"The Prodigal and the Provision Merchant"

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 226, 23 September 1932, Page 13

"The Prodigal and the Provision Merchant"

(By WALLACE LLOYD.)

Part 11. Gilbert smiled. "Yes," he said, "I shall tell you my life story; but first we shall have another drink; it is dry work, talking." The waiter was again summoned. John settled back in his chair with a sense of comfort and well-being. He was conscious of a rosy glow that obscured all but the entrancing prospect of listening to an account of his cousin's adventures. And Gilbert was certainly an entertaining talker —he might have added, especially after one's sixth whisky. Forgotten was the fact that Alice would be annoyed with him for defaulting at dinner time; forgotten, too,.was the fact that he was a staid, business man; and ho waited like a child that is about to indulge in some new and exciting pleasure. Hβ became aware that Gilbert was speaking. "I do not think that I could give you an account of my doings in chronological order, John," Gilbert began. "For you, I supppose, one thing has smoothly followed another in placid harmony; but life for me has been a series of events and situations. And I have enjoyed every one of those situations to the full—even tho three months I spent washing dishes in a hash-house. Have you ever washed greasy dishes in a smelly eating house scullery and found romance in it, John? But of course you haven't; nor have you felt the sea wind upon your cheek, nor watched the dancing girls, in the bazaars, swinging their hips. You have not lived, John; you have merely existed in a highly respectable, strictly conventional way." John was visibly impressed. "And what do you intend doing when you have sold the house?" he asked. "I am not sure, yet," Gilbert answered. "But lam sure of one thing, there is a great big world at my doorstep, and I have not seen one-tenth of it yet. As soon as things are fixed up here I shall go out into that world again." John leaned suddenly forward in his chair. "I will go with you," he said. "You ?" "And why not?" John demanded. "Am I too old to look for adventure ? I have always wanted to see the world and never had the opportunity. Even six months abroad would make a new man of me. Jackson could manage the business as he does during my annual holidays." He poured out his disjointed arguments and sat back in his chair, casting a pleading look at his cousin. "And Alice ?" Gilbert reminded. "What would she have to say?" "I am master in my own home—er— that is, I could be." "You may think differently in the morning," said Gilbert. John was annoyed. "Oh! I know you think I am drunk or mad," he accused. "Very well, I will show you." He leapt to his feet, glared round the room and, descrying the white-coated waiter in a far corner, bellowed, "Hero, you! Two whiskies, and make it snappy." Eleven o'clock found them with their chairs a trifle closer together. John, with eyes shining, was hanging on every word that issued from his cousin's lips. "To-night has been a revelation to me, Gilbert," he said. "I feel that I have been stagnating all these yearsj wasting my time when I might have been living in the true sense of the word. However, I shall remedy that. I must go now, I suppose, it is getting late."

The two men rose, John collected his hat and coat, and they sauntered towards the street door. "Well, Gilbert," said John, "I shall see you to-morrow morning to make arrangements." "You are quits, determined to come with me, John?" "Quite determined." "You are at liberty to change your mind to-morrow, if you wish." "I shall not change my mind," said John, resolutely. "Very well, John. Good-night." "Good-night, Gilbert." John went forth into the night. He would stroll home, he decided. He walked along the main street, passing , the Humphrey establishment without so much as a sideways glance and commenced to climb the hill to the residential part of the town. So he was to see the world at last he thought; and he thrilled at the thought. What a relief to be away from this smiifr, iiarrowminded place. Alice would be difficult, of course, but he would be firm. That was the trouble he had not been firm enough in the past, and the result was that his family had come to regard him (when it had bothered to think about him at all) as an inevitable but unimportant part of the household. In everything he had been overruled and overridden. From Alice it had always been "the children," the children this, and the children that. Well* he would alter that, he would give them something to think about before he left. With this determination he turned the corner and came within sight of his home. There were two shadowy forms in the gateway. One of them was Diana, the other he recognised as ner latest conquest, a vapid, pimply-faced youth who affected voluminous trousers and a semiintelligent expression. John advanced and halted squarely in front of them. "What are you doing out of the house at this hour?" he demanded. Hie daughter was too dumbfounded to answer. . . "To vour bed!" he thundered, pointing dramatically towards the house. Diana gave vent to a faint squeal and sped, like a startled hare, 'up the pathway. Her swain stood, with eyes a-goggle, opening and closing his mouth spasmodically like a freshly-landed gurnard. A stubby forefinger jabbed him in the midriff.

"Young man," boomed the owner of the finger in an awful voice, "take yourself ami your trousers out of my sight. Away! *Bolt!" The youth wheeled and scampered into the darkness, his feet beating out a hurried tattoo that gradually died in the distance. John squared his shoulders. He was gaining confidence. And now for Alice.

She waited,, all unsuspecting of the approaching disturbance, a dimly discernible mountain under the bedclothes, in the soft-lighted bedroom. The door opened to admit a triumphant, determined-looking John. "John, where on earth have you been?" she greeted him, querulously. "I had dinner with Gilbert," he answered, as carelessly as possible. "Gilbert 1" "Cousin Gilbert." "That reprobate? Back here?" "He is my cousin," John reminded, stoutly. "More's the pity, ,, snapped his wife. "Moreover," said John, throwing his bombshell, "I am going away with him shortly." Alice sat bolt upright in bed. "Away? Whore V "Anywhere. Everywhere." "You are mad," she declared. "I am quite sane," he argued. "I have always wanted to travel, and now I intend to, by George!" "At your age?" "Forty-five is not old. Anyway, I am going to see the world, Alice. I am going to feel the sea wind on my cheek; I am going to eee the dancing girls in the bazaars—er—swinging their —ah— hips." Alice threw her arms in the air. ''I knew it," ehe wailed. "You are drunk. I knew it the moment you came into the room. You have been drinking with that wretch. Don't deny it. Oh! Tho humiliation! Everyone will know—the vicar, the neighbours—everyone!" "Be silent," John commanded. "How dare you speak to your wife in that tone?" she blazed. "How dare you come home drunk and shout at me?" She broke down and burst into a salvo of sobs. "I c-c-can't understand it: you never behaved like this before. What will people say? Think of the children." "Blast the children!" John exploded. He turned savagely on his heel and stamped out of the house.

Everywhere."

Out in the garden all was quiet. John walked between the rows of vegetables with a pensive air. These domestic quarrels were very unsettling. He felt better out here; this was the one place where he could feel at rest. Who would take care of hie garden when he was gone, he wondered? Nobody, he supposed. He would be sorry to leave it. And that marrow—the biggest one; strange, he had never realised, until now, that he loved that marrow as a brother. He knelt in the damp earth and caressed its satin skin with trembling fingers. Perhaps Alice was right, after all; perhaps he was too old to think of realising those youthful aspirations. The big world Gilbert had spoken of was not for him; hie was a small corner of that world —his shop, his garden, his bowls. He turned sadly from the marrow patch and went indoors. Alice was sitting up in bed, just as he had left her. ishe sensed his indecision immediately. She epoke no word, but her mind was working furiously. She must strike now, she determined, while he was yet undecided. Not with cajolery would she gain her point, but with inexorable authoritativenees. She launched her attack when John, pyjama-clad, crawled between the sheets. "John." "Yes, dear?" "What nonsense was that about your going away?" "Er—ah —" "You were joking, of course?" "Yes, of course, my dear, er—joking." "I am surprised at your behaviour; drinking with that cousin of yours. You know his reputation?" «I_ah_» "To think that you should be swayed by such a person. I shall expect you not to see him again. He appears to have a demoralising effect upon you. I shall make a point of seeing him to-morrow, much as I dislike associating with him, and giving him a piece of my mind." "It will be unnecessary, my dear, I—" "That will do, John. I shall most certainly see him." "Very well, dear." She smiled to herself in the darkness. Her victory was complete. But no, not quite complete. "And, John." "Yes, dear?" "You will not come home drunk again." "No, dear." "The children —" "Exactly." "Good-night, John." "Good-night, my dear." ■ THE END.