"George" What I 'ave I'll 'old

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 125, 28 May 1932, Page 7 (Supplement)

"George" What I 'ave I'll 'old

By ... HOLLOWAY HORN.

CHAPTER I. Coming Into Money. The two young men left their car in the main road of Tringstead and continued their journey along Halliday Stree-t on foot. It was rarely that such splendidly dressed young men were seen there, and they attracted much attention. One of them was wearing lavender-coloured spats; the second carried a very expensive looking camera. At number eighty they paused, and the one with the spats surveyed the house without approval, before he knocked at the door.'

There was no reply, so he knocked again. Someone, lie was suddenly aware, was peering at him through the lace curtains. He felt rather self-conscious and adjusted his tie as the door opened to reveal Mrs. Rawlings, a very large, overblown lady of sixty or thereabouts. "Er . . . good morning," said the young man brightly. "Does Mr. George Rawlings live here?" "'E does," ehe said. "Whad'you want with 'iin?" "I . . . er . . . rather wanted to see him." "Whaffor? You come from the 'Weekly Tribune' ? " sho asked eagerly. "I have!" "Come inside . . ." Welcome took the place of suspicion in Mrs. Kawlings' attitude to her visitors. Neighbours up and down the road were peering out of windows and doors, for tho fact that George Rawling3 had sent in a coupon containing twenty-seven correct football results in the great competition was already well known in the immediate locality.

The two young men followed Mrs. Rawlings into a narrow passage and thence into what was evidently the living room.

"You appear to know that we are the bearers of good news?" the young man with tho spats suggested. "I know that our George got 'is coopong right, if that's what you mean. 'Ow many was there?" The old lady shot out the question as if ehe were a catapult. "Correct coupons?" "Yes." "Only one." "Oh, my Lawd!" exclaimed Mrs. Rawlings. "That means 'e's won seven thousand pounds?" "It does."

She sat down so heavily that the armchair, lacking her enthusiasm, creaked ominously. "There's an 'itch in it somewhere," she asserted.

"I don't think so. But where is your son? Tho winner is your son?" "Yes. 'E's my son, an' a good lad, what's more. 'E's gorn to work."

"Where does ho work? We shall have a little article in the paper about him, of course." "Mossford. 'E's a barber. I mean a nairdresser. Fifty, Newlyn Road, Mossford. You get a 'bus at the bottom of the road. I'll . . . I'll comnierlong with you." "I'm afraid that we have a car with us, and what with cameras and what not there won't be room for you," the young man said hurriedly. "Mossford . . . we must have passed it on our way from town!" "You would 'ave, M ehe agreed. "Would you young gents take a spot of port wine? Got three bolls in on Saturday night when George knew 'e'd sent in a kreck coopong." "No thanks," said the young man, hurriedly. "You know," the gentleman of the epats said to his companion when they had regained their car. "It would be better for these people if that seven thousand pounds was sunk at the bottom of the sea." "Doubt it," said the photographer. I d risk it, anyhow." "Three 'bolls' isn't a bad start .

on the strength of it!" "It all depends on what kind of a chap George is." The ehop where George Kawlings worked in Mossford was, superficially at least, quite clean. When the young men entered, one of the two assistants was engaged, but the other turned to them with a pleasant emile. "Shave?" he asked. "No. We want to see Mr. George Rawlings . . . ." "You from the 'Weekly Tribune ? the young man asked, with sudden, mippressed excitement. "Yes. We have come to congratulate s °His companion had left an unfortunate and lathered customer to join the

scene. "How many correct coupons?" George Rawlinga asked the question in a tone of forced calm. "Only one, Mr. Eawlings. Your own! I am happy to tell you that you have won seven thousand pounds." "Well done, George!" said his fellow assistant, heartily. "Seven thousand quid! Why, you're a millionaire!" "What's all this?' demanded a stout little man, entering from a door at the back of the ehop. "Wodger mean by leaving a customer like that?" He jerked his thumb towards the still partially-lathered customer. "I'm all right, Mr. Jarvey," the customer insisted. "These gentlemen 'ave called to eee me," George explained. "That doesn't stop 'Erbert getting on with his job, does it?" Mr. Jarvey asked. "I'm all right," reiterated th© job, and added in a faint voice, "He's won seven thousand pounds." "I'm the representative of the Weekly Tribune,' one of the young gentlemen put in. "My name is Barcombe. This gentleman is our photographer. He wants to get a few snaps. I take it you are Mr. Rawlings employer 1" "D'you mean to tell me that George 'ere 'as won that eeven thousand? the employer asked incredulously. "Seven thousand of the best," said the representative of the "Weekly Tribune."

"You aven't lent 'im any money or signed anytMnk, 'ave you?" Mr. Jarvey demanded of George. "No," said George, sharply. "Where d I get money from to lend?" "Look 'ere," said Mr. Jarvey. 111 finieh this gent!" Evidently his feelings were almost too much for him, and he° found solace in vigorously lathering the job left suspended, as it were, between earth and heaven. "I rather think we'll take a group outside. Mr. George Rawlings and his employer would be very effective." "We've bin more like pals than master and man, 'aven't we George?" Mr. Jarvejr demanded, looking tip from 'Ids job.

"In a way," said George, without enthusiasm. "I suppose you brought the cheque with you?" he went on to Mr. Barcombe.

"No. That will Le sent to you in the ordinary way on Thursday. In the meantime there are a few things I should like to ask you. We publish a little article, on each big winner, you know, with your photo and so on."

George adjusted his tie. "I 6ee," he said. "Look 'ere. Stick this down. I'm the centre-forward of Tringstead Football Club—the Wednesday eleven." "You mean you actually play football?" the young man aeked in obvious surprise. "Yes. On Wednesdays only. I could never get osi on Saturday afternoon." "You 'ad several Saturday afternoons orf, George," protested Mr. Jarvey. "Two, and then I was ill. I used to play on Wednesday afternoon, though." "You gave up your half-holiday to football?" Mr. Barcombe suggested.

"Yes," 6aid George. "That's fine. Fine," he repeated. "So often we find that theee prizes are won by elderly ladies or almost equally hopeless people. It gets the idea about that there's a big element of luck in these competitions. We want to stress the skill and in your case it will be simple. Couldn't bo better!" "What George doesn't know about football ain't knowledge," said his colleague, and then added in an awed voice as if to make his meaning perfectly clear: 'Seven thousand pound!'" "Are you engaged to be married?" Mr. Barcombe went on. "You see," he explained. "It's the human touch we're after. Our readers simply insist on the human touch. The fact is, Mr. Eawlings, every one of them will be wishing that he were you." "You say you 'aven't the cheque with you?" George asked again. "No. That will be sent from the cashier's department. You were saying that you were engaged, I believe." "I never said anything of the kind." "You are not engaged," Mr. Barcombe said, sadly. "Not as you might say engaged," George put in. "I've got a young lady, if that's what you mean." "Excellent! And, of course, this great prize will enable you more easily to get married 1"

"There is that," eaid George- with a certain hesitation. He had not thought of the matter in that light. "What about that photo?" Mr. Jarvey put in as he finished tho job. "I've a fancy to be taken with George, as you eaid."

"Wo all ought to be in it," Herbert insisted.

"We all will be in it," said George.

Thus it fell out that the entire staff of the establishment was snapped outside the ehop and afterwards, George (on right) was again snapped in the act of being congratulated by the representative of the "Weekly Tribune" (presumably on left) on his brilliant success. This done tlie two young gentlemen "took themselves orf"—the deplorable phrase is Mr. Jarvey's—and xintil the following Friday morning George hoard no more of the "Weekly Tribune" or the seven thousand pounds. On the Friday morning, incredibly, the cheque arrived in a registered envelope. Registered letters were not often delivered in Halliday Stret, and it seemed to George that the entire road was- on its doorsteps watching him sign the receipt whilst the postman waited deferentially. The postman indeed waited until George opened the envelope and was the first to examine the cheque after George. "It's a bit of orlright," the postman said, after a calm scrutiny during which, for somo obscure reason, he held the cheque up to the light. "A bit of orlright," he repeated as ho warmly shook George's hand. In the kitchen awaiting George with ill-concealed anxiety were his father, mother, sister and brother. A pleasant smell of frying bacon filled the room— indeed, it filled the whole house, and made its way triumphantly into the street.

"Was it the money?" hie mother asked.

"Yes, ma," said George, with elaborate caeualness. "Let's have another cup of tea."

"My boy!" she gurgled. "Anythink, anythink you like." Hurriedly ma poured out the required tea. "More often than not, in my experience, money's proved more of a curse than a blessing," eaid George's father, Saul Rawlings. "Now Saul, don't you start, admonished ma, "you'd better bo getting along. It only wants a quarter to eight." "I know what the time ie," said Saul Rawlings. "You going to work to-day, George?" "Well," temporised George, "I 'adn't thought about it. I gotta see about the cheque for one thing. 'Ere, let's 'ave it back, Florrie. S'no use smellin' it!" The wonderful cheque, which had been minutely examined by the whole family, was duly handed back to its lawful owner. 'Work's the only thing that matters, in the long run," said Saul, who alone of tho family appeared in rather a melancholy mood. "Lot of good it's done you!" ma said. "You ain't earning much more as a gardener than what many of 'cm gets at the labour." "Likely not," eaid Saul Rawlings, and rose rather rhoumatically. "I'll be getting along, I reckon. Only yesterday the missus up at the lodge aeked If it was right about George." "Look at that now!" exclaimed Mrs. Rawlings. "I'll come along with you to the bank, said George's elder brother, when their father had. gone. "Don't you bother," said George curtly. "I'll be all right." "Uppish!" sneered the brother. "If you like,"- agreed George. "You keep out of it, Stan," eaid the mother.

"Life's a funny thing, ma. One son out of work and the other a -millionaire," eaid Stan. "Millionaire my aunt!" exclaimed George. You could 'ave jrot > work times enough if you'd wanted to." "Now, no quarrelling this morning," ma said sternly. "There's a bol of port wint not touched yet. Let's all 'ave a glass to wish him luck." " 'Ere, 'ere," said Stan, who shared his mother's weakness for the sweet, red wine she insisted on describing as port. "Xot for me. I'm orf," said George. "I got a job of business on 'and, and I want a clear head." "Anyway, I'm going to the Labour Exchange. I suppose you don't mind walking with your brother as far as that?" "No, I don't mind. Only I won't ave you hanging about in the bank." And presently they set out together. George, a boy of twenty-three, and hie brother Stan, a mar of forty, dark "> A

disillusioned. Many of the neighbours watched them, and perhaps noticed the contrast thej- afforded. Stan shambled along, a cigarette stuck limply to his lower lip. He seemed loose, shabby, nerveless. George, partly, perhaps, owing to the excitement of the cheque, carried himself well. He was far more alive. Ho looked like a man who played games; Stan one who watched.

"Some folks get all the luck," Stan grumbled.

"Some folks don't deserve any luck," George said. "I'm not going to be sucked dry by you. I know you." "That fifteen bob I owe you —are you 'arping on that?" Stan demanded. "No. You can keep that." "Thanks," said Stan in disgust. "Thanks very much. You'll soon be like all the wealthy classes. Where's all wealth come from?"

"You've got no complaint. You've not done a job of work to my knowledge for eighteen months," snapped George, and added with unmistakable finality as they reached the crowd at the Labour Exchange, "So long."

He had made up his mind to consult the particular bank manager he had chosen because Mr. Strawbridge was interested in tho town football club, and on one occasion had attended the club dinner at the King's Head. He reached the bank at nine o'clock, to discover that it did not open until ten. "Damn!" said George.

He walked on, and. a little way down the high street he turned into a fcv.ie that led to the canal. He was glad to be alone. It was difficult to think clearly in the boeom of his family, and in the bedroom he shared with Stan the ceaseless grumbling made it even worse. Ho took out the cheque and examined it again carefully. It was signed by three different people —two directors and a secretary. It was the first cheque George had ever possessed in his life. And it was for seven thousand pounds. That bit of pink paper meant seven quid a week for ever. Tire thought rather staggered George. For ever and ever. Seven quid a week. He lit a cigarette.

It was rather pleasant on the canal bank. There was a watercress bed near by, and men were cutting huge bundles of it. They would work all day, and at the end of a week might get fifty bob. There was a snag somewhere. There were three men cutting. They'd earn, he pondered, about seven quid a week between them. And this bit of pink paper could do juet the same. For ever and ever.

Of course it was capital. You had to look at it like that. It would provide employment. Ho had once attended a political meeting, where one of the speakers had culled capital "a saered trust." He had heard other people call it other things, but you had to look at it like tho fellow who thought it was a sacred trust. You had to use it wisely. It was responsibility. It wasn't all fun being wealthy, not by a long chalk. So George pondered ae he glanced at his watch. Nine forty-five. On other days he would have- been in the little shop in Mossford latheiing scrubby chins. Scrubby chine, that spring morning, were suddenly and extraordinarily distasteful. Better be getting to the bank. (To be continued daily.)