Darrow Scamps His Duty

Cromwell Argus, Volume LXI, Issue 3159, 20 April 1931, Page 2

Darrow Scamps His Duty

Complete Short Story.

THI BTORY OF A DESPERATE REMEDY. Old Darrow had been caretaker at Pennyweather Place for more years than he cared to count. Every morning since boyhood he had swilled the flagged courtyard, polished the doorknockers, beeswaxed the oak stairs. cleaned the windows, seen to it that each office had its scuttle of coal in the season proper for coal. The square courtyard, with its mulHoned windows and its grave sundial were most of old Darrow's religion, and the whole of his art. He was a man of simple tastes, and there was nothing he liked better than to loiter, when his morning's work was done, over the flower-boxes on the windowsills on a summer afternoon, snuffing up the scent of wall-flowers, marking how their ruddy tint went with the red of the roofs. He would, with a rare delight, conduct you on Saturday afternoons (when the tenants had gone home), along the old corridors flanking the offices of Messrs. Blrkin, Custume, Price, and Vivian-Darrock, pointing with a proprietorial pride to the beams.

"Oak," he would say. "Two feet tnick, and as sound to-day as they were two hundred years ago. Them beams have seen a mortal lot of changes, a power of births and deaths. Bee how they've warped? That's the beauty of 'em, Mister. Only the weight of years can put that twist in solid oak. Personally, I'm not fond of the modern craze for straight lines, everything plumb and dead true to a rule or a T square. The buildings you see nowadays are level as a billiardtable. It's wrong, Mister, it's wrong. Look at that roof out there. All bumps, and curves, and not one tile JUBt like its fellow. What I call romantic, that is." They used to ask old Darrow when he was going to retire. "Never," he would tell them. "Not that I couldn't retire if I was so minded. Maybe you've heard of Betty Breeze . . . . yes, tbe musical comedy star. She's my daughter. Many's the time she's offered to buy me a little cottage in the country. But, I'd dry up and wither out of London. There's something about the London air—this bit of it, anyway—that's like no other air." Messrs. Birkin, Custume, Price and Vivian-Darrock between them accounted for the tenancy of five of the offices into which Pennyweather Place was divided. Mr. Birkin, young, somewhat owlish-looking behind shell-rimmed spectacles, was an analytical chemist who produced stinks and occasional explosions. "March of progress, Darrow, march of progress"," he would inevitably say when gently remonstrated with by the faithful servitor. Messrs. Custume, Price, and "VivianDarrock, ranging in ages from fiftysix to thirty-five, were all lawyers, who, it may he presumed, were at pains ,to hinder the march of progress as much as possible, since the size of their Was in strict rationto the slowhess of the motion. One morning old Darrow found a man taking notes in the little courtyard.

"Morning," he said to Darrow. "Morning," was the gruff reply. "You live here, don't you?" "Man and boy, for the last forty years," said old Darrow. The man chipped a piece of mortar out of the wall, unmindful of old Darrow'a glare. He blew in the hole thus formed, and shook his head. "Dynamite," he said, "with the fuse lit. Might come down to-day this very minute —or to-morrow, or next week. Just a question of time." "What might V

"This place." The man embraced Pennyweather Place in a sweeping gesture. "The whole show. Rotten. Marvel to me how it holds together. I've examined the beams. Putrid. Worms by the million. I'd get out of if, if I were you. Give it six months at the outside." "Who are you?" asked Darrow. The man handed him a card. It said that he was A. W. Buddie, an L.C.C. surveyor. Old Darrow went Indoors, shaking. That night the "Evening Clarion" commented as follows: — CHANGING LONDON. RELIC OP THE SEVENTEEN HUNDREDS TO GO.

No more, it seems, will the old sundial in Pennyweather Place count the hours, for that ancient courtyard, unknown, we dare wager, to nine out of every ten Londoners, Is doomed, condemned by the ukase of the L.C.C. surveyor. Too many of these links with the past have gone from us in recent years, and the few that remain are such notable examples of period architecture that every effort should be made to preserve them. In the case of Pennyweather Plate a matter of two thousand poundg would ensure its preservation until, at all events, London has a County Council sufficiently enlightened to put its hand in its pocket on such occasions &b the present. As matters stand, the owner must bear the cost of repairs, and, he being quite unable to support the expense, the place must be razed to the ground. In these days of high expenses and high taxation it is asking rather a lot to require a man to part with hard cash for the sake of an aesthetic principle. Nevertheless, in openi ing a subscription list for the preservation of Pennyweather Place, we do so with full confidence that the result will exceed all expectations. Kindly send donations to the Editor, Evening Clarion.

Qld Darrow set down the paper, and looked at the oak beams and cracked

plaster above his head, at the picture of High Holborn in 1785, at the galleon placed in Its nook by the fireplace, which the dealer had assured him was carved in the seventeenth century. Quite suddenly, he developed a loud sniff and moist eyes. He felt for the first time the years pressing down on him.

Midnight found him working hard, fashioning by crude carpentry from some old timbers a box. He cut a slot in it and pasted a label thereon inscribed "Evening Clarion" Fund. Old Darrow knew his Londoners for incurable rubbernecks. He guessed that the "Clarion"' article would bring them in their scores and hundreds to gaze on Pennyweather Place, and he was determined that they should pay tribute. He was able to open his box that night and send ten pounds to the "Clarion" Fund —four pounds collected, and sis pounds from his own savings. At the end of fourteen days old Darrow, together with Messrs. Blrkin, Custume, Price and Vivian-Darrock, received notice to quit. Old Darrow shook in his shoes.

He lingered over the coal-scuttle in Mr. Blrkln's office that morning- until the tenant, impatient, swung round in his swivel chair. "Yes, Darrow?" "I—l've got a notice to quit, sir." "So have I, Darrow, so have I. Give thanks to an ever-watchful County Council, Darrow. We should undoubtedly have stayed on. Result, down comes the whole show. Five perfectly good citizens cut down in the —er— flower of their old age, what? A very efficient body, the L.C.C." "I was wondering, sir . . . ." "Yes?" "If the old place couldn't be saved. I've sort of got attached to It." "Ah! So, you're a sentimentalist? Well, I'm afraid the old place can't be saved. Seen the paper? Two hundred pounds subscribed in a fortnight. At the same rate of going that'll be four hundred pounds in a month. And, we've got a month's notice to quit. You'll come with us, of course, when we move?"

"You —you mean to say, sir," accused old Darrow, "that you would forsake the old place in—in its hour of need. Like . . . like rats leaving a sinking ship?" "Hour of need? Sinking ship? Damn it, Darrow —it's just a building. Bricks and mortar and timber. It may be art, and all that. I don't know. Never had the time for it, anyway. But, art is long, Darrow, and life is fleeting." "Yes," said old Darrow, bitterly "Bricks, and mortar, and timber. Just a building." Slowly, he made his way down the stairs.

Mr. Custume's typist had never known him to stop in the midst of dictation before. She paused, looked expectantly at her employer, then noticed that he was looking expectantly at the window directly opposite his own—the window of Number six. She followed his glance. "Within the next seven days " murmured Mr. Custume, absently, and continued to gaze with lively interest at the window of Number six. Framed in it was a young woman. Her elegant calves, clad in cobweb silk, shod In tiny pumps of patent leather, swung carelessly from the edge of the table on which she was sitting. Her left hand held a pocketmirror, her right a lipstick. Mr. Custume. having approved the calves, the slightly retrousse nose, the pencilled eyebrows, and the long-lashed eyes, dark as sloes, concentrated on the pout of the lips.

"Proceedings," he droned. "That is —er —er —legal process. The usual ending, Miss Pine." Those lips. Delicious. Never had Mr. Custume seen such lips marred under such an unexceptionable nose. Neither, it may be said, had Messrs. Birkln, Price, and Vivlan-Darrock. Their windows all faced Number six, and they had all, for the time being, suspended business. Presently, the four pairs of staring eyes were reduced by one. Mr. Birkln, ever a pushing young man, was already half-way across the courtyard. The three pairs of eyes remaining followed him with scowls. Mr. Birkln knocked on the door of Number Six—was admitted.

"Oh. good-morning,** he said, in his genial way. The young woman's smile was a delight. "Good morning," she replied. "I happened to see you out of my window." said Mr. Blrkin. "We're a kind of family, here, you know. Been here for years. I thought I'd like to welcome you on behalf —er —on behalf 99 "Of the family?" she queried, brightly. "That's it. But didn't you know the place is condemned? I mean to say, your tenancy can only last a month. Matter of fact, we all got notice to quit yesterday." "We-el." she told him, "I didn't take it from the owner. You see, I happen to know Mr. Darrow. and I got him to fix me up, temporarily.** "I see. The rest of the family, by the way. and Price, Custume. and Vivlan-Darrock. Daresay they'll* be alone to pay their respects. Well-er — tootleoo. If there's anything you want —anything I can do——" "Thanks most awfully, Mr. " "Birkln's my name."

"And mine's Winterton. Should you require any typing done, Mr. Birkm. I'll be pleased to do it. Tenpence a thousand." When Birkin got back Messrs. Price, Cnstnme. and Vlvian-Darrock were assembled on the stairs.

"How doth." said Custume, dryly, "the gay Lothario?" "Oh. rot. I just went over to —er — well, to "

"Quite. We understand." But Blrkin was in no mood for Jok-

ing. A large ache was inside him — an ache of sympathy. "Poor kid!" he murmured. "Typing, mind you, at tenpence a thousand. It's a darn shame. Oooped up in an office all day, slogging out words at a penny a hundred. I was fool enough to ask her if she ever went to any shows. She gave a sort of wry smile. It appears she's occupied every night till nine o'clock. And she had to turn out of her last office because they suddenly put the rent up. When I think of that flower, that lily " "If only," put in Price, "his wife could hear him now!"

"My wife," said Birkin, with dignity, "would understand. Hang it, the girl's no more than a child." Costume pursed his lips. "One would like," he said, "to help the kid (Miss Winterton was rising twenty-five) along. Give her a good time, make her life more bearable all that sort of thing. But, of course, it's impossible. Astonishing how news travels, even in the great metropolis. One's wife would get to know, and then—well, there'll be something to pay."

Gloomily, the others agreed. Helping the kid, giving her a good time, making her life more bearable —all that sort of thins —was definitely off. In November it is only light for half the day in London. At half-past-three a light appeared in the window of Number six. Mr. Custume ceased abruptly to read Leake on the Law of Torts, and concentrated on Miss Winterton. She was making afternoon tea. He watched with appreciation her deft performance with kettle and teapot. Youth (thought Mr. Custume) was magnetic. In his opinion elderly people owed a duty to youth. Youth should have happiness. It was up to everyone to do his 'bit. Mr. Custume arose, and took his hat from the peg. Mere camouflage. "I'm just going," he said to his typist, "along to Gray's Inn Road, to see Jenkins about that deed." Mr. Custume marched straight across the courtyard, and down the passage. Then, he turned, and tiptoed back. A furtive glance at his own window showed him Miss Pine, hard at work. Softly, he opened the outer door of Number six, closed it behind him, tapped on the door of the inner sanctum.

"Yes?" said Miss Winterton. "My name is Custume." "Oh, yes. I heard of you from Mr. Birkin. Won't you come in?" Mr. Custume accepted the invitation with alacrity, and carefully seated himself away from the window. He was now able to observe Miss Winterton at close quarters, and he found the experience mildly exciting. She was a very beautiful girl indeed, and to her beauty was added a cunning charm that went subtly to men's heads like, say, the fumes of green chartreuse. She was a creature of a thousand seductions, and a complete mistress of the art of mere movement, by which I mean that she could stir the senses with no more than a lift of her little finger.

"Two lumps, or three?" asked Miss Winterton.

"Why, this is very kind of you!"

"Not at all. I like company, for tea, Male for preference." And Miss Winterton gave Mr. Custume a glance that might only be described as saucy. He beamed delightedly. "As a matter of fact," ho lied. "I came along to see you about some typing that I want done." Miss Winterton crossed the room. Then she did a thing that thrilled Mr. Custume to the marrow ... she took his hand in hers, and gently patted it.

"Please!" she pleaded, prettily. "Not now, if you don't mind. Business is hateful at any time, don't you tMnk? So I make it a rule never to discuss it at meal times. Let's talk about something Jolly, shall we?" Mr. Custume rose nobly to what was, for him, an extraordinary occasion.

"To be sure," he said, heartily. "Let's be jolly. A little dinner. Theatre to follow. Could you manage it to-night?"

"Why, Mr. Custume, that's too sweet "

"Pleasure," Mr. Custume assured her. "Privilege, I assure you. Seven o'clock?" "Delighted." • "And —er —if you don't mind, I wouldn't like it mentioned to a soul. You see, people talk, and ... you understand?" "Perfectly." Mr. Custume left the room in a daze. It seemed scarcely possible, but he was almost convinced that Miss Winterton had favored him with a wink. He had scarcely left the office when Mr. Birkln's messenger knocked on the door and delivered a note. It said: "Dear Miss Winterton, "I have two tickets for the New Empire for Thursday evening. I know you'll be a sport, and come. Afterwards, we might drop in at the Troc. What do you say? "Yours, etc., "W. A. Blrkin.

"P.S. —Would you mind keeping awfully mum about this? I wouldn't have Custume or the others know for worlds."

A week later Miss Wlnterton said good-bye to a gentleman at Piccadilly station.

_ "I've had," said the gentleman, "the most topping evening imaginable. It's been a real pleasure. Er . . . I know I can trust you to be discreet?" "As an oyster," said Miss Winterton, solemnly. "Good-bye, Mr. VivianDarrock."

As for Mr. Price, he had already rung up several times to tell his wife that he was unavoidably detained at the office.

Old Darrow climbed the stairs one morning to Mr. Birkin's room. His

face bore a grim smile, and his eye boded trouble.

"Morning, sir," he said to Mr. Blrkin. . "Good-morning, Darrow." "I see, sir, that the 'Clarion' fund stands at fifteen hundred pounds." "Really?"

"Yes, sir. Would you care to subscribe, say, a hundred and twentyfive?"

"No, Darrow, I would uot." Old Darrow coughed. "I think you would, sir." Something in old Darrow's voice caused Birkin to turn sharply from the test-tube he was examining. "You have a wife and family, sir, * wens on old Darrow. "Look here. What tbe dev "

"A wife, no doubt," proceeded Old Darrow, imperturbably, "who trusts you whole-heartedly." "My wife is no concern . . ."

"How would you like," persisted old Darrow, "that trust to be shattered?" Birkin crosed the room. Fiercely he shoved old Darrow into a chair. "Now," he said, "what the devil are you getting*at? Out with it!"

"I will," nodded old Darrow. "To come to the point, I don't like the way you've been gallivanting around with my daughter. You ... a married man. I think it's disgraceful." Birkin looked flabbergasted. "Your . . . your daughter?" he echoed blankly.

"Miss Winterton. Otherwise known as Betty Breeze." "Well," muttered Birkin. "I need hardly say," said old Darrow, "that I consider it my duty to complain to your wife." Birkin turned a shade paler. Old Darrow rose. "But," he added, slyly. "I'm willing to scamp my duty in a good cause. Re the cheque, sir " "You old pirate," interjected Birkin. "I've a good mind " "Re the cheque, you might make it payable to the editor of the 'Clarion.' Shall I close the window, sir? There's a bit of nip in the air this morning." A moment later, old Darrow knocked on the door labelled "John Custume, Solicitor, Commissioner for Oaths." 'H'-l'^lWl "I see, sir," he began, "that the 'Clarion' fund stands at fifteen hundred pounds." !j ?! Four cheques to the value of a hundred and twenty-five pounds went off that morning to the- editor of the "Clarion." Miss Winterton took them personally. As she emerged from the door of Number six, and stood drawing on her gloves, she caught the eye of Mr. Custume. She waved, smiled brightly, and . . . there could be no mistake about it this time . . . deliberately winked.

Mr. Custume scowled horribly. His voice, as it addressed Miss Pine, was a positive snarl. "Dictation. Miss Pine!" it said.