OTHER MEN'S SHOES.

Auckland Star, Volume LVII, Issue 78, 3 April 1926, Page 30

OTHER MEN'S SHOES.

By MAY WYNNE.

CHAPTER I. "The fact is," said the Duke of Delcourt, "you don't believe my arguments and I do not follow your.. What's to be done? I suppose it will have to be separate camps and the old hammer and tongs game, eh?" Noel Fexton, Socialist, stared down _V his hands. "I suppose that's it," he agreed, "but if you knew if you could let mc prove—" "Done,", cried Delcourt. "I will." Fexton stared. "But you won't," he urged, "you can't put yourself in my—" "Shoes," smiled the other urbanely. "That's it. I will be your temporary cousin—you shall be mine—a Duke in Charge. We can give you a fancy title. I will be Robert Fexton. Why not?" Fexton stared. "We are both young," urged the Duke. "Fate has thrown us into each other's paths. We are friends. We have no ties at all. That is the best of being an only child. And we are patriots. The country needs patriots who understand both sides of the question. Revolution is rot. We want to see with each other's eyes. It must be arranged. A* twelve-month should be the minimum. One gets the gist of the situation in a year." Fexton rubbed the back of his curly head and laughed. He had met the Duke at a political dinner party some eighteen months previously, and liking had ripened into genuine friendship. "Good," said he. "I believe at least we are patriots. The brethren stunt may grow—but I doubt it. I don't believe —" "Of course not," said Delcourt, "but you are going to do so. You had better be the Honourable Noel Hartford. You will have a free hand to live as I have been in the habit of living for a year. Mind you —I don't intend tp have the house in Park Lane made into model flats or Delcourt Castle Estate laid out for a garden city. You will be merely the Duke waiting for a job." "Agreed," said Fexton. And they shook hands. • After all when you are free of women folk things are not impossible to pull out of conventional grooves. Women are ten times more conservative than men. That was one reason why the Duke insisted on the cousin-ship. He himself, with the tact which was part and parcel of a joyous nature, assisted in the purchase of the outfit. It came, however, as a nasty jar when he remembered that he had already handed his cousin? over a new cheque book and his available funds. He discovered that Fexton's total income was £125 a year earned at a ready-made clothes factory. The young man was not yet a Socialist leader! Fexton in immaculate tweed suit arrived at Delcourt Castle. The ducalcar had met him at a wayside station also bearing the ducal name. "Twelve months of luxury," thought our Noel. "I wonder—" He had plenty to wonder at. He had supposed that he should find himself monarch j of all he surveyed. It was so—with limitations. Delcourt had spoken of a maiden aunt who was devoted to good works and would not ask for his pedigree. The maiden aunt greeted the Honourable Noel on arrival. "Mr. Bayles will be bo thankful you have come down," she explained, "there is much to Bee about." Fexton escaped to his room feeling disturbed in spirit. He had had a hazy idea that dukes saw about nothing saving their own pleasure. He found an invaluable valet unpacking his trunks and looked in anguish upon the methodical hiding of all his papers and necessities. If only the valet part might. . . . But he must remember he was to all intents and purposes the Duke. It seemed sheer waste of time to change his clothes. Fexton was a busy man and enjoyed going full steam ahead. His spirit chafed over superfluities. Lady Helvetia Hartford was awaiting him in the drawing room. Fexton took her into dinner. He had been schooled by Delcourt in the civilities. But dinner was a trial above the ordinary. What the deuce did a duke or any other man want with a dozen spoons, forks and knives? He saw Lady Helvetia stare in amaze when he used his dinner roll for re- • claiming the superfluous gravy. The butler appeared superciliously perplexed at his refusal to drink wirie. Fexton thought hopefully of a pipe in the seclusion of a delightful study. Vain hope! The over-anxious Mr. Bayles demanded the honour of an interview. What! Did not dukes sleep after a heavy meal? Noel Fexton interviewed Mr. Bayles. It was not a brief affair. The agent had tabulated his business to last till midnight! All of it was urgent. The sort of urgency which seems unnecessary. Surely to-morrow would have done to receive the ducal consent to Widow Bevis having a new boiler in her cottage, or for the ducal consideration of raised pensions to past-work employees who found things difficult with the high prices. Fexton went slow. He wanted to know particulars of each case in a way which surprised the agent who was accustomed to the ducal formula "Yes, yes, Mr. Bayles. You know more about it than I do. Do the right thing.' Of course. . . of course." The Duke in charge did not leave things to Mr. Bayles. He wanted to know—and yet he didn't want to know. He wanted to rest. The 'business was not nearly completed before the lateness of the hour and the ducal yarns brought the agent to his teet. "I understood," said Mr. Bayles earnestly, from His Grace, thai you wished to carry on exactly as if he were here. I trust, Mr. Hartford, that you will not nnd the task an arduous one. Naturally, heavy responsibilities " "Oh, dam the responsibilities," snapped Fexton. His usual hour for retiring to rest was ten o'clock. It was at breakfast the next mornin<* that Lady Halvetia attacked him. "Of course, Noel," she said, in her, slow sedate why, "you will understand that your cousin's social duties are very extensive. The list of engagements is upon the desk' in Ronald's study. I fancy this afternoon the Vicar of Patsgrove is expecting you to open the new hall which has lately been erected. And there is the Tenant Farmers' dinner——" " Of course," agreed Fexton, "I—v_ — j JK__ __g__j_g ___ZS ___v list." .

He was feeling harassed and uneasy this morning. The sense of responsibility and incompetence troubled him. He could never have believed the joyous Delcourt got through half this business. His vision of a year of idleness spent in the lap of luxury faded into a dismal background. The house steward and head gardener claimed his attention, and he finally fled from the sight of a private secretary who had been "week-ending" with friends and who now serenely suggested Mr. Hartford's attendance to the business correspondence of the Duke. The secretary, Mr. Wilner, was left to his correspondence whilst Fexton, in a bemazed state, struck out across the lawns towards distant woods. He must have time to think over a staggering outlook. "Morning, sir," was the greeting he heard cheerfully hailing him before he had proceeded a hundred yards. "I'm told his Grace -" "Exactly," said Fexton, "I'm his representative." The burly farmer scratched his head. "It's about the boundary, sir—your Grace," he groaned, "Blaylock's at his old game, turning his cows into the water meadow. I've been down at his place three times, but couldn't get no satisfaction. So knowin' his Grace was always ready to listen to a grievance I come to see what could be done." Fexton switched off the head of a belated blossom and sighed. "I had better see the agent," he said. Farmer Dobbs wagged his head. "Mr. Baylee is a pleasant enough gentleman," he hazarded, "but he's not like his Grace. Even Blaylock can't stand up again' his Grace. It'_ the blood as tells, an' the Duke is the Duke for all he's so generous an' chatty." Fexton had a despairing longing for the presence of the 12th Duke of Delcourt, but he was not without grit. He resolved to see the offensive Blaylock and went his way after due direction. Farmer Dobbs watched him pityingly. "Don't you tell mc," he explained to his dog "Col," "that lad ain't no honourable. I ain't lived man an' boy on the estate for fifty year without knowin' the breed. I can see old Blaylock givin' of 'im what for." It made Mr. Dobbs feel almost friendly to the aggressive Blaylock to think of it! Fexton, being Cockney-bred, lost his way, and found himself wandering aimlessly in a lane. Autumn glories sound well enough in print, but when a man is' suffering from brain-fag . . . Then a sweet voice started an upward lilt and Fexton ceased to grouse. A very pretty girl was picking blackberries, and she, looking at him, smiled, for I forgot to tell you our Socialist hero was no ill-looking type of manhood. "Will you tell mc the way to Thornley Farm!" 'asked Fexton. The blackberry maid smiled. "I'm Rosie Blaylock, sir," said she. She was looking at Fexton's well-cut clothes. Fexton was relieved. He was grateful to pretty Rosie when she offered to show him the way to the farm. What amused him was her interest in his identity. She knew all about his Grace's cousin being at the castle. She was not at all surprised that she saw the cousin before her. She hoped her father was at home. Fexton was less anxious. He had become attracted to pretty Rose and with the enthusiasm of your true socialist wanted her views on Dukes. Pretty Rose's views were simple as herself. She thought their Duke the finest gentleman in Creation and she did not bother about any others! Fexton lingered as they approached the farm house. "You must let mc take you out walking, Rose," said he, "we should soon be friends, eh? And I " He had both her plump little hands in his and was getting quite excited over that walking out when someone thrust himself roughly between him and the girl. The someone was a broadshouldered young farmer of some twenty-six years of age, whose handsome face was distorted 'with passion. "What's this, Rose?" shouted the newcomer. "Who's this sneakin' countyjumper comin' where he ain't wanted, talkin' his blish-blash to my girl? Look here, young fellow, I means to punch your head first and ask " Rose gave a faint cry. "Tom!" she upbraided. "And it's his Grace's own cousin—no less! CHAPTER H. The Duke of Delcourt, vastly entertawed by his present situation, walked down Smithers' Alley. He had spent a first day at Borrocks' factory to his own vast amusement. Never had he suspected the processes, through which the fruits of the earth passed before reaching the tables of the consumers of jam. It was a positive relief to his feelings to know that Mrs. Diggles, the housekeeper, saw personally to the making of his own preserves. It had been decided by mutual consent that the Duke, alias Robert Fexton, should not enter the ready-mades' emporium. Unnecesary curiosity would be aroused, and somehow Fexton felt more sure of discovery for the Duke from his fellow-workers than for himself. So Delcourt had entered "jam," and was already convinced that the life at Messrs. Borrocks' would suit him admirably. The rolling from his ducal shoulders of the vast responsibilities of wealth made him feel ten years younger. The world iB apt to believe exactly what we choose to tell it. The Duke of Delcourt had told everyone that he enjoyed life. His nature was altogether optimistic. But he was not shallow. In fact, he was a great deal more serious over life than his friends had any idea about. Ronald, Du_e of Delcourt, was one of the latter, but his realisation wasn't quite developed. That is just why he was walking home to Smithers' Alley that evening after learning that strawberry jam and its fellow kinds are not all they pretend to be. Delcourt knew plenty of people like that jam, but he did not moralise. He ' was chuckling oyer the memory of how one audacious Tilda Togskins had suggested that she was willing to have him for a bloke. Delcourt had kissed scores of pretty girls in his life, but please understand they were clean kisses, and left no stain. The girls of his acquaintance had generally treated him as a delicious boy. But many of them had hoped to have the task of making a man of him. , Delcourt reached his lodging and chmbed the stair. He had ceased to chuckle, and hoped Tilda was not going J to take him seriousjy, She wgs a hand-

some girl—but it had puzzled Ronald to see bow queerly her front hair was curled round lumps of lead. He- had never seen women put tbeir front hair in curlers. Poor Ronald 1 It might have been written down as a first lesson in the acquiring of Socialism. Nonsense! The first lesson was -acclimatisation to ye red herring. Poof! Mrs. Clanders, the landlady, greeted him genially. "I thought bein' fresh from the country, lad," said she, "you'd be put about for supper, so I y'up the spare 'errin', seem' John won't be home ternigbt." It was a motherly thought, eh? Delcourt's gratitude was simply worded, and he squared his shoulders as he entered the room two pair back, with the courage which he was proud to consider his birthright. I can't be precise as to the fate of that herring, but I believe its end waa tragic —for Delcourt, who tried burning it whole, with a result better imagined than inhaled. It ended in Delcourt, driven from his room, taking Mrs. Clanders to see the pictures then "showing" at the nearest palace. It was a vivid entertainment, and Mrs. Clanders enjoyed every second of it, for, when she wasn't gaping widemouthed at the pictures, she was confiding in "Robert" that her "old man never took her nowhere, but just boozed hisself silly whenever she took her eye off him." She also confessed to feeling motherly to all her lodgers of the two pair back landing, and a special ynterest in tlie cousins of Noel Fexton. "That young man's bound to be 'card of," said Mrs. Clanders. " 'E's got 'is 'cart where 'Eaven put it. There'll come a day when Dooks and Yearls is clean in the soup, an' all of us ekale same as Adam and Eve." Delcourt sympathised with perfect courtesy. He" hoped the Garden of Eden would go round, but felt doubtful. Anyhow, he agreed that Dukes and Earls, ought to understand they were no better than the rest of mankind. Mrs. Clanders was so uplifted by her; happy evening that she invited "Robert"; to supper next day, hinting there would be something tasty in the way of Welsh rarebit. Delcourt accepted gratefully. He was anxious to take Mrs. Clanders as a study, since she seemed to have some theories on Socialism. It was late when they returned to Smithers Alley, and, as Mrs. Clanders met a friend on the way with whom she desired to have a few words, Del-, court slipped past into the building. I As he did so there came to him out of! the darkness the sound of a sob. It was such a little sob that it nearly got swallowed up in the street clamour. But Delcourt was quick-cared and he heard the sound*. Investigation discovered a boy gulping down tears wholesale. The joyous Delcourt had a kindly heart. In spite of the trail of the red herring, he had enjoyed his evening. The humanity around him stirred his pride and patriotism. He had expected London slums to be all tragedy; instead, he found the irrepressible British pluck' bursting triumphant through environment and making laughter in the dreariest of places. So far he had found laughter predominate over tears. So, with more reason, he asked what these tears were for. The boy answered breathlessly. He had lost his day's earnings of a shilling. One Nonnie —a sister—would therefore go supperless. And she had been ill. Delcourt had, in taking Fexton's place, accepted Fexton's limitations. He had no cheque book, but he bad a shilling and, learning that Dick's home was near offered to return with him. They went together, Fexton having an idea that there was an unnamed lion in the way. The boy—aged less than nine—seemed so nervous and pitiful. A pretty boy, too, with delicate features. Delcourt came to the room he was to know well enough later, and found Nonnie. She perplexed him at once. Quite naturally he had expected the 'Tilda type, and was wondering whether she, too, would boast the leaden arrangement of front curlß. Instead, he saw a slim little figure in shabby brown ■bearing itself bravely, with a superb defiance of some hidden threat. Her face was very pale, her features small, great grey eyes regarding him, solemn and lustrous. Dick's introduction was brief. He told the story of the lost shilling, and produced bread and tea with its substitute. Nonnie regarded the stranger wistfully. "If you'll be so very kind," said she, "to give the address, my little brother will bring the money back a —another day." Delcourt blushed. He was sensitive as she over his blunder, but he did not embarrass her with an apology. "I am a stranger here," said he, "and was glad of an excuse to find friends. Please pardon the intrusion." Again her solemn eyes searched his face. "You are not : " she began. Delcourt made the plunge, and found a lie to stick in his throat. "My name is Robert Fexton," he said, simply. "I work at Borrocks' jam factory." She smiled. "My name is Honor Grenvane," she replied. "M—my father is—sometimes contributes to daily papers." Her lips quivered. "At present he is from home," she added, "and so " He understood, and bade brother and sister a reluctant -good-night. What weird places these slums were! He had expected to find —why! he was ashamed now to say what he had supposed East Enders to be composed of. And he had found —Honor. "The name suits her," thought he, "a perfect lady. And the room was clean —and empty of all'sort of necessities. A garret. Great Scott! —and that girl. These things ought not to be allowed." He was laughing against himself. Not so long ago he had criticised that very remark —made by Noel Fexton. "Sauce for goose and sauce for gander," murmured Delcourt, "but that poor girl! I must get her out of that hole." Then he remembered that for a year his income was at most £100 a year ... at most . . . and the limitations of one Robert Fexton forbade a generous longing to be anything but a longing. Delcourt bit bis up. He was thinking of Delcourt Castle and his Rolls-Royce car. What an odd world it was! He went back to his lodging, and slept in spite of the lingering aroma of red herring. The next day Tilda Togskins greeted him as her own familiar friend. "There's a darnce to-night," said Tilda, "at the Standale Rooms. You're coming along of mc, Robert, hey?" Delcourt grew pensive. Was dancing included in the education of Sociliasm? He was trying to b&lieve it was not. (But Tilda decided for him^

"Ifb a promise," said she. "H'an we'll do the fox-trot, eh, Dudley?" Delcourt laughed. "Righto," he replied, but even as he said it he regretted having given his word. Presentiment is an odd thing, but the impression on his mind was clear. He felt that this dance at the Standale Rooms would make a crisis not only in his study of Socialism, but in his whole life. And he disliked the persistence of Tilda. • (To he continued next Saturday.)