The Tale of Lal Part 25

"'It's my business, I never make a mistake. This inkstand is Old Bow china, date--early Queen Anne. My friend, there are not five of these left in the world to-day, there are not four, and this is probably the most perfect one in existence; and what makes it so valuable, apart from its glaze, is that it was done by a fine artist, and it is a famous legendary figure perfectly executed. In fact, it is none other than the famous d.i.c.k Whittington.'

"'What!' It was my turn to shout this time. 'd.i.c.k Whittington!' I cried.

"'Of course,' said Murkel; 'd.i.c.k Whittington, only done in the costume of Queen Anne's day instead of his own.'

"'Then it is all true,' I shouted. 'By Jove, what a fool I've been; I see it all now, every bit of it. Oh, Lal! Lal! how impossible you are to understand.' Of course, this was all so much Greek to Murkel, who hadn't the remotest idea what I was so excited about; but he was thoroughly convinced that I meant to jump at his offer, and he thought I was merely madder than usual when I told him that I wouldn't sell d.i.c.k Whittington for five thousand pounds if he offered it to me.

"Murkel replaced d.i.c.k Whittington regretfully upon the rickety table and sighed deeply.

"'I suppose,' he said, 'that some forms of mental derangement are inseparable from some writers. The annoying part of it is that I wanted this piece for my own cabinet. If I had bought it I should never have sold it again. Well, if you want money, you know where to get it, old chap.'

"'I do,' I replied, 'and I have as good as found it in an unexpected quarter.' I took up the MSS. of the new book, lying upon the rickety table actually in front of d.i.c.k Whittington.

"'I will prophesy to you,' I said, 'and although it is a second-hand sort of prophecy it is going to come true nevertheless. You see this ma.n.u.script; this is going to make the first lot of money.'

"Murkel looked at me curiously. Do what he would the poor chap could not rid his mind of the thought that I was mad, but I will say he was very patient with me.

"'Give me the introduction to your publisher friend, and I will bet you a dinner, or two dinners, he accepts this as a start, and most probably everything else I write afterwards.'

"'Of course,' debated Murkel, 'you are a very amazing person. I meet you one day and you swear that n.o.body ever wants anything you do, and is never likely to want any of your work again; and then a few days after, without rhyme or reason, you swear they will take everything, even the things you haven't written. I don't pretend to consider you at all sane, but I am prepared to tackle the publishers for you; and, by Jove, you are really eccentric enough to have done something really good, so you may be right. But I cannot and will not understand why you cannot take a hundred guineas down for that little d.i.c.k Whittington.'

"'Do you believe in mascots, Murkel?' I asked.

"'Yes,' he said. 'I've got a black cat in the shop that always sits on a big Chinese idol whenever I have any luck. I don't know what it is, but the combination of my black cat Timps and that Chinese idol is extraordinary, and the greatest mascot I know.'

"Well, I told him that my mascots were a lion and the china d.i.c.k Whittington.

"'Where's the lion?' asked Murkel, always on the look-out for curios.

"'Oh, that is at present in a collection,' I told him, at the same time fervently hoping that Lal would forgive me for ever referring to him as being in a collection, for I knew the feeling of majestic toleration with which he regarded the other three lions.

"Very little more remains to be told, except that the person who was most astonished when my first book was instantly accepted was Murkel, and his astonishment appeared to greatly increase as each of my succeeding books made their appearance in print, whilst to-day is one of the red-letter days of my life, for the most important of all my books was published this morning, and so it is all doubtless intended to form part of to-day's story; and, by the way, so is to-day's tea."

"Ridgwell, would you ring the bell for the housekeeper? I have ordered all the sort of cakes you and Christine like best."

"I think it is a more wonderful story than d.i.c.k Whittington's,"

commented Ridgwell, as he rang the bell; "but before we have tea, we do so want to see the little china d.i.c.k Whittington which made all your story come true, and which is worth such a lot of money."

"You shall both see him presently, but at the present moment d.i.c.k Whittington is safely packed up; he is going to be given away this evening with a copy of my new book."

"Given away?" echoed the children blankly.

The Writer nodded.

"I can't make out how you can bear to part with it," suggested Ridgwell; "I know I would never give it away. Who is it for?"

"You will both see presently; and really, you know, if you come to consider it, it is not of any use giving anybody something one does not care for, for that is not a gift at all."

"It seems jolly hard to part with the one thing you like best,"

observed Ridgwell.

The Writer laughed. "Ah! Ridgwell, that is the only kind of gift worth giving in the world."

CHAPTER VII

THE LION MAKES HIS SIGN

Tea was finished, the remains of it were cleared away, and the heavy curtains drawn over the big windows overlooking Trafalgar Square.

Having turned on all the electric lights he could find, the Writer led Ridgwell and Christine by either hand towards the door.

"The Lord Mayor has arrived," he whispered, "I can hear him coming up the stairs. Now as he comes into the door let us all bow down with a low curtsey, and say, 'Welcome, Sir Simon Gold, Lord Mayor of London.'"

"Bless him, he is still puffing up the stairs," whispered the Writer, "so we shall have time to rehea.r.s.e it once before he gets here. Now then, all together," urged the Writer. "That's fine; why, you children make obeisance better than I do, but of course I was forgetting you had both been to the Pleasant-Faced Lion's party. That must, of course, have been an education in itself. Now then, get ready."

Outside somebody who was puffing and panting somewhat heavily could be heard exclaiming between these exertions in a cheery voice: "Good gracious me, why ever does the boy live in such a place? These stairs will be the death of me; positively fifty of them if there is one.

Really at my time of life it is most unreasonable; he ought to have a lift put in, I will make it my business to see he doesn't live up here in the clouds any longer, whether he always wants to see Lal or whether he doesn't."

The Writer grinned at the children, and Ridgwell and Christine gave a faint chuckle by way of an answer. At last the door was flung open and the pleasantest-faced old gentleman it would be possible to find anywhere, with round pink cheeks, merry eyes, a snowy white upturned moustache and white hair to match, peering through big gold-rimmed spectacles like a cheerful night-owl, stood in the doorway.

Thereupon the three people inside the room bobbed down in a most profound curtesy, and there was a perfectly timed and simultaneous chorus from three voices, "Welcome, Sir Simon Gold, Lord Mayor of London."

"Bless my soul," said the Lord Mayor, "very impressive, upon my word; but as His Majesty the King has only knighted me twenty minutes ago, how on earth did you come to hear of it?"

"Magic," said the Writer. "Besides, Lal prophesied the event."

"Who are the children?" asked the Lord Mayor.

"Friends of Lal's and myself," replied the Writer, "and very anxious to see you in your robes."

"They are all in this bag," vouchsafed the Mayor, "and it may be vanity upon my part, but I brought them up on purpose to stand in front of the window so that Lal could have a good look at them and see the effect of his own handiwork. And now, you rascal," demanded the Lord Mayor of the Writer as he helped himself to a comfortable chair, "what excuses have you got to give me for not coming near either Mum or myself for ages, and for taking up your abode in this absurdly high flat which is as bad as mounting the Monument?"

"I have my excuses all labelled and wrapped up, Dad, and you and Mum must accept them when you have looked at them."

Thereupon the Writer fished out of the mysterious odd-fas.h.i.+oned cupboard two packets very neatly done up, and placed them in the hands of genial old Sir Simon.

The old gentleman opened the first packet with evident pleasure; it was a well-bound book fresh from the printer's press.

"Open it, Dad, and see whom it is dedicated to," suggested the Writer; "you will find it upon the first page."

"Beautiful," murmured the old gentleman, whilst his hands trembled slightly as he held the book and read out, "Dedicated to my dear Dad, to whom I owe everything--created Lord Mayor of the City of London in the year----"

The old gentleman coughed and wiped his spectacles carefully, and even suspiciously, for they appeared to be quite misty. "Oh, you bad boy,"

he burst out unexpectedly. "How dare you write books and become famous, when you ought to have been sitting upon a stool behind a gla.s.s part.i.tion as a junior partner in my counting-house? However, I believe Lal was right, he usually is; he said we should disagree, and that the youngest one would be in the right, and upon my word, my dear boy, I never believed how very right he was until to-day. Bless me, I'm proud of you."