The Astonishing History of Troy Town Part 34

"Yes. It's rather a long story; but it comes to this. You see, Fred is very particular about the tea he drinks."

"Indeed?"

"It's a fact, I a.s.sure you. Well, when we were travelling in the states, Fred happened to come across some tea he liked particularly, at Chicago. And the funny thing about this tea is that it is compressed. It is called 'Wapshotts' Patent Compressed Tea;' now I daresay," added Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys demurely, "that you wouldn't think it possible for compressed tea to be good."

"To tell you the truth," said Mr. Moggridge, "I have never given the subject a thought."

"No, of course; being a poet, you wouldn't. But it's very good, all the same: you buy it in cakes, and have to be very particular that 'Wapshott and Sons' is written on each cake: of course it isn't _really_ written--"

"Of course not; but you'll excuse me if I don't yet see--"

"To be sure you don't until I have explained. Well, you see, men are so particular about what they eat and drink, and are always thinking about it--I don't mean poets, of course. I suppose you, for instance, only think about gossamer and things."

"I don't know that I think much about gossamer," said Mr. Moggridge.

"Well, moonbeams, then. But Fred is different. Ever since he left Chicago he has been talking about that tea. I wonder you never heard him."

"I have not, to my knowledge."

"No? Well, at last, finding it couldn't be bought in England, he sent across for a chest. We had the invoice a few days ago, and here it is."

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys produced a sc.r.a.p of paper, and went on--

"You see, it's coming in a s.h.i.+p called the _Maryland_, and ought to be here about this time. Well, Fred was looking through his telescope before breakfast this morning--he's always looking through a telescope now, and knows, I believe, every rig of every vessel in the world--when he calls out, 'Hullo! American barque!' in his short way. Of course, I didn't know at first what he meant, and mixed it up with that stuff--Peruvian bark, isn't it?--that you give to your child, if you have one, and do not let it untimely die, or something of the sort. But afterwards he shouted, 'I shouldn't wonder if she's the _Maryland_;' and then I understood, and it struck me that it would be so nice to come to you and pay the 'duty,' or whatever you call it, on the tea, and at the same time, if you were very good, you would take me over the s.h.i.+p with you, and show me how you did your work. It's very complicated, I daresay: but I'll be quiet as a mouse, and won't interrupt you at all."

She paused for breath. The Collector smiled, and handed back the invoice.

"It seems all right," he said. "Let us hurry to the Custom House.

An hour in your company, Geraldine, will transfigure even the dull round of duty."

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys smiled back divinely. She thought it extremely probable.

A few minutes later the poet sat by Geraldine's side--sweet proximity!--in the stern of one of Her Majesty's boats, while two "minions," as he was wont in verse to term his subordinates, rowed them towards a shapely barque that had just dropped anchor not far from the Bower Slip.

She flew a yellow flag in sign that she hailed from a foreign port, and as the Customs' boat dropped under her quarter Mr. Moggridge shouted--

"_Maryland_, ahoy!"

"Ahoy!" answered a gruff voice, and a red face looked over the side.

"Captain?" inquired Mr. Moggridge.

"That's me--Uriah T. Potter, Cap'n. Customs, I guess," said the red-faced man, with a slow look at Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.

"Clean bill of health?"

"Waal, two fo'c's'le hands down with whoopin'-cough: take it you won't keep us in quarantine for that."

The Collector helped Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys up the s.h.i.+p's side. As she alighted on deck a swift glance pa.s.sed between her and the red-faced man. Quite casually she laid two fingers on her chin. Uriah T.

Potter did the same; but Mr. Moggridge was giving some instructions to his minions at the moment, and did not notice it.

"Anything to declare?" he asked.

"Mainly corn aboard, an' tinned fruits for Port o' London.

Reas'nable deal o' tea an' 'baccy, though, for you to seal--s.h.i.+pped for same place. By the way, chest o' tea for party living hereabouts--Goodwyn-Sandys, friend of owner--guess that's the reason for putting in at this one-hoss place," wound up Uriah T. Potter, with a depreciatory glance at the beauties of Troy.

"This is Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys," said the Collector.

"Proud to make your 'cquaintance, marm." The Captain held out his hand to the lady, who shook it affably.

"Let's see the cargo," said Mr. Moggridge.

The Captain led the way and they descended; Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys full of pretty wonder at the arrangements of the s.h.i.+p, and slipping her fingers timidly into the Collector's hand on the dark companion stairs. He seized and raised them to his lips.

"Oh, you poets!" expostulated she.

"Where the tyrant's only fee," murmured Mr. Moggridge.

"Is the kissing of a hand."

"What, more verses? You shall repeat them to me."

I am afraid that in the obscurity below, Mr. Moggridge inspected the weighing of s.h.i.+p's stores and sealing of excisable goods in a very perfunctory manner. There were so many dim corners and pa.s.sages where Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys needed guidance; and, after all, the minions were sufficient for the work. They rummaged here and there among casks and chests, weighing, counting, and sealing, whilst the red-faced Uriah stood over them and occasionally looked from the Collector to the lady with a slow grin of growing intelligence.

They were seated together on a cask, and Mr. Moggridge had possessed himself, for the twentieth time, of his companion's hand.

"You think the verses obscure?" he was whispering. "Ah! Geraldine, if I could only speak out from the heart! As it is, 'Euphelia serves to grace my measure!'"

"Who's she?" asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, whose slight acquaintance with other poets was, perhaps, the reason why she rated her companion's verse so highly.

"'The merchant, to conceal his treasure, Conveys it in a borrowed name,'"

Mr. Moggridge began to quote.--"Why, Geraldine, what is the matter?

Are you faint?"

"No; it is nothing."

"I thought you seemed pale. As I was saying--"

'The merchant, to conceal his treasure--'

"Yes, yes, I know," said she, rising abruptly. "It is very hot and close down here."

"Then you _were_ faint?"

"Here's your chest, marm," called the voice of Uriah T. Potter.

She turned and walked towards it. It was a large, square packing-case, and bore the legends--