THE MAN WHO ARGUED

Star (Christchurch), Issue 9008, 15 August 1907, Page 4

THE MAN WHO ARGUED

(By EDWIN P U GH.) j Author of " A Street in Suburbia." etc. I [All Rights Resehvep.] There was a good deal of him _ and whilst he seemed to dwarf us hy his bulk he ____ed also te absorb all the . I fresh air. He had a muddy complexion ; and the hair on his face grew in the most improbable places, as if the soil were so poor that the crop must push through where it could. ■ I made his acquaintance at the breakfast table of a seaside boarding-house. Little Proudfoot had announced that a duchess was coming down- to lay a foundation-stone. The Man glowered at once, and said: '•'Duchess. Rot! What's a duchess?" He stared "so hard at me that I was put to confusion, and stammered out: "The wife or widow of % duke, I _upP^"You ' suppose '"he snarled. "Now what do you mean hy that, pray? Either you know what a duchess is or you don 't. Now, I'll ask you : What have the aristocracy ever done for you that you should butter them up? You talk to me about dukes " " I don't. And they're no more mine than yours," I said. " Eandly pass the marmalade, please. You ye go* your elbow in it. Thank you. ..-•■_ .* He turned from, me with a scowl, and a .dressed Johnson : -• ' ! __ "You, sir,"\he said fiercely. "What do you think would happenv to England if things were left in the hands of the bloated aristocracy?" '■■.■.- --" All depends on what sort of things you mean," replied Johnson 'breezily. " When I say ' things, 5 " t-hundered The Man, " I mean the affairs of the nation." < '•''. "Tea or coffee?" queried our landlady, timidly. ' " I mean," continued;- The Man, flushing, " the things that are important to us as Englishmen. . # • • x Coffee, please. . . . Now, sir, what do you say to that?" "'I say that I prefer tea," retorted Johnson. And then we all felt very proud of Johnson, somehow. The Jilan laughed scornfully, and began to eat with, determination.; "I'm a self-made man, I am," he resumed presently. And I could not help thinking it was a pity he had neglected to use a little oil and polish in his composition. "I began life as an. errand-boy." • "Whereas I," said Proudfoot, " began life „ as nothing at all, but- just, a bundle of flannel and fluff." ''Yes,' I began life as an errandboy," The Man. repeated. "And now . . . Well, our landlady will tell you what I am now, if you ask her." (I' think we all vowed silently not to ask her). ''She's known me a goodish s.few years." (And yet she was a cheerful little body!) "Haven't you, ma'am?" She nodded, and then pushed back .her chair and rose. And we began to tumble over one another in our eager•ness to 'escape from the room.' In the hall, poor, harmless Mr Salmon, a recently-bereaved widower of tender susceptibilities, whilst feverishly searching for his hat, was accosted by The Man. I lingered on the stairs to listen. " Now I can see, Mister Whatsyername," The Man began, " that you're a' feller o' sense." " I don't know, I really don't know," quavered Mr Salmon. " I'm not at all optimistic about it, myself. I haven't that reputation, I do assure you." " Don't you try and tell me," exclaimed The Man. " I've got eyes — not pretty, praps, but useful. And I use em. Now', I'm here by myself, and that don't suit my style. I'm a sociable feller. So are you. I can see that. You're alone too. Very well, then. We'll go about together. Ready?" " Oh. really I" protested Mr Salmon. " I couldn't think of thrusting myself on you in that way. I'm such poor company. I bored, my late wife to death— the dear soul ! She admitted it herself, though she was so fond of me, and a woman of most wonderful discrimination." "Rot!" cried The Man. "You can't tell me any fairy-tales. Have a cigar — a good one. And, look here, just for a start, I'd like to ask your candid opinion of all this .rot"' about Trades Unions. D'you think it'll work? 1 know the men won't, if they make it law." _ m l And he gripped his victim by the arm and bore'him off. F^ur days The Man who Argued stayed at the boarding-house ; and as it rained most of the time we had a surfeit of him. On the second day two boarders received telegrams recalling them to London. On the third 'day there were three telegrams,* and Mr Johnson's grandmother died, and yet he made a pun on the legal phrase "covert or sole" when asked if^he would take game-pie after fish. Later on iii the evening Mr Johnson remarked, casually : * ' "Aide -toi, le Ciel t'aidera." Then , The Man, metaphorically speaking, shook the dew-drops from his mane. "Is that French?" he asked witheringly. "I hope so," Johnson replied. "It's meant to be." " Then I must toll you, sir," said The Man, " that I don't like French. I hate the people. I hate the language.^ English is good enough for me. Gibberish 1 I wouldn't set foot on French soil •" ._ . " Save in the way of l-indness, of course," murmured someone. He glared round, but failed to detect the sinner. I happened to be the sinner, myself. "I wouldn't set foot on French soil," he went on, " not if the king, or president, or whatever it is they've got, went down o_ his knees and begged me to. Not me! You eat frogs, too, I suppose?" he added, with a fine curl of his lip. " I'm trying to break myself of the habit," pleaded Johnson, humbly. "Don't palter with the truth, sir!" roared The _tan. " But there ! A feller who will pretend that his grandmother is dead- " " She is dead,".. Johnson insisted. " And you fifty years of age, if you're a day!'' cried* The M_a. " Rather old to have a grandmother, ain't you?" Johnson smiled. "But I haven't got a grandmother I" he pointed out. ".She's dead. Haven't I told you so?" We had to lead Johnson away, then, or there would have been some comElicated violence of some sort. The lan, baffled and fuming, went in search of Mr Salmon, I fancy. Anyway, when I had met that poor old gentleman, some hours later, ne was pale and limp, and he almost sobbed as he spoke. "He went upstairs to find some book or other that would prove I was utterly wrong about everything." panted Salmon. "And I bribed .the maid to hide his hat. and then I slipped out. I simply had to do it in self-defence. For he seems to think that I have no rights in myself. v And he talks to me about things I can't pronounce the names of, and then he says he doesn t agree with me. He asks me why I am so narrow-minded if I merely say In- j

deed,' just to show I'm listening, you know. And it appears I Have brought up my family all wrong, though as a matter of lact we never had any children — my poor Emma and I. Then, he asked me yesterday what I thought of cremation. And when I said — for a joke — that I had never tried it, he discovered I was an Athiest. And me a churchwarden! Oh, what would you do?" I soothed him with soft words. I oould not advise him. But he was very grateful to me. As time went on sickness and death and other troubles were very rife amOTt. the connections of our rapidly dwindUng community. (1 thought of murdering my aunt, myself.) But the afflicted ones bore up wonderfully well, as they packed their traps and made ready to be off. At last there came an evening when the long table loosed very dreary I so woefully nad our num- • here diminished. The Man argued and thundered and stormed us to bed ; and made my head ache so that I could not sleep. Thus it was very late when I left my room next morning. / On .the stairs I .met our landlady. Her was onoe more aglow with happiness. *■_..'. " Thank you — thank you so much for staying in bedP" she 6aid. "We have managed it all splendidly. You haven't got the diphtheria; but The Man has gone. He was so afraid of infection. He was out of the house five minutes after h*e learned the sad untruth about your illness. And his luggage is to be fumigated before it is sent on. . . . Do make a pun l"( . s " I am very glad," I said, . to hear that he has gone away to ar^ue from new" premises. Will that. do. ' ,