"George"

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 136, 10 June 1932, Page 12

"George"

By ... HOLLOWAY HORN.

CHAPTER VII.— (Continued.)

This was not exactly what ma luid meant in her reference to Uncle "William's alleged physical peculiarity, and she contemplated her partner without approval as he emptied the bottle of beer into his glass. "That girl in the blue 'at—if she calls it an 'at —is a forward cat," she said critically. "Myrdle, 'er name is," said Mr. Wagley non-eommittaiitly. "Don't 'old with these new-fangled names meself. Give me something solid like Florrie or Maud. Myrdle,. indeed! Silo good 'er making up to Stanneiiey; 'e 'ain't a bean to bless 'isself with." But Stannerly did not, apparently, object in the least to Myrdle's alleged onslaught. "They're a good-looking pair, Stan,".' Myrtle was saying sadly. "Going away together an' all. Luvly, I call it." "Young George is one of the lucky 'uns."

"An' so's Eth. But a better girl doesn't step, I will say that for 'er. Come on, Stan. Let's do this one-step." "I can't dance." "That doesn't matter. You let yourself go. You'll be orliight." "Floor's a bit slippy," Stannerley said a minute or so later. "Course it is, silly. Go looser. You're too stiff. That's better. C'arii't dance, indeed! Don't 'old me as if you was afraid of breaking me. I shan't break, take it from me! That's better! Let's 'ave the nex' one too," she said, as the band stopped. Whereupon both she and her partner applauded vociferously. "I'm getting the 'ang of it," Stan-

nerley said. "Course you are. Y r ou oughter come into Mossford on Sat'dy nights. There's simply luvly dances at the Congress Hall. From nine until twelve. Only one an' a tanner. Look 'ere, Stan, I'll stan' you a ticket this Sat'dy." "No. I'll get me own picket, thenks. I'm not as 'arcl up as all that. I say. there's Uncle AVilliam back among the booze. He's three sheets in the wind already." "He's happy enough," Myrtle replied, with truth. "You don't know Uncle William. Come on!"

" 'Allo, Stannerley!" the old reprobate greeted them. " 'Ere's to you. An' to you, miss." Solemnly Uncle William emptied his glass. His hat was still firmly on his sinful old head. "I can only 'ope, Stannerley, that when you are—" here Uncle William hiccupped—"l can on'y hope," he repeated, "that you will 'ave it done as proper as what yer brother 'as done. 'Oo is the young lady, Stannerley?" "Look 'ere, Uncle William, you've 'ad enough." Uncle William smiled indulgently at the folly of youth. "Not me," he said. "Not your—hie—Uncle William. There isn't enough, Stannerley." "I think you've 'ad enough, too," said Myrtle.

"'Ow d'you do?" asked Uncle William politely. At that moment there was a surprising interruption in what might have proved to be an interesting conversation, so that Myrtle was unable to tell Uncle William if and how she did. It was caused by no less, a person than the leader of the orchestra. "You ready?" he demanded, and for the first time Stannerley noticed that his uncle was carrying his cornet. "I'm allus ready." "Good. Then I'll introduce you to the comp'ny." "They all know me," protested Uncle William. "I mean announce you. Usual thing, you know. Ladies and gentlemen," he went on in a loud voice, which momentarily quelled the babel around. "I have a pleasant surprise for you. Mr. William Bunyan, the—er—well-known cornet player, has offered to give a selection, unaccompanied, on his instrument. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. William Bunyan." Uncle William, still wearing his hat, beamed, and if he had been a little more certain of himself would unquestionably have bowed. "D'you want the note?" asked the pianist, who was, even when sober, a wag. "The note!" demanded iTncle William. "What 'ud I want with a note for? Don't mind a ten-bob one, young fellow." "La'ys and gents," he went on, "Tm going to c—c —c —begin with ' 'Ome, sweet 'ome.'"

Uncle William raised his cornet to hie lips. He seemed to experience rather a difficulty in getting the cornet into juxtaposition with his mouth, but at length he did so, apparently to his satisfaction. One o>f the young wimmin, as ma called them in moments of disapproval, tittered. This particular young woman tittered in such a strangely penetrating tone that in a moment everyone (still with the exception of the aforementioned blood relations) joined in. Uncle William carefully removed his cornet from hie mouth and gazed on the assembly with mild surprise. This was no way to treat an artist. But Uncle William was too big a man to be upset by any titter, and, wisely ignoring the various noises, he replaced the cornet carefully and began.

His first note cut through the noise like a knife. Once Uncle William was in hia etride there was no stopping him, and before the first verse of the pathetic old song was finished he had reduced his unruly audience to silence. One would like to claim it as an artistic triumph, to hold it up as an instance of the extraordinary effect of music on primitive intelligence, but one cannot, in sober truth, do so. Uncle William stood stiffly during the applause, for Uncle William was too old a bird to riek bowing. He removed the mouthpiece and shook the instrument before he solemnly announced that he would next play them "Lemme Like a Soldier Fall." The entire band was listening with complete enjoyment. There was no professional jealousy. Even the blood relations were breathing a little more easily.

The wish expressed in Uncle William's second solo was not granted. He fell, it ie true, but hardly as a soldier is popularly supposed to fall. It happened halfway through the song. For some time he had been swaying gently, and unfortunately one of his sways went a little too far, and he toppled off the platform.

He fell, as even greater men have fallen, with a big clatter, but willing hands helped him to rise, and halfcarried him to the recess on the other side of the platform.

One young man brought him his cornet, which he had dropped in the fall, and Myrtle handed him his hat, which had become detached at the same time.

"Me 'at!" lie said. "Curious, but I didn't miss it. Tha's curious. Thenks, me dear." Firmly he replaced his headgear and announced that he was ready to 'ave another go, but the band were starting up and lie was dissuaded.

"You're all right!" said Stannerley, soothingly. "Only don't you move out o' that chair, whatever happens. See , /" Uncle William nodded, but it is very doubtful if ho could sue. An hour later, when the happy pair departed, ho certainly could not. CHAPTER VIII. "Well, here we arc, Mrs. Rawlhlgts," said George, as the hired car turned into the open country leavin;;' Triuiwtead and the guests and Uncle William behind them. "I'm glad it's over, George; I rcely am. It all seemed like a dream." 1 "Still, all's well what ends well, is my motto." "I thought you ';ui another one, George,' , she said, quietly. "What 1 'ave I 'old .". . eggsackly!" He took her in his arms as a man may •surely do his lawful wife, even in a saloon car consisting mainly of window,-;. Certainly the stoic at the wheel aaw nothing, or gave no sign if he had seen. "I tole Spratt to drive through Mossford." "Then we'll pass the ole shop," ohe exclaimed, excitedly. "Here is Mossford. There's the old picture palace. It doesn't seem real, George. I know every inch of, the place. but looking out on it like this it all seems dift'rent. Here's the shop." Eth peered into the great establishment which pursued the busy tenor of its way just as if she were etill at her old counter. "Some other girl's got my job," she

said. "What of it?" George was surprised at the sudden wistfulness in her voice. "I dunno, George. You do love me, don't you?" "You wait," said George. "Course I love you. What else would I 'ave gone to all this expense for?" "I know ... I feel all nohow." "Course we could 'ave got to Bournemouth to-night." "To-morrow will do. I been thinking

over the theatres like you asked and I wanna go to the Coliseum. I been there once before and it was lovely. An' Ido want to-night to be lovely, George." • » • * "This way, sir," said the helpful hall porter. "Y r ou'll 'ave to sign in a book at the counter and then we go up in the lif." "Thcnks," said George, and with an assurance that won Eth's unstinted admiration, strolled casually to tiie counter indicated. Behind this counter was a most extraordinarily elegant young woman. "We . . . reserved rooms," said George. "Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings ?" "That's us." She indicated a line and held out a pen. Very firmly George wrote: "Mr. and Mrs. Geo. Rawlings, Tringstead," and turned to where Eth and the large porter awaited him. Silkily the lift went up and up, but at length it stepped as lifts always do. "This way, sir." They followed him along a red-car-peted corridor to a door marked 82, watched him dump the suitcases on little stands at the foot of an immense bed. "There's the bell, sir," he said. "If you want anythink. ring." "Thenke," said George. And with that the large hall porter tactfully withdrew. "I don' believe they ever guessed we were just married!" Eth said the moment the door was closed. "I'm not so sure, Eth. Well, here we are. An' eo far, as the monkey said when he fell down the shaft of a coal mine, so good." "Jew ever see such an enormous bedroom! Two great beds!" "Let's have a look at the view," said George, and crossed to the window. "Yes. There she is all right. Looks lovely in the evening sunlight." "There's the tramcars along the embankment. O! George, it's . . . it's all a dream!" "Not it!" he said, and slipped his arm round her waist. "Anyway, if it

is, we're jolly well dreaming together, so what's the odde?" "What's that room, George?" "The dressing room, like as not. Let's 'ave a look." "I say . . . supposing it's somebody else's room?" Eth asked in a nervous voice. "Then the dooril be locked. I'll have a look anyway. That's right," he called a moment later. "Thie'll be the dressing room. Why, it's almost as big as that one." "Let's eee what's in there, George," laughed Eth. "A barth room!" the young husband announced. "What a lovely one!" cried Eth. "All white ... silver taps an' all. An' towels . . . look at them, big as a tent, would you believe it?" "It's a suit, that's what it is. A euit!" eaid George firmly. "Water's that hot, you can 'ardly bear your hand in it," said Eth. "What's the time, George I" "Five-thirty. Feel like tea?" "Should love a cup!" "We'll have it in the bedroom. There's two armchairs and a table in the window. I'll ring." A chambermaid responded almoet at. once. "Er. . ." began George, who had expected his friend the large hall-porter, "I—l want some tea, miss. Tea and toas'." "Very good, sir. 'I'll bring it up." Eth was standing in the doorway between the two rooms. "I may as well have a wash and a bit of a brush up, George." "Why not? Lib'ty 'All, this place is. I like it, Eth." "It's lovely. Shan't be long." She disappeared and George lit a cigarette and remained looking out from the bow-shaped window at the tram care and the barges and ever-moving stream. His thoughts were jumbled. He, George Rawings, was here in a suite, in a big hotel, and people were coming and going whenever he chose to touch a blinkin' bell. That girl behind the counter in the hall downstairs had called him "sir." She wouldn't have looked: at him a month ago. And olq Eth, all \ togged up in her new rig-out, looking as good as. the best of them. j

There was a tap at the door and the maid entered bearing the tea-tray. Deftly she placed it on the table and rearranged the tra3 r . "There's nothing else at the moment, sir? I brought you some cakes as well." "Eγ . . . thenks. Thenke very much. No, there's nothing else," said George, deciding that it was wrong to address her as miss. In any case, she might be mfyried as far as he could till, •Come on, ole Eth," he cnlk'il.

She came in singing a eong—a theme song from one of. the films they had sren together in the old days. She had touched up her hair and powdered her nose and looked most deliciously fresh in his eves. Her checks were Hushed. '"Jew ever see that film called "Alf's Button?" she asked as she sat down at the tabic. "Yes." "This is it. It's magic! It isn't real, say what you like." "This toas , is." "So's this tea. But it's all a dream!" "Then don't wake up, old Eth. You look very pretty indeed asleep, if you don't mind me sayin' so!" "The girls in the shop are all workin' away. It inm't fair, George. We've got too much!'" , "Not a bit of it. Have some toas'. It's good." It was growing dusk outside. "I got an idea," <said George. "Let's walk along the Strand to the Coliseum and get the tickets, and then go into tlio pictures for s,n hour?" "Let's!" echoed Eth. The hall-porter opened the door for thein. "What time'* dinner?" George asked. "At six-thirty, sir. From that hour onwards." "Splendid," said George. They made their way to the Strand along which famous thoroughfare they strolled arm-in-arm. The shops were fascinating and they progressed slowly. By tlio time they had booked their seats, it was seven o'clock. "Would you believe it?" demanded Eth. "Wo'll stroll buck. There's no time for the pictures. We'll 'ave to be quick. The show at the Coliseum starts at a quarter past eight."

The big dining-room at the hotel was tlio least bit overpowering. It is a room of gilt and mirrors and rather old-fashioned, but it greatly impressed George and his wife with its aloof distances. George was wearing a new suit of blue serge, which, as he had informed Eth, wae krect for everything.

"You'll be all right!" George had said to Eth as they came down the broad stairs together. "We're jolly well paying for what we're 'aving and you can't do more than that. All you got to do is to adopt a confident air."

"That's all very well up to a point." "Anyway, you look okay, my dear. Never seen you look better and that's saying a mouthful."

I Eth, indeed, was a pleasant sight. Sho was wearing a neat little frock which she had bought after consultation with Nastasia, the comfortable person who ran the smart little shop in Mossford. Nastasia had said that it was a Paris model, but on this point Nastasia had lied. It was made of blue crepe de chine and—still one's authority is Nastasia—was semi-evening. Eth had carefully chosen stockings and shoes to match. Her hair, of course, had been "done" specially only that morning and, on the whole, she presented a most attractive appearance to all who regarded her, and not merely to George, who was obviously prejudiced. Her nervousness was betrayed, perhaps, by her clutching the little silk bag she carried.

(To be continued daily.)