the customary eighty-thousand-word length.’—‘You
have a distinct vein of humour,’ wrote Mr. Potts, of Larraby and Potts,
Limited—that was the firm—‘and we think your work would be very
saleable if you would throw off what appears to be a feeling of
restraint.’—So I guess Harrington just threw off this feeling of
restraint, whatever exactly it was, and began on those eighteen essays…I
hope this tale isn’t boring you.”
“Not at all!”—“Go on!”—came the chorus. Ransome smiled.
“There isn’t much to go on to. The book of essays was called Sky-Signs,’
and it was reviewed rather pleasantly in some of the papers. Then followed
‘About It and About,’ a further bundle of didactic essays which ran into five
editions in six months. And then ‘Through my Lattice Window,’ which was the
sort of book you were not ashamed to take into the pew with you and read
during the offertory, provided, of course, that it was handsomely bound in
black morocco. And lastly came the Helping-Hand-Books, which Mr. Speed must
read if he is to consider his education complete. That’s all. The story’s
over.”
After the first buzz of comment Speed said: “I suppose he made plenty of
money out of that sort of thing?”
Ransome replied: “Yes, he made it and then he lost it. He dabbled in
finance and had a geometrical theory about the rise and fall of rubber
shares. Then he got plentifully in debt and when his health began to give way
he took the bookshop because he thought it would be an easy way to earn
money. He’d have lost on that if his daughter hadn’t been a born
business-woman.”
“But surely,” said Clanwell, “the money kept on trickling in from his
books?”
Ransome shook his head. “No, because he’d sold the copyrights for cash
down. He was a child in finance. But all the same he knew how to make
money. For that you should refer to his book ‘How to be Successful,’ passim . It’s full of excellent fatherly advice.”
Ransome added, with a hardly perceptible smile: “There’s also a chapter
about Courtship and Marriage. You might find it interesting, Mr. Speed.”
Speed blushed furiously.
Afterwards, strolling over to the House with Clanwell, Speed said: “I say,
was that long yarn Ransome told about Harrington true, do you think?”
Clanwell replied: “Well, it may have been. You can never be quite certain
with Ransome, though. But he does know how to tell a story, doesn’t he?”
Speed agreed.
Late that night the news percolated, somehow or other, that old Harrington
was dead.
IV
Curious, perhaps, that Speed, who had never even seen the
man, and whose knowledge of him was derived almost solely from Ransome’s
“droll” story, should experience a sensation of personal loss! Yet it was so,
mysteriously and unaccountably: the old man’s death took his mind further
away from Millstead than anything had been able to do for some time. The
following morning he met Helen in the lane outside the school and his first
remark to her was: “I say, have you heard about old Harrington?”
Helen said: “Yes, isn’t it terrible?—I’m so sorry for Clare—I
went down to see her last night. Poor Clare!”
He saw tears in her eyes, and at this revelation of her abounding pity and
warm-heartedness, his love for her welled up afresh, so that in a few seconds
his soul was wholly in Millstead again. “You look tired, Helen,” he said,
taking her by the arm and looking down into her eyes.
Then she burst into tears.
“I’m all right,” she said, between gulps of sobbing. “It’s so sad, though,
isn’t it?—Death always frightens me. Oh, I’m so sorry for Clare. Poor
darling Clare!…Oh, Kenneth—I was miserable last night when I
came home. I didn’t know what to do, I was so miserable. I—I did want to see you, and I—I walked along the garden underneath Clanwell’s
room and I heard your voice in there.”
He said, clasping
have a distinct vein of humour,’ wrote Mr. Potts, of Larraby and Potts,
Limited—that was the firm—‘and we think your work would be very
saleable if you would throw off what appears to be a feeling of
restraint.’—So I guess Harrington just threw off this feeling of
restraint, whatever exactly it was, and began on those eighteen essays…I
hope this tale isn’t boring you.”
“Not at all!”—“Go on!”—came the chorus. Ransome smiled.
“There isn’t much to go on to. The book of essays was called Sky-Signs,’
and it was reviewed rather pleasantly in some of the papers. Then followed
‘About It and About,’ a further bundle of didactic essays which ran into five
editions in six months. And then ‘Through my Lattice Window,’ which was the
sort of book you were not ashamed to take into the pew with you and read
during the offertory, provided, of course, that it was handsomely bound in
black morocco. And lastly came the Helping-Hand-Books, which Mr. Speed must
read if he is to consider his education complete. That’s all. The story’s
over.”
After the first buzz of comment Speed said: “I suppose he made plenty of
money out of that sort of thing?”
Ransome replied: “Yes, he made it and then he lost it. He dabbled in
finance and had a geometrical theory about the rise and fall of rubber
shares. Then he got plentifully in debt and when his health began to give way
he took the bookshop because he thought it would be an easy way to earn
money. He’d have lost on that if his daughter hadn’t been a born
business-woman.”
“But surely,” said Clanwell, “the money kept on trickling in from his
books?”
Ransome shook his head. “No, because he’d sold the copyrights for cash
down. He was a child in finance. But all the same he knew how to make
money. For that you should refer to his book ‘How to be Successful,’ passim . It’s full of excellent fatherly advice.”
Ransome added, with a hardly perceptible smile: “There’s also a chapter
about Courtship and Marriage. You might find it interesting, Mr. Speed.”
Speed blushed furiously.
Afterwards, strolling over to the House with Clanwell, Speed said: “I say,
was that long yarn Ransome told about Harrington true, do you think?”
Clanwell replied: “Well, it may have been. You can never be quite certain
with Ransome, though. But he does know how to tell a story, doesn’t he?”
Speed agreed.
Late that night the news percolated, somehow or other, that old Harrington
was dead.
IV
Curious, perhaps, that Speed, who had never even seen the
man, and whose knowledge of him was derived almost solely from Ransome’s
“droll” story, should experience a sensation of personal loss! Yet it was so,
mysteriously and unaccountably: the old man’s death took his mind further
away from Millstead than anything had been able to do for some time. The
following morning he met Helen in the lane outside the school and his first
remark to her was: “I say, have you heard about old Harrington?”
Helen said: “Yes, isn’t it terrible?—I’m so sorry for Clare—I
went down to see her last night. Poor Clare!”
He saw tears in her eyes, and at this revelation of her abounding pity and
warm-heartedness, his love for her welled up afresh, so that in a few seconds
his soul was wholly in Millstead again. “You look tired, Helen,” he said,
taking her by the arm and looking down into her eyes.
Then she burst into tears.
“I’m all right,” she said, between gulps of sobbing. “It’s so sad, though,
isn’t it?—Death always frightens me. Oh, I’m so sorry for Clare. Poor
darling Clare!…Oh, Kenneth—I was miserable last night when I
came home. I didn’t know what to do, I was so miserable. I—I did want to see you, and I—I walked along the garden underneath Clanwell’s
room and I heard your voice in there.”
He said, clasping
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