“DO you see that ‘that’?”
The speaker was Mr. B. Gorham Potts, head reader for the great London publishing firm of Johnson, Johnson, Smythe & Johnson, and as he uttered the words he laid a page-proof upon the table before the young lady who sat busily engaged in writing.
Mr. Potts had been christened Benjamin Gorham, the Benjamin being in honour of a maternal uncle who had gone to South Africa, and, rumour said, had accumulated a large fortune. But when the said uncle died and no news came of an inheritance for any members of the Potts family, both father and mother agreed that a mistake had been made at the baptismal font. No change, however, had been made in young Benjamin’s name. He began work in a printing-office at the early age of fourteen and for a period of sixteen years had been called “Ben” by every one in the establishment, from the senior proprietor to the smallest errand boy.
When at the age of thirty he secured a position in the publishing house, in the composition of which there were so many Johnsons that he decided a change must and should be made.
“Maria,” he said to his wife, “I am going to work for a very large corporation. I am to hold a dignified position and for that reason I think I should bear a dignified name.”
“Yes, Benny,” said his wife, in a tone full of affection.
“That is the last time you will use that name, Maria,” he exclaimed.
The diminutive little woman was startled by his language and the sharp tone in which the words were uttered. She said nothing, but acted as though she had received a blow.
“Yes, Maria, I have decided to change my name. My old skin-flint of an Uncle Benjamin, for whom I was named, left me nothing. I have honoured his memory for thirty years, but in future I propose to be known as B. Gorham Potts and to sign my name in that way.”
The little woman took in the situation. “Yes, Gorham,” she exclaimed, timidly.
“Don’t you think that’s an improvement?” he asked.
“Oh, yes!” and then with that delightful British unconsciousness of her own joke, she exclaimed: “Let it be Gorham.”
But to return to that “that.”
Mr. Potts repeated his question in a more decisive manner. “Do you see that ‘that’?”
The young lady addressed tossed her head and pouted perceptibly. She was a pretty little brunette. Proofreaders are made responsible for so many errors perpetrated by others, as well as for their own shortcomings, that they are inclined to tergiversation when matters are brought to them for correction. She shut one eye and looked closely at the offending word with the other.
At last she said: “There is one ‘that,’ but I am unable to see the second ‘that’ to which you refer.”
Mr. Potts was thin and angular. He smiled occasionally; not all at once—it might be said in sections—the smile moving from one feature to another, like sunlight on a picket fence. Mr. Potts was not a hard-hearted man and as he looked at the dainty little woman before him, the thought came to him: “What if she were my daughter and some other man stood in my place, under similar circumstances?”
“Do you not see, Miss Caswell, that that ‘that’ should be a ‘than’ instead of that ‘that’?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “it ought to be ‘than,’” and she turned over quickly some galley-slips which lay beside her.
“Well,” she said, “the author did not see it.”
“I should think, Miss Caswell, that you had been a proof-reader long enough to have learned that an author never sees anything,” said Mr. Potts, contemptuously. “They are too busy with ideas to think of such minor matters as spelling, punctuation, and grammar.”
“That’s true of Mr. Stowell,” said Miss Caswell, “and such writing, too, but his books sell.”
“We have made him,” said Mr. Potts, his chest swelling. “He was an unknown author, but we made his first book go.”
“And he has been a go ever since,” said Miss Caswell, laughing.
“Yes, and when Mr. Smythe rejected one of his books he took it to another house and they are getting the benefit of all our advertising.”
“Well, you could not expect him to throw his manuscript into the ash-heap,” remarked Miss Caswell.
“No, but he could have threatened to do it and Smythe would have taken it, but authors have no tact—they are all temper—they think publishers are their enemies instead of being their best friends.”
Miss Caswell enjoyed the conversation; it gave her a little rest from her very prosaic duties. She was well acquainted with the peculiarities of Mr. Potts and knew how to extend the conversation indefinitely.
“How about the critics?” she asked.
“Bah!” exclaimed Mr. Potts. “They are just as bad; each one likes a certain kind of story and he calls the rest rubbish.”
Miss Caswell, evidently, had a feeling for the critic. “It must be wearing to read so many books; no wonder they praise what they like.”
“I don’t believe they read them. They get an idea of the plot from some other paper; then they open the book, read a few pages here and there, and then write their review. Why, I know a critic who flouted a book because there were two ‘buts’ in the same sentence, but the joke was, both were used correctly. We had three Oxford professors decide the question.”
Miss Caswell dexterously gave another turn to the conversation: “You must get tired of reading so many stories, Mr. Potts, and in manuscript, too.”
“It’s a business with me; a day’s work is a day’s work. When it is over I have my home, my wife, my little boy Jimmy, and baby Dorcas. You ought to get married, Miss Caswell. It’s the only way to live.”
The young girl’s face flushed. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn. It was time to get back to business.
“I am sorry I did not see that ‘that,’ Mr. Potts.”
Again that thin, erratic smile on Mr. Potts’ face. “You did see ‘that,’ Miss Caswell; please change it to ‘than.’ Had it gone to print it would have been bad, but, as we’ve caught it, there’s no harm done. There was never a book printed that did not have some sort of an error in it. Mr. Smythe, a few years ago, read the proofs of one himself. He boasted that it was perfect and that he would give a hundred pounds to any one who found an error in it. It turned out to be such a good joke on himself that he told it, but I don’t believe anybody got the hundred pounds.”
“Did he find the mistake himself?” Miss Caswell asked.
“Yes, he went into a book-shop, took up the book, and was going to tell the proprietor that he would give him a hundred pounds if he could find an error in it, when his eye lit on a colon that ought to have been a comma. He did not brag so much after that and has never read the proofs of another book since.”
Mr. Potts walked away and Miss Caswell resumed her work. She had before her a large pile of proofs that must be in the printer’s hands early the next morning, and it was nearly an hour beyond the appointed time for leaving when she arose from her table and made her way homeward.
“Why, where in the world have you been, Mrs. Glynne?” exclaimed Mrs. Liloquist, the landlady, as she opened the door to admit “Miss Caswell.”
“Has my husband got home?”
“Oh, yes, he has been here nearly an hour and has been downstairs at least six times to ask where you were. Now, how could he expect me to know where you were?”
“It was very unreasonable in him,” said Mrs. Glynne, laughing, “but, you know, men are all unreasonable.”
“What’s the matter, Clarence?” she cried, as she burst into the room.
Her husband, Mr. Clarence Glynne, was sitting by the window, but arose quickly and greeted his wife with an embrace and a kiss.
“Why are you here, Clarence? Of course I am delighted to see you, but you told me this morning that you would have to go to Buckholme to-night.”
“I did intend to, Jennie, but really, I did not dare to go out there until I knew what to do. I was going to tell you about it this morning, but there was no time; besides, I thought I might see my way clear as to what to do, during the day.”
“Do not keep me waiting any longer, Clarence,” said his wife, with a little stamp of her foot. “I am just dying to know what it is about, and you keep talking all around it without telling me what the trouble is.”
“Hadn’t we better have supper first?”
“No,” cried Jennie. “I cannot wait another minute.”
“Well, the fact is,” began Clarence, “you know all about Bertha; how the governor keeps asking me to propose to her. Of course he does not know that I already have a nice little wife of my own, and for that reason I excuse him.”
“Well, I do not,” said Jennie. “He has no business to tell you to marry anybody. But your father will have to know about our marriage some time. Mrs. Liloquist is very inquisitive, but she has not learned anything from me, except that we are very poor and we both have to work for a living. We are living dual lives, Clarence. How long shall we have to do so?”
“I cannot answer that question now,” said Clarence, “but what I am going to tell you is this: Bertha has had a letter from a friend in Paris—a lady who knew her father when he lived there. She has found out in some way about Bertha and wishes her to come and pay her a visit.”
“Well, I don’t see anything serious in that,” said Jennie. “When is she going?”
“The governor won’t let her go. It’s all my fault, too. I had a letter from Jack De Vinne saying that his brother was dead and that he was going to Paris to escort Lady Ashmont and her daughter home so they could go to the funeral. The big idiot that I was, I told the governor and he scented danger right off. You know I told you about Jack coming to see us. Well, he was going to propose to Bertha, but thought it was his duty to speak to his father first. Jack was only the second son of an earl then, and father frightened him a little by telling him that Bertha was a penniless orphan.”
“But isn’t she?” asked Jennie. “You have always said she was.”
“A man and his wife are one, are they not?” asked Clarence.
“Why, you goose, of course they are.”
“Well, then, Jennie, if I come into possession of a secret, no matter how, and I give my solemn promise that I will not tell, am I breaking that promise if I tell my wife?”
“Why, of course not, Clarence. You have no right to have any secrets from your wife. How can a man love, honour, and obey his wife if he keeps a secret all to himself? Now, Clarence, dear, what is the secret?”
“I will whisper it to you, Jennie. Bertha isn’t poor at all; she is worth forty thousand pounds in her own right, but my father is her guardian and, according to her father’s will, the governor has a right to hold on to the property until she marries, and, of course, he does not want her to marry any one—except me. Of course, I don’t want her, for good and sufficient reasons which are now before me.”
“Oh, I see,” cried Jennie. “Jack De Vinne is going to Paris, and your father thinks that this letter business is only a scheme to enable Bertha to go to Paris and meet Jack.”
“You have hit it exactly, Jennie. What heads you women have!”
“Does Bertha know Jack is there?”
“Of course she doesn’t. She wants to go because she is tired of Buckholme. She has been cooped up there all her life. Now she wants to see the rest of the world.”
“If she does meet Jack, it will come out all right, won’t it, Clarence? Now that he is to be Earl of Noxton one of these days, with fine estates and a big rentroll, it won’t frighten him if Bertha is poor.”
“Not a bit,” said Clarence. “But here’s the fix I’m in. Bertha never goes to father, but confides all her troubles to me. She expects me to manage it in some way so that she can go. I told her I would, and I don’t dare go to Buckholme until I can.”
“Then it’s lucky for you, Clarence, that you have a wife with a head, as you expressed it. If you will let me manage the affair, it will come out all right.”
“You can do just as you like, Jennie. How much money will you want?”
“Oh, not a great deal. Let me see. In the first place she will wish to take her wardrobe with her. Now, it won’t do for her to pack up her things at Buckholme. Mrs. Liloquist was moaning to-day because she has a vacant room next to ours. These lodging-house keepers are always in a fret and worry. Now, I will make her happy by telling her that a cousin of yours is coming to London from the country and wants a room for a week at least. Now you will have to play your part, Clarence. You must go out to Buckholme every night and be very attentive to Bertha. I won’t be jealous. Every morning when you come in fetch in some of Bertha’s wardrobe. I will do her packing for her, and when the important day arrives she must tell your father that she is coming to London to do some shopping and you must offer her your services to escort her.”
“Well, I never heard anything like it,” cried Clarence. “You ought to be a detective in Scotland Yard.”
“Well, if you had read as many detective stories as I have, you would not think I have told you much of a plot after all; however, who knows but that it may turn out to be a big one in the end?”
“Well,” said Clarence, “after her luggage is packed and she is here, what are you going to do next?”
“Why, I am going to Paris with her. I have never done anything in my life that will please me so much as to outwit your father.”
“He is a pretty shrewd one,” remarked Clarence.
“I know he is,” said Jennie, “and for that reason I am going to do something that will throw him off the track. Of course he will think that she has gone to Dover and from there to Calais and then to Paris, but we shall do nothing of the kind.”
“What are you going to do?” asked her husband.
“Well, I shan’t tell you until the very day we start. It is better that you should not know. You are one of those men who when they have anything on their mind everybody can see it and it makes them inquisitive. Now you had better be fancy-free until the morning of our departure; then I will tell you where we are going. Now, Clarence, I want you to make me a promise. No matter what happens, you must keep your mouth shut tight. Do not tell anybody which way we went nor where we have gone.”
“You’re a darling, Jennie,” he cried. “I will promise anything. Now we must go out and get our suppers, for I’m as hungry as a bear.”