester"

or "Birmingham," to anyone who should have asked me the same question in either of those cities--with a look of surprise and enquiry.

"Oh, Culbut!" I said. "Yes, of course. And Culbut is in Upsidonia. I see. Well, in London, England, where I come from, they don't lock a person up for offering sixpence to a tramp, even when the tramp turns out to be a lord; and if they do lock them up, it isn't in a place like this."

He looked round the cosy little room with some disgust.

"It is disgraceful," he said. "My father ought to know about it. I didn't know there were any such places left. You've a perfect right to make trouble about this. It is a clear case for the Prisoners' Aid Society, and I'm sure, if you act properly, as you promised to, for my father, he will take up the case."

"Thanks very much," I said. "I have no particular complaint to make. The manners and customs of--what's the name of the place?--Culbut--are different from those I've been accustomed to, but they don't seem to be entirely objectionable. Can you tell me what they will do, by the by, supposing I am found guilty of the charge brought against me--whatever it is--to-morrow!"

"Oh, we'll try and get you off. Your appearance is in your favour."

"Thank you. But tell me what they will do if I _am_ found guilty."

"Well, there has been a good deal of it lately, and the police are determined to stamp it out. And Potter is rather high game to fly at, you must admit. He is determined to get you a month, which is the limit without bodily a.s.sault."

"Oh, a month!" I said, somewhat taken aback. "With hard labour?"

"I think we ought to be able to manage that. We'll try our best."

"That is very good of you indeed; but I shouldn't like you to put yourselves out at all."

"I'll tell you what," he said, with a laugh, "we will tell them that in the country you come from it isn't a crime to give your money away.

Could you remember to stick to that story?"

"I dare say I might," I said, "if I tie a knot in my handkerchief. By the way, isn't it a crime here to take money from people, and watches, and so on?"

"A crime! Of course not. We should call that philanthropy."

"Oh, I see. Then your father is a philanthropist."

"Of course he is; one of the best known in Culbut. You don't really suppose he is the rich man he appears to be, do you?"

"I should have thought he might be fairly well off, if he has been practising philanthropy for any length of time."

"For a lifetime," he said reverentially. "I will tell you my father's story."

"Do!" I encouraged him. "I should like to hear it."

I lit another cigar. He cleared his throat and began.

CHAPTER IV

"Our family," said young Perry, "has held a good position in Culbut for many generations. My great-grandfather is said to have come here as a boy with ten thousand pounds in his pocket; but by diligence and sobriety he managed to get rid of nearly all of it while he was still a young man."

"How did he do it?" I asked.

"He got into the warehouse of a poor cloth-merchant. He stuck to his work night and day, and lost his employers so much money, that they took him into partnership when he was only twenty-one. Then he redoubled his efforts, bought in the dearest markets and sold in the cheapest, and decreased the trade of the firm by leaps and bounds. He married his master's daughter, and she brought him a considerable number of debts.

Before he was thirty he had retired from business a very poor man, and spent the rest of his life serving his fellow citizens. He was Lord Mayor of Culbut three times, and was offered a baronetcy, which he refused.

"My great-grandfather and my grandfather were both poor men, and my father was brought up in the lap of indigence. But when he was quite a boy, he saw a sight that affected his whole life.

"He was walking along the poor street in which he lived, when he saw a carriage with four horses and postillions coming along. In it was seated a miserably rich-looking old man swathed in furs, who was being taken off to prison. My father hung on to the back of the carriage--he was but a child--and was carried inside the prison gates. There he saw the treatment that was then considered good enough for rich malefactors.

They drove through a large garden to a fine-looking house, and when the carriage stopped at the door a groom of the chambers came out, followed by two footmen in powdered wigs and silk stockings. The wretched creature was taken inside, and before he went away my father learnt that he would be treated with every refinement of luxury. And what do you think his crime was?"

"I haven't the least idea," I replied. "Probably making somebody a present of a fortune."

"No. His crime was that he had thrown a pot of caviare into a provision shop."

"And you're not allowed to do that here?"

"You must remember that he was an old man, in the last stages of opulence, and actually surfeited with food. As my father went back to his happy home, which had always lacked all but the barest necessities of life, the contrast between his lot and that of this unfortunate creature, bred from his earliest years to the burdens of wealth, took strong hold of his youthful imagination. Then and there he vowed his life to the service of the unhappy rich, and especially to the alleviation of the lot of prisoners; and nothing ever turned him from his purpose. When he grew up, he left home, much against the wishes of his parents, and went to live in one of the richest parts of the town, so as to get to know the wealthy thoroughly, and to be able to help them when the time came for him to do so. He even took their money, and, so far as a man of education could, became like them. Of course, there are many who follow in his footsteps now, but most of them live in settlements, and only come into actual contact with the people they are trying to help by going in and out amongst them in their own homes. But he was the first; and he really lived with them, in a house with twenty bedrooms, luxuriously furnished, and with a _chef_ and a great many servants. I believe he did actually nothing for himself for two whole years, and, of course, he broke down under the strain."

"Poor fellow!" I murmured sympathetically.

"He went back for a time to the life of poverty in which he had been brought up. But even then, he refused to live like the rest of his family, and, as far as his enfeebled state of health would permit, practised secret indulgences, and never lost sight of his great purpose in life.

"He made a convert of my mother, who was the daughter of a farm-labourer, and of one of the proudest and poorest families in Upsidonia. They started their married life in a comfortable villa, with four indoor servants and two out--my father could not, of course, expect his young wife to take the extreme plunge that he had himself--and he has told me that she acted like a heroine, and never grumbled at the life of strict affluence they laid down for themselves. I was born in that house, and it was my mother's own wish that we then moved to a larger one, where we have lived ever since. We have all been brought up to think nothing of wealth, and each of us in our several ways does his or her utmost to help our parents in their n.o.ble work. My eldest sister has even married a stockbroker, and a very good fellow he is, and it is wonderful how he has overcome the defects of his upbringing.

"Well, I have been talking for a long time; but I wanted to show you how dreadful it would be if a man like my father should suffer disgrace for committing an error which only arose from his eager desire to serve one whom he saw to be in an unfortunate position."

"Oh, you need not fear anything of that sort after what you have told me," I a.s.sured him. "I would rather go to prison myself--even such a prison as I am in now--than that he should."

"It is very good of you indeed to say so," he said gratefully. "But you need have no fear of this sort of prison. My father would exert his influence to have you sent to Pankhurst, where, chiefly by his efforts, everything is as it should be, and a real attempt is made to raise prisoners. Even in the first division, you would be permitted to do something useful, such as breaking stones, and you would not be expected to eat more than two meals a day, and those quite meagre ones."

"Well, to tell you the truth," I said, "one of my hobbies is to study conditions of prison life in the various countries I visit. I am very glad to have had the opportunity of judging for myself in this way, and though I don't want to go to prison myself any longer, if it can be avoided, you would be conferring a real benefit upon me if you could get me sent to the most luxurious penal establishment you possess, supposing I am found guilty."

"Do you really mean that?" he asked.

"Yes, I really do. I know it must seem odd to you, but I am like that."

He rose and shook hands with me. "I can't tell you how I admire your spirit," he said.

I drank half a gla.s.s of port and rose to still greater heights of self-abnegation. I was anxious to show myself worthy of his praise. "As long as I remain in Upsidonia," I said, "I should like to live entirely amongst the very rich, and just as if I were rich myself. Could you manage that for me, do you think, in return for what I am going to do for your father?"

He laughed. "If you really mean it," he said, "there won't be the slightest difficulty. And we are the right people to help you. They might not show themselves as they really are to a stranger, for they stick to one another wonderfully, and the more respectable among them hide their riches as much as possible. Some of the tragedies of wealth one comes across are heart-breaking. But I mustn't begin on that subject, or I should never end. If you can see your way to relieving a few of the rich in Culbut of a little of their load of misery, you will be doing a great work."