"The Prodigal and the Provision Merchant."

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 225, 22 September 1932, Page 20

"The Prodigal and the Provision Merchant."

(By WALLACE LLOYD.)

Part I. At two minutes past nine John Humphrey walked firmly along the main street. As he drew abreast the entrance of the bank, he veered slightly to the left and continued, at the edge of the pavement, until he reached Mrs. Pringle's little stationery shop. He lifted his hat, and wished a good • morning to Mrs. Pringle, a little mouselike woman, Who stood, armed with a red-handled feather duster, in the doorway; then, with a quick left turn, he was confronted with the gleaming front of his store immediately opposite. At this point John paused a moment, in reverence and awe, as he surveyed the building. His eyes travelled from the windows to the sign overhead; not a flamboyant sign, but a sign in keeping with the firm, plain lettered and refined: John Humphrey and Sons, General Providers. His brief obeisance over, John quickly crossed the street, and was swallowed by the glistening plate-glass and nickel. Mrs. Pringle turned from the doorway, and began carefully to dust the already speckless, orderly row of paper-covered books. She wore the air of one who had just watched a procession go by. She had witnessed Mr. Humphrey's arrival every morning for the past twenty years, and seemed to derive a great deal of comfort from the spectacle. She knew exactly when he would perform his side-step outside the bank so that he would obtain a clear view of the Humphrey establishment; she knew, also, what was passing through his mind when ho stood, in wonder and admiration, opposite his shop, as if he saw, for the first time, the realisation of his fondest dreams. A mentally wellordered person herself, Mrs. Pringle greatly admired consistency and regular habits in other persons, and Mr. Humphrey certainly came up to her standards. A customer entered the shop, a stranger, Mrs. Pringle noticed, as she placed herself behind the counter and gazed inquiringly upward, in her best shop -manner, at the .tall, bronzed stranger. ,'. '•'. •,';:' : [: '... "Stamps," he murmured. Mrs. Pringle shot out a lean hand, brought down a bulky portfolio, and turned its pages. '"Penny?" she inquired. "Please." "How many ?" "Twelve." "One shilling, please. you." The tall man paused a moment. ''Was that Mr. Humphrey whom I saw crossing the street, just now?" he asked. The little lady methodically closed the stamp book and placed it in its pigeonhole before replying. "Yes, that was Mr. Humphrey; he always arrives at this time." "He would," said the stranger, half to himself. Then: "His business seems to be a flourishing one—much more so than when I was last here." . This was an invitation. Mrs. Pringle loved to talk. Given an interested audience and a suitable subject, she was quite capable of exhausting that subject —even, perhaps, of exhausting her audience also. The little lady took a deep breath, pursed her lips slightly and began: — "Yes, indeed, Mr. Humphrey has done well, and he deserves to prosper. He is an excellent man. I knew his grandfather, old Mr. John, who founded the business. When old Mr. John died— his two sons were already dead —the present Mr. John and his cousin, Gilbert, inherited the business. "It was just a small shop then. Mr. Humphrey bought out his cousin, who was a frivolous yountr man; rather a scapegrace I am afraid. There were certain things whispered .... He went gallivanting in foreign parts after the death of his grandfather. None has heard of him for years. Perhaps he is dead." The stranger smiled. "Oh, no! He is < very much alive," he said. : Mrs. Pringle was put off her stroke. "You know him?" she queried. j "Very well; I happen to be Gilbert ; Humphrey." The lady was all confusion. "Oh! I—er—beg your pardon!" she stammered, seizing her feather duster as if j preparing to ward off an attack. , "Please don't mention it," begged Gilbert. "I suppose I left a pretty ] putrid sort of reputation behind me when I went abroad." [ "Well," said the little lady, endeavour- c ing to recover her composure, "In a small place like this, people do talk." "I had noticed that," observed the other, drily. ( He strolled out of the shop, leaving its 1 proprietress in a mixed state of twittering anxiety and bubbling excitement. So the prodigal had returned. She must " get busy; there were people to be told. ' She must tell them. ' Mr. Humphrey's stenographer entered ' the inner office with the bearing of a v pilgrim approaching a hallowed shrine, e She knocked on the jrlass panel of the s office door, entered silently and, in the hushed voice with which she invariably c addressed her employer, announced: s "Mr. Gilbert Humphrey, to see you, sir." I John leapt to his feet, dumbfounded-. I "Good God! Not young Gilbert?" he d demanded. The young lady regarded him blankly. v "Mr. Gilbert Humphrey," she repeated v firmly. jj 1 "Oh—ah—show him in." John met his cousin with outstretched arms. "Welcome home, Gilbert," he jj greeted. "Thank you, John." They shook hands. As they stood . together the difference between the two , was apparent. The one inclined to embonpoint and baldness; the other , straight, lean and browned. The one . with a slightly ponderous air; the other with an alertness that had something of , carelessness and a disregard of conse- , quences about it. , An awkward silence for a moment. ; Then f vom Gilbert: "Looking prosperous, John." . in "Oh—ah—can't complain; . doing my "' share, you know." "I have.': just been listening to a tl pan;gvrie of your virtues and accom- *'.' plislimcnts from Mrs. Pringle," said Gil- cl bert. "She did not remember me." 1" "Oh!" tl "She imparted the information that *' vou arc an excellent man." ' "Did she?" th

"She also informed me that she knew our grandfather; and coupled the two pieces of intelligence as if the fact that she was acquainted with grandfather was, in some way, responsible for your excellence." John waved a depreciative hand. "Mrs. Pringle is quite a well-meaning old lady," he said, "but a trifle garrulous."

"A local failing, as I have already discovered," Gilbert commented. "You are not bitter, Gilbert? You gave people just cause to talk, you know." Gilbert shrugged his shoulders. "I am not bitter," he said* "I am amused. But enough of that. I'came to ask you to dine with me to-night." John hesitated. He could not invite Gilbert home. Alice, his wife, did not approve of the younger cousin, and would not suffer his presence. "Er—l—ah," he began lamely. "My dear man, surely you can spare me one evening from the bosom of your family." "Alice expects me home to dinner." "You could 'phone." "Very well," John agreed, doubtfully. "Dinner is at six—an ungodly hour to dine. I am staying at the Palace. I shall not keep you from your work now," said Gilbert, moving towards the door. "Six o'clock then, John; don't forget. He went out. John remained seated at his desk, in deep thought. He cast his mind back 25 years. He had been 20 then; and now he was 4."). Of course, he had prospered; from a small beginning he had made a success of his business. But he had spent many years of his life in attaining what prosperity he enjoyed. Had it been worth while, after all, he wondered? Perhaps he was wrong in entertaining such, thoughts, and yet, somehow, Gilbert's return had unsettled him. He remembered that Gilbert had always had that effect upon him. Even when they were boys it had been Gilbert, although the junior by two ycare, who

had hatched the most hare-brained . schemes, and, with a mocking supcrior- , ity, dared his elder cousin to join him , in his wild escapades. He half envied Gilbert his care-free : existence. Still, perhaps, he would be able to retire in a few years' time, and then he would be able to indulge in a little globe-trotting, although ho was afraid that Alice would not approve— she had her croquet and her church work, and travel did not appeal to her. Well, this was no time for day dreaming. He brushed his thoughts aside and rang for his stenographer. Punctually at six John entered the hotel lobby. Gilbert, seated in an easy chair, perusing a periodical, rose to greet him. "Well, John, did Alice consent to your dining with me?" "Alice was not at home, fortunately— er—unfortunately. I left the message with the maid." They passed into the dining room. The meal was not an entire success. John seemed a trifle distrait, and replied to his cousin's attempts at conversation with monosyllabic answers. It was not until they sat in the lounge, with whisky and soda at elbow, surveying each other through a cloud of tobacco smoke, that he became communicative. "I had often wondered what had become of you," he said, eyeing his cousin speculatively. "Of course, knowing you, I never expected you to write; nor did I ever expect you to come back here. 1 do not suppose you will stay?" "God forbid! I have merely come to view again the scenes of my wasted youth, and, incidentally, to sell the old home." "Ah! Money.?" "Certainly for money. The days of barter are over, John." "I mean, you are in need of money ?" "Yes," said Gilbert, "I need funds; and I shall never live here, so I have decided to put the house up for sale." "You have not amassed a fortune during your wanderings?" John ventured. "Not a fortune," Gilbert replied. "I have made money at times, of course, but there are times when I have lost; still, I have found adventure and a little happiness. Have you found' adventure and happiness, John, or have you merely .made money?" "I am quite happy," said John, a trifle defiantly. "As for adventure, I am pleased to say that I can find suffi- , cient excitement in what, to you, would probably be quite ordinary, "every-day things. I do not live for the business alone, you know; one has one's hobbies. ] I belong to the bowling club, and then ] there is my garden." I/,

"Roses, I suppose?" Gilbert hazarded. "Vegetables," John corrected. Gilbert threw back his head and laughed immoderately. "Good Lord! Surely not ?" he derided. "I should have thought that you could afford to buy a pumpkin or a carrot or two." "I grow vegetables because it pleases me to," said John. "There is a great deal of satisfaction in raising produce from the soil in spite of snails, frosts, and stray cats." "I believe there is a bit of the pagan in you after all, John," Gilbert mocked. "Soon you will be hunting wild animals and climbing trees." He caught the eye of a passing waiter and ordered two more whiskies. "And the family, John ?" he queried, as he sizzled the soda into his glass. "There were two children when I left — Diana and Edward." "There are two," John replied. "But, of course, they are no longer children. Edward is taking up medicine. I had hoped that he might come into the business, but Alice—er—we decided it would bo better to give him a profession." "Of course." "And now," said John, "perhaps you will tell mo where you have been and how you have fared since you left j home." (To be concluded.)