NEGLECTING his engagements and Huxtable’s remonstrances Dwala sought Hartopp for many days in vain. With Prosser at his side he visited the places where children play, open spaces, archipelagos of pavement, washed by the roaring traffic of St. Giles’s: for it was among the children that Prosser gave most hope of finding him.
‘It’s one of his curious ways, bein’ with children, sir; his dram-drinkin’ he calls it. He’s goin’ to raise a Revolution of the children one of these days, he says. He don’t set much store by the grown-ups: over-civilised he says they are, while the children are all young savages.’
Hartopp had risen to lofty heights in Prosser’s estimation, since he had realised Dwala’s plans about him; he was a Socrates now, whose every saying had a strange new value in remembrance.
At last they found him. They were standing one sunny summer day in Shaftesbury Avenue, when Prosser cried:
‘There he is!’
A throng of tiny Bacchanals came skipping and whooping out of Endell Street, and in their midst the old Silenus, clumping and swinging jovially along. It was a gay chatter of question and answer, gibe and repartee, flying to and from Silenus to the nymphs, while laughter flickered here and there at random.
They crossed the broad roadway in open defiance of the traffic, and landed on the island where Dwala stood.
‘Five o’clock!’ cried the old Fence as St. Giles’s clock rang out: ‘time you were home for your teas!’ He grinned, and fumbled in his big yellow pocket. ‘What are you waiting for, you little animals? Your mothers are all drunk by now, and you’ll get what for if you’re late.... Scramble!’ he shouted, suddenly flinging a handful of pink sweatmeats up in the sunshine and down in the dirt, while the children wallowed and fought with cries of joy.
‘Here’s two toffs,’ said one of the knot of elders, drawing off as Dwala and Prosser approached.
‘Mr. Hartopp,’ murmured Prosser, touching his hat.
‘Aha, my sentimental friend, are you there? I smell you. What’s the news? Have you brought something sweet in chiffon for your darling little daughter to drive in to the Opera to-night?’
‘Hoping you’ll excuse me, Mr. Hartopp, I’ve brought Prince Dwala, my employer, who was anxious to see you.’
‘Oho! the “kind master.” Come to see how the “pooah” live, my Lord?’
‘I’ve come to ask if you won’t come and live with me.’
‘Live with you, d—— you?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I like you.’
‘The h—— you do! Why?’
‘Because I believe you’re what’s called a “blackguard.”’
‘What’s this feller you’ve got hold of, Prosser? Is he a detective, or a philanthropist, or a lunatic?’
‘He’s what’s called an “eccentric” I believe, Mr. Hartopp.’
‘Where do you live?’ asked the Fence abruptly.
‘Park Lane,’ answered Dwala.
The Fence whistled.
‘What number?’
‘Number —.’
‘Number —?... I’ve got the plans of that somewhere. What’s the plate like, Prosser?’
‘Very handy, Mr. Hartopp,’ answered the valet, falling into old tracks of thought.
‘It’s beautiful plate,’ said Dwala: ‘all the most expensive kinds. You’d have it on the table every day at meals if you came and lived with me, Mr. Hartopp: of course you wouldn’t see it, because you’re blind, but you’d know it was there. It’s a lovely house altogether, I believe: everything’s as expensive as we could get anywhere; there are five footmen, and heaven only knows how many housemaids. What I’m looking for is somebody who’d really enjoy all these things. I can’t. It’s such a pity you’re blind, because you’ll miss a lot; in fact, I had half a mind not to ask you, because you were blind. But I was so awfully fetched by the way you threw those sweetmeats to the children.’
‘You’re another d——d sentimentalist, I see. Does he drink too, Prosser?’
‘No, I don’t drink,’ said Dwala: ‘I have so many other amusements.’
‘What’s your income?’
‘Four hundred thousand pounds a year.’
‘Four hun.... Good Lord! you ought to be ashamed of yourself.... Here, Thomas, Andy—anybody there?’ he cried out, hobbling excitedly towards the iron seats.
‘I’m here, Bill!’ came a voice from the distance.
‘All right, I don’t want you.’ He hobbled back again, and blew three calls on a dog-whistle which hung from his neck. ‘I’ll call Joey.’ Joey came frisking up from nowhere, as dirty as mud could make her.
She turned formal at once on seeing the ‘nobs,’ and put out her tongue at Prosser.
‘Joey, old girl, you see these two d——d fools here? One of ’em’s a Prince of ancient lineage.’
‘What, that great big ugly bloke?’
‘With four hundred thousand pounds a year!’
‘Lor’!’ said Joey, politely.
‘Borrow a hanky from some nice little girl and prepare for hysterics, for the other one’s your long-lost father!’
‘He drinks,’ said Joey, edging away.
Hartopp laughed. ‘It’s wonderful what a lot these children know. Now look here, Joey.... Joey’s included, of course?’
‘Yes, Joey’s included,’ answered Dwala.
‘You wouldn’t like to be a real lady, would you, Joey?’
‘Wouldn’t I!’ said Joey, shyly but decisively.
‘What! Be a rotten West-End kid?’
Joey giggled an affirmative.
‘Wash every day?’ Another giggle.
‘Ain’t she sweet?’ murmured Prosser.
A sudden idea flashed over Joey’s face.
‘With him about?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I’d be about, Joey,’ said Prosser.
Without a moment’s hesitation Joey fled through the traffic and down St. Martin’s Lane.
‘Well?’ said Dwala: ‘what’s your decision, Mr. Hartopp?’
‘Go to h——!’ said the blind man, hobbling resolutely away. The Prince and Prosser, after standing a little longer, turned and went sadly home again.