mr. goldberg, the manager and proprietor of the parade drug store, was a man who possessed neither a sense of imagination nor the spirit of romance. he sent peremptorily for timothy, and timothy came with a feeling that all was not well.
“mr. anderson,” said goldberg in his best magisterial manner, “i took you into my shop because i was short of a man and because i understood that you had had some business experience.”
“i have business experience,” said timothy carefully, “of a kind.”
“i gave you particular instructions,” said mr. goldberg solemnly, “on one very vital point. we carry a full line of all the best proprietorial medicines, and our customers can always get them upon application. each of those medicines we duplicate, as you know, providing the same constituents and charging some sixpence to a shilling less—in fact, we are out to save the public from being robbed.”
“i understand you,” said timothy, “but i don’t see much difference between robbing the public and robbing the patent medicine proprietors, and all that just-as-good stuff never did impress me, anyway. it stands to reason,” he said, leaning over the desk and speaking with the earnestness of a crusader, “that the advertised article must be more even in quality and it must be good all round. you can’t advertise a bad article and get away with it, except on the first sale, and that doesn’t pay the advertiser. the goods sell the goods, and the advertisement is only to make you take the first lick.”
“i do not want a lecture on advertising or on commercial morality,” said mr. goldberg with ominous calm. “i merely want to tell you that you were overheard by my chief assistant telling a customer not to ‘take a chance’ on one of my own pills.”
“that’s right,” said timothy, nodding his head vigorously. “guilty, my lord. what about it?”
“i have had a further complaint,” said mr. goldberg, consulting with elaborate ceremony a little notebook. “i understand that you have initiated the awful practice of offering to toss customers for their change. people have written me strong letters of complaint about it.”
“because they lost,” said the indignant timothy; “what’s wrong about that, anyway, mr. goldberg? i don’t pocket the money, and i win twice out of every three times. if a fellow likes to take a chance as to whether he gets sixpence or we get a shilling, why worry?”
the outraged mr. goldberg brindled.
“that sort of thing may be all right at a country fair or even in a country shop,” he said, “but it is not good enough for the parade drug store, bournemouth, and i’ll dispense with your services as from this morning.”
“you’re losing a good man,” said timothy solemnly, but mr. goldberg did not seem to take that loss to heart.
all “take a chance anderson’s” jobs ended violently. he never conceived of them ending in any other way, and invariably regarded the sum of money which was received in lieu of notice, or as compensation for breach of contract, as being something in the nature of a nest-egg which a kindly providence had foreordained, and he was neither cast down nor elated by the crisis in his affairs when, by a fortunate accident, he met mary maxell—the fortune was apparent, but the accident belonged to the category which determined the hour at which trains leave stations.
hitherto, on the girl’s part, these meetings had been fraught with a certain amount of apprehension, if not terror. they had begun when timothy had stopped her on the morning after his quarrel with lady maxell, and had made bland inquiries as to that lady’s condition. then she had been in a panic and frantically anxious to end the interview, and it required all her self-restraint to prevent her flying at top speed from this wicked young man who had been so abominably rude.
at their second meeting he had greeted her as an old friend, and she had left him with the illusion of a life-time acquaintance. hereafter matters went smoothly, and they went so because timothy anderson was unlike any of the other boys she had ever met.
he paid her no compliments, he did not grow sentimental, he neither tried to hold her hand nor kiss her, nor was he ever oppressed by that overwhelming melancholy which is the heritage and pride of youth.
not once did he hint at an early decline or the possibility of his going away to die in far lands. instead he kept her in screams of laughter at his interpretation of movie plays in the making. he did not ask for a keepsake; the only request he made of her in this direction was one which first took her breath away. thereafter she never met him unless she had in the bag which slung from her wrist one small box of matches; for “take a chance” anderson had never possessed or carried the means of ignition for his cigarette for one whole hour together.
timothy told her most of what the proprietor of the parade drug store had told him. the girl thought it was a joke, because that was exactly the way timothy presented the matter.
“but you won’t be going away soon?” she asked.
“not till i go abroad,” replied timothy calmly.
“are you going abroad too?” she asked in surprise.
he nodded.
“i’m going to paris and monte carlo—especially to monte carlo,” he said, “and afterwards i may run across to algeria or to egypt.”
she looked at him with a new respect. she was less impressed by the great possessions which his plans betrayed than by his confident independence, and dimly she wondered why he was working at a drug-store for low wages and wondered, too, whether he was——
“what are you blushing about?” asked timothy curiously.
“i wasn’t blushing,” she protested; “i was just wondering whether i could ever afford a trip like that.”
“of course you can,” said the young man scornfully. “if i can afford it, you can, can’t you? if i go abroad and stay at the best hotels, and go joy rides in the alps and plan all this when i haven’t got fifteen shillings over my rent——”
“you haven’t fifteen shillings over your rent!” she repeated, aghast. “but how can you go abroad without money?”
timothy was genuinely astounded that she could ask so absurd a question.
“why, i’d take a chance on that,” he said. “a little thing like money doesn’t really count.”
“i think you’re very silly,” she said. “oh, there was something i wanted to tell you, mr. anderson.”
“you may call me timothy,” he said.
“i don’t want to call you timothy,” she replied.
he shook his head with a pained expression.
“it’ll be ever so much more sociable if you call me timothy and i call you mary.”
“we can be very sociable without that familiarity,” she said severely. “i was just going to tell you something.”
they sat on the grass together, on the shadow fringe of a big oak and the spring sunshine wove its restless arabesques on her lap.
“do you know,” she said after a pause, “that last night i had two queer experiences and i was scared; oh, scared to death!”
“eating things at night,” said timothy oracularly, “especially before you go to bed——”
“i wasn’t dreaming,” she said indignantly, “nor was it a nightmare. i won’t tell you if you’re so horrid.”
“i’m only speaking as an ex-chemist and druggist,” said timothy gravely; “but please forgive me. tell me what it is, mary.”
“miss maxell,” she said.
“miss mary maxell,” he compromised.
“first i’ll tell you the least worst,” she began. “it happened about one o’clock in the morning. i had gone to bed awfully tired, but somehow i couldn’t sleep, so i got up and walked about the room. i didn’t like putting on the light because that meant drawing down the blinds which i had let up when i went to bed, and the blinds make such a noise that i thought the whole of the house would hear. so i put on my dressing-gown and sat by the window. it was rather chilly, but my wrap was warm, and sitting there i dozed. i don’t know how long, but it was nearly an hour, i think. when i woke up i saw a man right in the centre of the lawn.”
timothy was interested.
“what sort of a man?”
“that is the peculiar thing about it,” she said. “he wasn’t a white man.”
“a coon?” he asked.
she shook her head.
“no, i think it must have been a moor. he wore a long white dress that reached down to his ankles, and over that he had a big, heavy black cloak.”
timothy nodded.
“well?”
“he went round the corner of the house towards uncle’s private stairway and he was gone quite a long time. my first thought was to awaken uncle and tell him, but then i remembered that sir john had spent a long time in morocco and possibly he knew that the man was about the house. you see, we have had moorish visitors before, when ships have come to poole. once we had a very important man, a kaid, and sir john made queer tea for him in glasses with mint and stuff. so i just didn’t know what to do. whilst i was wondering whether i ought not at least to wake lady maxell, he reappeared, walked across the lawn and went down the path which leads to the back entrance—you’re laughing at me,” she said suddenly.
“what you mistake for a laugh,” said timothy solemnly, “is merely one large smile of pleasure at being in your confidence.”
she was in two minds as to whether she would be angry or pleased, but his tone changed to a more serious one.
“i don’t like the idea of the gaudy east wandering loose under your bedroom window in the middle of the night,” he said. “did you tell lady maxell this morning?”
the girl shook her head.
“no, she was up very early and has been out all day. i have not seen her—in fact, she was not at breakfast. now i’ll tell you the really serious thing that happened, and i do hope, mr. anderson, that you won’t be flippant.”
“trust me,” said timothy.
the girl had no reason to complain of his attitude when she had described the shooting incident. he was aghast.
“that is terrible!” he said vigorously. “why, it might have hit you!”
“of course it might have hit me,” she said indignantly. “that’s the whole point of my story, so far as you are concerned—i mean, so far as i am concerned,” she added hastily.
“so fax as i am concerned too,” said timothy quietly. “i just hate the idea of anything even frightening you.”
she rose hurriedly.
“i am going to shop now,” she said.
“what’s the hurry?” grumbled timothy.
“mr. anderson,” she said, ignoring his question, “i don’t want you to think that uncle is feeling badly about you because of what has happened in the house. he spoke to me of you last night, and he spoke very nicely. i am worried to death about sir john. he has made enemies in his life, and i am sure that this shooting affair is the sequel to some old feud.”
timothy nodded.
“i should say that is so,” he said.
he looked down at the grass very thoughtfully and then:
“well, i’ll go home,” he said. “i had better sleep this afternoon if i am to be up all night.”
“up all night?” she said in surprise. “what is happening? is there a ball or something?”
“there will be something livelier than a ball,” he said grimly, “if i find anybody in your garden to-night. and miss maxell, if you look out of your window and you see a solitary figure on sentry-go don’t shoot, because it will be me.”
“but you mustn’t,” she gasped. “please don’t do it, mr. anderson. uncle would be——”
he stopped her with a gesture.
“possibly nobody will come to-night,” he said, “and as likely as not i shall be pinched by the police as a suspicious character. but there’s a chance that somebody will come, and that’s the chance i’m going to take.”
