Friendships and Enmities

Ladies' Mirror, Volume V, Issue 6, 1 December 1926, Page 93

Friendships and Enmities

By BARRY PAIN

Anyhow-" They were Both of them Perfect Gentlemen ”

J. R. Robertson sold his pony to his friend of twenty years’ standing, Mr. G. W. Barnes. It is better, if it can be avoided, not to sell a pony to an old friend. Within a fortnight the two men had quarrelled, did not speak to one another, and gave no sign of recognition when they met. Mr. Robertson and Mr. Barnes were travelling together to the City, as was their custom, when Robertson observed that he was thinking of selling his pony. “Nothing wrong with him, is there?” “Not that I know of. I’ve had him three years, and he’s never been sick or sorry for a day. The fact of (he case is that since I bought the car Annie finds the governess-car too slow for her. So the beggar’s just eating his head off, and I have to take the gardener’s boy off his proper job to exercise him.” “Half a minutes, James. How’d lie do for Tom? It’s time the boy had his first riding-lessons.” “I should think he’d do very well. He’s carried children before. He’s

not quick, and . he’s rather lazy, and he must be eleven years old by now, but he’s as quiet as a sheep and as safe as a church. If I had children of my own I’d trust him with them.” “Well, that’s good enough. What do you want for him?” “I gave sixteen for him, but that was three years ago. I’ll ask you ten pounds.” “Right.” Barnes took two fivepound notes from his pocket book and handed them over. “I’ll send for the pony to-night. It’s Tom’s birthday to-morrow and that pony’s just the present he’ll like.” So the pony was delivered to Mr. Barnes, together with such provender as remained, the latter as a free gift, Mr. Robertson being a generous man.

George William Barnes was pleased. Lucy, wife of the aforesaid, declared that the pony looked a —which, by the way, it did not. Tom Barnes, eldest of their three sons, spent most of the day in telling other boys that he had got a real pony of his own, and the rest of the time in hand-feeding the pony. And the pony, having been given in one day one pound and a half of• the best lump sugar and five large carrots, in addition to the usual rations, through us the world was a brighter place than it had at one time supposed. James Robert Robertson was also satisfied. Annie, his wife, said that he was really wonderful. (She often said that, but he did not get tired of it.) It was only at break-fast-time that he had decided to sell the pony, and in an hour he had done it. And that was always the way with —nobody was ever as quick as he was. Annie was ten years younger than her husband and adored him. But possibly her next remark shows that she was capable of leading up to things. “Now there will be plenty of room for that little two-seater, darling. I mean, if you decide to get it.” “Yes, my dear, but room isn’t money. I got ten for the pony perhaps I might have asked a little more, but in dealing with an old friend one doesn’t haggle. I know my brother Bill wants the cart and harness and will give me what he calls a fair price for them, and I suppose he must have them; but his ideas of a fair price are not always mine. That doesn’t take one verv far towards the price of a good two-seater, and it’s got to be good if you’re going to drive it yourself.” “Yes, dearest, but think of the economy. Think of the saving in petrol. Our big car’s a glutton for petrol—Tilling says so. Then if I drive it myself, that, gives Tilling more time for the garden, and it wouldn’t take him nearly as long to clean the little car.” . “Look here,” said James, smiling. “If I get the car will you give me a kiss for it?” “No,” said Annie shyly. “I don’t sell kisses. But I’ll give you all the kisses I’ve got, just for sheet love of you, always, even if yoi never give me anything.” An instalment on account followed. It would appear that Mrs Robertson knew how to talk. A

any rate, three days later she was driving the two-seater. And then the storm broke which wrecked the old-established friendship between James Robert Robertson and George William Barnes.

The two men met on the platform for the 9.14 a.m. up-train, as usual. Thev exchanged greetings but Barnes did not, as usual, make his humorous remark (one of a set of six) about the weather. In Robertson’s opinion George was not looking himself. After they had entered the train Barnes said gloomily: “I’ve rather an unpleasant bit of business to get through.” “Ah said Robertson genially. “Well, what’s your trouble?” • “I’m afraid I must ask you, James, to take back that pony of yours, and to return me my ten pounds.” The geniality was switched oft’ instantly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Robertson icily. “Then I’ll tell you. That pony is lame, was lame when you sold him to me, and had been lame for some time.” “I don’t know if the pony is lame now. He may he. He may have been knocked about by your son or your servants. If so, I’m sorry, but it’s no affair of mine. But all the rest of your statement is untrue. My wife drove the pony on the very day I sold him to you, and if there had been anything wrong with him she would have told me instantly. My man Tilling (who worked six years in a racing stable before he took to motors) would have reported anything of the sort to me. And, lastly, I know as much about horses as you doand perhaps a little more, and I know positively, and am prepared to swear it, that the pony was not lame when it was handed over to you. Make what you can of that, and then apologise for calling me a swindler.” “As I never called you a swindler, and never even thought you were, there’s no necessity to talk about apologies. But I did think you had acted in ignorance and would be anxious to put the matter right. I’m not giving you mv opinion at all. I have here a certificate from a duly qualified veterinary surgeon. There’s no getting away from that. Just cast your eye over It.” Robertson merely glanced at the signature of the certificate. “Well,” he said, “of course that explains everything. Who on earth fold vou to go to that man Dinlees? Mind you, I went to him once myself, before I knew better. A valuable dog of my wife’s was ill, and we called Dinlees in because he was the nearest man. The very first dav he came I had the strongest suspicions of him. The next day, at 11 o’clock in the morning, the man arrived drunk, and of course was sent about his business at once. I then got Masham to see the dog. He’s finite as well qualified as Dinlees and a good deal more experienced. Tie made no bones about it at all. He said that Dinlcc’s diagnosis was wrong and that even if the diagnosis had been right the treatment was wrong. As Masham cured the dog in a fortnight it looks as if he

knew what he was talking about. I don’t suppose Dinlees ever forgave me. He’s probably been trying to get his silly knife into me ever since. You got him to see the pony and he knew very well that you’d got the pony from me, and he thought that was his chance. You’ve been fooled, my poor friend, but it’s not I who have fooled you.” “Won’t do,” said Mr. Barnes sulkily. “A man doesn’t risk his professional income by signing a certificate like that unless there’s truth in it. The sum at stake is of no great importance, but as a matter of principle I must ask you to return my ten pounds and take the pony back.” “You’re quite right. The sum is of no very great importance. If you’d been short of money and had wanted ten pounds, or a hundred, or even more, I should have been very glad to have obliged you. But what you’ve got to see is that if I pay ten pounds in this case I am admitting that I was either a scoundrel or a fool, and as I happen to be neither, I won’t do it. See? I won’t do it.” “If you don’t then you are calling me a fool or a scoundrel, and that’s not language that I can take from any man—however long I may have known him.” “Then if you don’t like it, don’t ask for it.” “I don’t require you to tell me how to talk, thank you. There’s just a little more in this than you know yet. You tell me you understand a lot about horses. I’ve got your word for it and that’s all. I also had your word for it that the pony was eleven years old. Dinlees is ready to go into the witness box and swear that the pony is over fourteen.” “I don’t doubt Dinlees is. And with two more drinks inside him he’d swear that the pony was rising sixty-eight or any other old thing.” “Well, if you’re going to talk in that foolish and fat-headed way you leave me no choice. I’m sorry, but I must go to my solicitor.” “You can go to the devil.” said James Robertson and resumed his Times savagely and ostentatiously. George William Barnes, sad but determined, also transferred bis attention to the leading article. At the London terminus they parted without a word. It had been their custom to return home in the same railway carriage by the 6.15. On this occasion Mr. Robertson took the 6.25 in order to avoid Mr. Barnes, and found Mr. Barnes had also taken the 6.25 in order to avoid Mr. Robertson. But they got into different carriages. That night a gipsy of the name of Lovell called at Mr. Barnes’s house and said that he understood that Mr. Barnes had a pony which he wished to sell. If that was so, Lovell was disposed to make an offer. Lovell had not been long in that suburb, but every gipsy knows by instinct where there is a chance of either

selling or buying a horse advantageously. “You can have him for cat’s-meat price,” said Mr. Barnes. “I warn you that he’s lame and likely to remain so. Give me £l2 and you can take him away with you.” The gipsy examined the pony, suggested thirty shillings, and was finally worked up to £2, though he said despondently that he was afraid he’d made a bad deal. Mr. Barnes consulted his solicitor on the following dav. There was no warranty. Mr. Dinlees’s record was exeremely bad. It was practically certain that the gipsy would not have offered £2 for the beast if he had not believed the lameness to be curable. Acting under advice, Mr. Barnes decided not to invoke the aid of the law, but he wrote a very bitter letter to his old friend, beginning “Dear Mr. Robertson.” Mr. Robertson replied with a few lines of mire Angostura, beginning “Dear , Sir.” Mr. Robertson was therefore, on the accepted rules of quarrels., one up. And after that the two men did not sneak for five years. The results, which were a little complicated, may be tabulated as follows : 1. Mr. Barnes and Mr. Roberson did not sneak and did not recognise one another when thev met, and no invitations, from one couple to the other were issued. , 2. Air. Barnes alwavs took off his hat when he met Annie Robertson and was rewarded with a slight how. Air. Robertson did the same thing when he met Lucy Barnes and was similarly rewarded. You see, they were both of them perfect gentlemen. I ought to have made this much more clear than I have done. 3. Lucy Barnes and Annie Robertson, having no quarrel whatever with each other and being mutually satisfied that men were so silly, laughed and chatted when they met. Thev were also not averse to tea and bridge at each other’s houses at afternoons when their husbands were safely away at business. A fortnight after the break between the two friends, Mr. Robertson met that pony being driven along the road bv a man of the name of Lovell. The pony was going very well indeed—rather better, in fact, than it cared about going. Air. Robertson stopped the gipsy and ? skprl him what he wanted for the animal. The gipsy said he did not want to sell him. and nothing under would tempt him anyhow. This gave the sardonic Mr. Robertson a very nice story to tell, and he told it frequently, concluding and now we’ve only got to wait till George Barnes brings out his book ‘All About Horses.’ ” II At the end of the five years Air. Robertson was engaged one day in his garden doing things to the roses which would probably break his

gardener’s heart, when his wife came down the path towards him. There were tears in her eyes. “James,” she said. “Did you know that Mr. Barnes was ill ?” “Well, I’ve not had the misfortune to see him at the station lately. I did notice this morning they’d got the straw down in the road in front of the house, but of course that might have been for anybody.” “He’s very ill indeed, James. They think he’s dying. Lucy Barnes has just been here with a message for you. She said that George feels he would very much like, in consideration of your many years of friendship, to make it up with you again before he goes.” “Oh,” said James. “Well in that case— do you think about it yourself ?” “What I told Lucy was that I

knew your generosity so well that I felt sure you’d go.” “Is Lucy Barnes in the house still?” “Yes. She’s waiting to see what message she can take to her husband.” “Tell her,” said Mr. Robertson, slipping his secators into his pocket, “that I shall be there in a quarter of an hour.” Annie kissed him, said that he was really noble, and ran off to convey the glad news to Lucy. James Robertson was away from

the house for about an hour, and on his return he found Annie waiting for him in the hall. She drew him into the library. “Tell me all about it,” she said earnestly. “I’m afraid,”, said James, in the same voice that he used when he read the lessons in church, “that there is very little to tell. It may be a matter of days, but I should be more inclined to think it is a matter of hours. The nurse who was there—they’ve got two —seemed inclined to take a hopeful view, but

I couldn’t share it. He seemed terribly changed. Voice very weak.” “What did he say?” “Very little. Something about letting bygones be bygones. And 1 said that was all right and we all make mistakes. And then I went downstairs to see Lucy. She seemed very grateful to me. I’m thinking that when I’m in the City to-morrow I’ll get a pint of the real turtle and bring it back with me. He might fancy it if he’s still here.” “I think you’re too splendid and wonderful,” said Annie. “I could not have done less,” said James. His face showed every sign of the great emotional strain

through which he had passed. Annie noticed it. “James, will you do something just to please me? Don't ask what it is.” “I suppose I must if you put it like that.” “Very well, then. You will have a small bottle of champagne. You absolutely need it. I can see it.” He had the small bottle. Annie was particularly tactful in imploring her husband to do things which he would have done on his own initiative in any case. “Yes,” said James on his return from business the following day. “I got the turtle for poor old George, and I left it at his house. He was asleepso I didn’t go in. They say he had a fair night and has seemed a shade better to-day. That so often happens—a slight rally before the end comes.” He returned to the subject at dinner. “I have to admit,” he said—body had asked him to admit anything—“that poor George had his faults. When his mistakes were corrected it made him very touchy and quarrelsome. But which of us is perfect? Old friends are old friends. It will be a great wrench to me when we’re parted.” And Annie, who tempered a sense of humour with discretion, abstained from pointing out that James had put up with the wrench for five years with complete equanimity and even cheerfulness. Meanwhile the glad news had been brought to the invalid George that Mr. Robertson had called to inquire and had brought an offering of turtle-soup. “Kind of him. I know where he got it. He can make blunders, but not about questions of the table. I suppose, nurse, I musn’t touch it." “Why not? If you feel like it, it would be very good for you.” “With just one glass of my very old Madeira?” “I don’t think it would hurt you.” “In that case I suppose we should countermand the grilled sole?” “I don’t say that Mr. Barnes. Haveit cooked, and then see how you feel.” “Well, nurse, I’ll be guided by you,” said Mr. Barnes meekly. But. his voice was stronger this evening. It was the first time for many days that he had shown any interest in food. And the old-bot-tled Madeira had been opened three days before and was in consequence at its best. Mr. Barnes had the turtle-soup, and the grilled sole, and just four glasses of the Maderia. He slept eight hours without a break that night. He was better and brighter next morning. The doctor was pleased with him. And from that point onwards he advanced rapidly towards complete recovery. In fact, in six weeks he was able to accept an invitation to a memorable dinner. “Memorable” was the word that Barnes himself used to describe it. It was a dinner of only four people, the Robertsons entertaining Mr. and Mrs. Barnes in celebration of the recovery of Barnes and the restoration of complete amity. Mr.

Robertson took more care to make that dinner perfect than some will to make themselves perfect. It was such a dinner as one epicure might give to anotherbrief but exquisite. When the servants were out of the room, and they were drinking the 78 one of the only five remaining, I grieve to say—Mr. Robertson rose in his place and said with a pleasant smile: “It‘s old-fashioned to propose a toast, but please forgive it. I won’t make a speech, but give my toast in two words, To Friendship!” All stood up to drink, and as Lucy Barnes subsided into her place again, she said to her host: "Thanks. That was most frightfully nice of you.” After dinner they all played bridge (infamously) and greatly enjoyed it. And all through the evening the word pony was never used by anybody. There was not even a tacit implication that there was such an animal, or even had been, or ever could be. When in their turn shortly afterwards the Barnes couple invited the Robertson couple to dinner, Tom Barnes, aged fourteen, felt it his duty to issue a word of warning to his father. “I suppose,” said Tom. “it’s all right—this getting so thick with the Robertsons again, but don’t forget that he did you in the eye over that ponv.” But his advice—lt happens sometimes to the best of advicewas not well received. He was told that a boy just out of the nursery would do better not to pass comments on a man who was not only much older than he was, but also a far finer man than Tom could ever hope to be. Mr. Robertson had never cheated anybody in his life and was incapable of any attempt to cheat. He had made a perfectly natural mistake, for which he had expressed his regret and made full reparation. (Here perhaps Mr. Barnes wandered into the region of overstatement.) And if Tom failed in any way to show a proper respect for Mr. Robertson, then Tom would be given some sound reasons to remember his manners in the future In fact, Tom. as he afterwards stated to an intimate friend, "got it in (he neck.” It was another successful dinner. Mr. Robertson expressed the warmest appreciation of the Madeira, and Mr. Barnes, who had inherited a well-stocked cellar from his father, with Madeira as a principal feature, sent round a case of the wine with his compliments to Mr. Robertson on the following morning. The old relations were resumed. Once more the two men travelled tn and from the City together. And if it happened to be raining when they met on the platform Mr. Barnes never failed to observe that it was nice weather for the ducks, and Mr. Robertson always greeted this witty remark with an appreciative smile. They played golf together frequently, and their renewed friend-

ship stood even this strain. They sometimes were rather cross with their caddies. Mr. Earnest once said that if on that particular day a stone-blind, one-armed imbecile offered him a stroke a hole he would not dare to play it. Mr. Robertson on his off-day was equally vehement in self-depreciation. But they never quarrelled with one another. Never ! It seemed all right—quite all right. But then they decided to go down to the Derby together. They did not take their wives with them. Annie Robertson disliked crowds. Lucy Barnes had been to the Derby once, and found it full, dusty, and detestable. So the two ladies were left to spend the day together. But the men did take with them a hamper that provided a sufficient margin for hospitality to the City friends they would probably encounter. . They travelled in Mr. Robertson’s larger car, and Tilling (who, it will be remembered, had six years’ racing-stable experience) drove them. It was a glorious morning. They made an early start and in the first five minutes the trouble began. "Two months ago.” said George William Barnes. “I little thought that T should see the Derby run this year.” “Two months ago. to be frank.” said Tames Robert Robertson, “I never thought you’d be alive for it. You remember that afternoon when I came round to see you?” “T do. I remember it to your credit. A man who has the moral murage to own up an error, and to express his regret for it. always has mv respect.” "Glad to have your respect. George, but at the same time I don’t want to get it by a misapprehension. I admitted no error ” “You said distinctly, ‘We all make mistakes.’ ” “If vou’ll kindlv allow me to sneak. I admitted no error because in the matter in dispute I had committed none. What I said was in replv to the apology which came from you. You said ‘Let bygones be bygones,’ and if that was not asking me to overlook a past offence on vour part, then the English language has no meaning.” “You may choose to put that complexion on it, but you know as well as I do that nothing was further from my thoughts. I remember the incident perfectly.” “Do you ? Then that takes away your last excuse. If you’d been light-headed at the time I would have understood it.” “Mv temperature was under normal.” “Apparently it isn’t now. Why can’t you listen to sense? The day after our quarrel I saw the pony of mine trotting along the road without a thing the matter with him, and the gipsy who was driving him wouldn’t let him go under £15.” “Are you really as simple as all that? Don’t you know that a clever horse-coper can often doctor a lame animal so that he’ll look all right for an hour or two, and in that hour or two he sells him to some

mug or other. The wonder is you didn’t buy him.” “You can be as obstinate and thick-headed as you like, but there’s no need to be offensive. It was tactless enough of you to raise the subject at absolutely spoiling our day.” “Oh, very good,” said George. “I’m sure I’ve no anxiety to trespass any further on your hospitality. Stop the car at the next railway station and I’ll go back by train; and I’m damned sorry I ever came.” “As you please,” said Mr. Robertson coldly. There was plenty of traffic on the road and for a time the car had perforce to proceed slowly. For nearly a quarter of an hour neither of the men spoke. But it gave them plenty of leisure to think. What George thought was that he simply dared not go back to Lucy and tell her that he had once more quarrelled with James over that infernal old pony. It was not merely that Lucy would be angry with him; though she certainly would. She would also be extremely amused. And that was unendurable. It might even be that the story of the happy day at Epsom might get abroad. At all costs things must be put right. He would have to pocket his pride and apologise. He cleared his throat and was on the point of beginning the apology. But James Robert Robertson, who had possibly been pursuing a similar line of thought, got in first. “Look here, George,” said James. “I’m afraid I rather lost my temper just now and said a lot of things I shouldn’t have said. I’m sorry and I hope you’ll overlook it.” “With all the pleasure in the world,” said George, extending his large hand. “For that matter I was very much to blame myself, and I hope you’ll overlook that too.” “Certainly,” said James. “This is as it should be. Now I’ll tell you what I propose. We are both of us men of decided opinions and strong will. You’ll probably never change your mind about that pony, nor shall I. What we must do is to agree to drop the subject. And I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Have you backed anything yet?” “No. I’m waiting. According to the papers, the favourite’s the only horse in the race. But look at the price. I’m not touching it.” “And I’m not buying money either. I’m going to put the £lO you paid me for that pony on the best outsider I can get. If it loses, it’s my loss. If it wins, we divide up —fifty-fifty. How’s that?” “Extremely generous of you. I accept with pleasure.” Their mild flutters on minor races had no success, but they lunched admirably and Tilling, who waited on them, ventured on a word to hie master. “You’ll excuse me, sir,” he said, "but I’ve met with one or two of my old friends and had a word with them. There’s a Tremolo by Musician out of Quakeress—r that they think something of. If he’s fretted and messed about at the ■

3 gate he’ll be no —he’ll be dancing when he ought to be running. I But if he gets away nicely they say >he can win. The price is tempt- > ing too. It was better, but you : can get thirty still.” ; “That’s our horse,” said Robertson with conviction. “I’m entirely with you,” said • Barnes. They put their money on at once • and were only just in time to get ; the price that Tilling had mentioned. The race was uneventful. At Tattenham Corner Tremolo had the lead and never lost it. He won by over a length and the favourite was not even placed. Robertson and Barnes, with £l5O apiece to come to them, felt joyous and convinced that they had little more to learn about racing. Some of their friends gathered round and drank to their health in Mr. Robertson’s champagne, but expressed a lowly opinion of them. “It’s a case of fool’s luck,” said Mr. Smithers. “I’ve studied the things from A to Z, and I’ve not found a winner to-day yet. You chans go at it blind and pocket £3OO. Telf me now, what made you do it?” “We saw the horse in the paddock,” said Robertson complacently, “and we fancied the looks of him.” “Quite so,” said Barnes. “If ever a horse had winner stamped all over him, Tremolo had. Can’t think how you wise men came to miss it.” “Well, he’d no business to win, anvhow.” said Smithers. “He’s no particular class, and a bad-tempered brute into the bargain. Fool’s luck, that’s what it is.” Robertson and Barnes did not wait to temot fortune further. They were happv, thev were also wearv, and thev both slept placidly in the car during the greater part of the journey home. Barnes was deposited at his house and Robertson proceeded home. He found Annie somewhat dejected. “Perfectly rotten bridge this afternoon,” said Annie. “I never held a card the whole time and went down 12/9. Lucy did nearly as badlv. I shouldn’t mind so much if I’d lost to people who could play. I don’t suppose vou’ve done much better either. Cook savs an outsider won. I don’t know where she got it from.” "Yes. Tremolo won. I thought he would. I backed him. and so did dear old George— my advice, but that is strictly between ourselves.” “James, you didn’t! How did you?” “Well. I saw the horse and liked the looks of him. That was all there was to it. And if you happen to want a new hat you can go up town to-morrow and buy one. Three if you like. And what I want now is a whisky-and-soda with a large lump of ice in it. and a hot bath to follow.” “Tames,” said Annie. “I think you're the most truly wonderful man that ever lived.” “Not at all,” said James modestly, with a whisky decanter in his hand.