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Auckland Star, Volume XXXI, Issue 65, 17 March 1900, Page 6 (Supplement)

CHAPTER XIII.

"BARLOW BROTHERS

"The theory of consequence" —Leonard was arranging 'his thoughts on ! paper for better clearness —"while it ; answers most of the difficulties conj7'i'ff.en with hereditary trouble, break's down, it must be confessed, in some i cases. Given, for instance, a case in 'which a boy is carefully educated, has no bad examples before him, shows no signs of vice, and is ignorant of the; family misfortunes. If that boy becomes a spendthrift and a prodigal, or worse, when there has never before i beeir siich a thing in the family, 'how : caii we connect the case with the criminal action of a grandfather altogether unlike>his own, and unknown to him? I should be inclined to put the case down to some influences of the past, not to be discovered, due to some maternal ancestry. A man, for instance, may be so completely unlike any other member of the family

that, we must search for the cause

'of his early life in the line of his i mother or his grandmother."

1 He was thinking of his uncle —the returned colonial in whom, except for his commanding stature and his still handsome face, there was nothing to remind the world of the paternal side. Whenever 'he thought of this cheerful perso.!),. with whom life seemed a pleasant' play, certain doubts crossed his mind, and ran like, cold water down his back. He had come home, rich—that was something. He might have came 'home as poor as when he started. Rich or, poor he would have

been the same; as buoyant, as loud,

as unpresentable

In fact, at this very moment, when these reflections were forming a part of Leonard's great essay on the after effects of evil—an essay "which created only last month so great a stir t'iiat people talked of little else for three days—the rich Australian, was on his way to confess the fact that things were not exactly as he had chosen to present them.

He did confess the truth, or as much of the truth as he could afford to express, but in an easy and irresponsible manner, as if nothing mattered much.' He was a philosopher, to whom nothing did matter. lie came in, he shook 'hands and laughed buoyantly; he chose a cigar from Leonard's box, he rang the bell for whisky and a few .bottles of soda;,when the whisky arid the'soda had arrived and were within reach, he took a. chair and laughed again."

"My boy," lie said, "Fin in a tight 1)1 ace again."

"In what way?". '.>: '"Why;l for wmit of money. That's the only possible tight place at my age. At yours there are many. It is only a temporary tightness, of course." He opened the soda water and drank ofi: the full tumbler at a gulp.' "Temporary. Till file-supplies arrive. You know the family resources, of course. Tell me, dear boy, ••what about the nccmruilntions.? We ; mentioned them the other day "

"I know nothing- about them." "Of course, of course. I'm not goingl to put questions. The bulk of everything will be yours, naturally. Don't you think I could go to the people, t'ho. agents ov solicitors, and put it to them, that as a son of the House I should like an advance of, say a thousand pounds?" ! "Go, by all means. But I am quite j certain they will do nothing for you." j "You're a better man of the world ;than I thought, my boy. I respect .yon for it. Nobody is to 'have a finger in the pie but yourself. And you look so mighty solemn over it, too." i "I tell you that.l know nothing." ! "Just ho. Just so. Well, you know j nothing. I've made a rough calculation —but never mind. Let the accujirmlnfions be. Very nood, then, I shall not interfere. Meantime, I want some money. Lend me a thousand."

i; "I have not got a thousand pounds in the world. You forget that all I have is my mother's small fortune of i a few hundreds n year. It is not in my 1 power to lend you anything1." ! He laughed again in his enjoyment of the situation.

1 "Delicious!" 'he said. "This it is to] be a British swell. Well, I don't mind. I will draw upon you at six months. Come. Long before that time I shall be in funds again." I "No. You shall not even draw upon me at six months," Leonard replied, with some vague knowledge of what was implied. "You told me you were rich." "Every man is rich who is a partner in a going concern." "Then why are you in this tight place?" "My partner, you see, has been playins- the fool. Barlow Brothers, General Stores, Colonial Produce, will be , smashed if 1 can't raise a few hundreds." "Your going concern, as you call it, lis going to grief. And what will you ido?"

1 "Yon shall just see what I wanted. Barlow's is a General Store in a rising town. There are great capabilities in Barlow Brothers. I came over here to convert Barlow Brothers into a Limited Liability Company, capital £150,000. Branches everywhere. Our own sugar estates, onv own tea and coffee plantations. That was my idea." I "It was a bold idea, at any rate." : "It was. As for Barlow's General Store, I confess, between ourselves and considering that you don't belong to the City, it is little better than a shanty, where I sold sardines and tea leaves and bacon. But the capabilities, my dear boy—the capabilities!' "And you brought this project to London. Well, there have been greater robberies." Uncle Fred took another glass oi whisky and soda. He laughed no more. He even sighed. i "I thought London was an enterprising city." It appears not. No promoter will so much as look at the \ Company. 1 was willing to let my interest iii it go for £40,000. If you 11 believe me, Leonard, they won't even look at it. A few hundreds would save it, a few thousands would make it a Colossal success. For want of it Iwe nuiist go to the wall." "You were hoping to sell a bankrupt business as a flourishing business. " That is so. But it hasn't come ! off."

" Well, what shall you do?" "I shall begin again at the bottom, that's all." "Oh!" Leonard looked at him doubtfully, for he seemed in no way cast clown. "You will go back to Australia, then." There was no consolation in the thought.

Ishall go back. I don't know my way about in London. I will go back and begin again, just as before, at the bottom rung". I shall have to do odd jobs, I dare say. I may possibly have to become a'shepherd, or a nightwatckraaii, or a sandwich man. What does it matter? I shall only be down among- the boys, who can't get any lower. There's a line feeling" of brotherhood down there, which you swells would never understand."

"Have you no money left at all?" "None. Not more than I carry about with me. A few pounds."

"Would it not be better to stay here among your own folk? You can surely do something. You might write for the papers, with all yoiir experience."

"Write for the papers? I would rather go on tramp, which is much more amusing. Do something? What am I to do? Man, there isn't on the face of the earth a more helpless person than a. bankrupt trader at fortyfive. Pie knows too much to be employed in his own trade. At Home there is nothing for me at all. Out there I can turn my hand to anything. Even my old grandfather would come back to the present life, if it were only to burst with rage, if he met his grandson walking" down Regent Street between a pair of boards. You wouldn't like it yourself, would you? Come out to Sydney next year, and very lilcelv you'll see it."

"But to g-o out is certain, misery."

"Misery? Certain misery? The Colonist laughed cheerfully. "My nephew, you are a very narrow-minded person, though you are a scholar and a Member of Parliament. You think that it is misery to take off a frock coat arc! a tall hat, and to put on a working man's jacket and bowler. Bless yon, my son, that's not misery. The real misery is being hungry and ; cold. In Australia no one is evei' cold, and very few are ever hungry. In my j worst times I've always had plenty ' to eat, and though I've been many times without a shilling, I've never; ;n all my life been miserable or ashamed." "But there is the companionship." "The companions, my boy, are, the' best fellows in the world. Misery? There isn't any with the fellows down below, especially the young fellows. And. mind yon, it is exciting work, the hand to mouth life. Now, by the time 1 get out, the business Avill be sold up, and my partner, who is a young man, will be oft' on another lay; they always put out the old man' as soon as they can. What shall I, do? I I shall go hawking and peddling. I shall become Autolyeus." "And afterwards?" "There is no afterwards till you j come to the hospital, which is a really pleasant place, and the black box. 1 1 ye done it before and I'll do it again." (He mixed another soda and whisky land drank it off. "It's a thirsty work along the roads under the sun—a redhot burning sun, not like yoiw red frying pan. Wherever you stop you get a drink. Then you bring out your wares. Iv: got a totigue that runs like an engine newly oiled. And where you.put up for the night there are boys on the road, and there are .songs and stories. Respectability go hang!"

He laughed again. He put on his hat and swung oiiit of the room, laughing as at the very finest joke in the world—to como home as a gentleman and to go back as a tramp.

(To be Continued.)