The Adventures of Sally Read online

  "Stop him!" said Sally firmly.

  The red-haired young man looked as a native of Johnstown might have looked on being requested to stop that city's celebrated flood.

  "Stop him?"

  "Yes. Blow a whistle or something."

  Out of the depths of the young man's memory there swam to the surface a single word—a word which he must have heard somewhere or read somewhere: a legacy, perhaps, from long-vanished school-days.

  "Zut!" he barked, and instantaneously Jules turned himself off at the main. There was a moment of dazed silence, such as might occur in a boiler-factory if the works suddenly shut down.

  "Quick! Now you've got him!" cried Sally. "Ask him what he's talking about—if he knows, which I doubt—and tell him to speak slowly. Then we shall get somewhere."

  The young man nodded intelligently. The advice was good.

  "Lentement," he said. "Parlez lentement. Pas si—you know what I mean—pas si dashed vite!"

  "Ah-a-ah!" cried Jules, catching the idea on the fly. "Lentement. Ah, oui, lentement."

  There followed a lengthy conversation which, while conveying nothing to Sally, seemed intelligible to the red-haired linguist.

  "The silly ass," he was able to announce some few minutes later, "has made a bloomer. Apparently he was half asleep when we came in, and he shoved us into the lift and slammed the door, forgetting that he had left the keys on the desk."

  "I see," said Sally. "So we're shut in?"

  "I'm afraid so. I wish to goodness," said the young man, "I knew French well. I'd curse him with some vim and not a little animation, the chump! I wonder what 'blighter' is in French," he said, meditating.

  "It's the merest suggestion," said Sally, "but oughtn't we to do something?"

  "What could we do?"

  "Well, for one thing, we might all utter a loud yell. It would scare most of the people in the hotel to death, but there might be a survivor or two who would come and investigate and let us out."

  "What a ripping idea!" said the young man, impressed.

  "I'm glad you like it. Now tell him the main out-line, or he'll think we've gone mad."

  The young man searched for words, and eventually found some which expressed his meaning lamely but well enough to cause Jules to nod in a depressed sort of way.

  "Fine!" said Sally. "Now, all together at the word 'three.' One—two—Oh, poor darling!" she broke off. "Look at him!"

  In the far corner of the lift, the emotional Jules was sobbing silently into the bunch of cotton-waste which served him in the office of a pocket-handkerchief. His broken-hearted gulps echoed hollowly down the shaft.

  5

  In these days of cheap books of instruction on every subject under the sun, we most of us know how to behave in the majority of life's little crises. We have only ourselves to blame if we are ignorant of what to do before the doctor comes, of how to make a dainty winter coat for baby out of father's last year's under-vest and of the best method of coping with the cold mutton. But nobody yet has come forward with practical advice as to the correct method of behaviour to be adopted when a lift-attendant starts crying. And Sally and her companion, as a consequence, for a few moments merely stared at each other helplessly.

  "Poor darling!" said Sally, finding speech. "Ask him what's the matter."

  The young man looked at her doubtfully.

  "You know," he said, "I don't enjoy chatting with this blighter. I mean to say, it's a bit of an effort. I don't know why it is, but talking French always makes me feel as if my nose were coming off. Couldn't we just leave him to have his cry out by himself?"

  "The idea!" said Sally. "Have you no heart? Are you one of those fiends in human shape?"

  He turned reluctantly to Jules, and paused to overhaul his vocabulary.

  "You ought to be thankful for this chance," said Sally. "It's the only real way of learning French, and you're getting a lesson for nothing. What did he say then?"

  "Something about losing something, it seemed to me. I thought I caught the word perdu."

  "But that means a partridge, doesn't it? I'm sure I've seen it on the menus."

  "Would he talk about partridges at a time like this?"

  "He might. The French are extraordinary people."

  "Well, I'll have another go at him. But he's a difficult chap to chat with. If you give him the least encouragement, he sort of goes off like a rocket." He addressed another question to the sufferer, and listened attentively to the voluble reply.

  "Oh!" he said with sudden enlightenment. "Your job?" He turned to Sally. "I got it that time," he said. "The trouble is, he says, that if we yell and rouse the house, we'll get out all right, but he will lose his job, because this is the second time this sort of thing has happened, and they warned him last time that once more would mean the push."

  "Then we mustn't dream of yelling," said Sally, decidedly. "It means a pretty long wait, you know. As far as I can gather, there's just a chance of somebody else coming in later, in which case he could let us out. But it's doubtful. He rather thinks that everybody has gone to roost."

  "Well, we must try it. I wouldn't think of losing the poor man his job. Tell him to take the car down to the ground-floor, and then we'll just sit and amuse ourselves till something happens. We've lots to talk about. We can tell each other the story of our lives."

  Jules, cheered by his victims' kindly forbearance, lowered the car to the ground floor, where, after a glance of infinite longing at the keys on the distant desk, the sort of glance which Moses must have cast at the Promised Land from the summit of Mount Pisgah, he sagged down in a heap and resumed his slumbers. Sally settled herself as comfortably as possible in her corner.

  "You'd better smoke," she said. "It will be something to do."

  "Thanks awfully."

  "And now," said Sally, "tell me why Scrymgeour fired you."

  Little by little, under the stimulating influence of this nocturnal adventure, the red-haired young man had lost that shy confusion which had rendered him so ill at ease when he had encountered Sally in the hall of the hotel; but at this question embarrassment gripped him once more. Another of those comprehensive blushes of his raced over his face, and he stammered.

  "I say, I'm glad... I'm fearfully sorry about that, you know!"

  "About Scrymgeour?"

  "You know what I mean. I mean, about making such a most ghastly ass of myself this morning. I... I never dreamed you understood English."

  "Why, I didn't object. I thought you were very nice and complimentary. Of course, I don't know how many girls you've seen in your life, but..."

  "No, I say, don't! It makes me feel such a chump."

  "And I'm sorry about my mouth. It is wide. But I know you're a fair-minded man and realize that it isn't my fault."

  "Don't rub it in," pleaded the young man. "As a matter of fact, if you want to know, I think your mouth is absolutely perfect. I think," he proceeded, a little feverishly, "that you are the most indescribable topper that ever..."

  "You were going to tell me about Scrymgeour," said Sally.

  The young man blinked as if he had collided with some hard object while sleep-walking. Eloquence had carried him away.

  "Scrymgeour?" he said. "Oh, that would bore you."

  "Don't be silly," said Sally reprovingly. "Can't you realize that we're practically castaways on a desert island? There's nothing to do till to-morrow but talk about ourselves. I want to hear all about you, and then I'll tell you all about myself. If you feel diffident about starting the revelations, I'll begin. Better start with names. Mine is Sally Nicholas. What's yours?"

  "Mine? Oh, ah, yes, I see what you mean."

  "I thought you would. I put it as clearly as I could. Well, what is it?"

  "Kemp."

  "And the first name?"

  "Well, as a matter of fact," said the young man, "I've always rather hushed up my first name, because when I was christened they worked a low-down trick on me!"

  "You can't shoc
k me," said Sally, encouragingly. "My father's name was Ezekiel, and I've a brother who was christened Fillmore."

  Mr. Kemp brightened. "Well, mine isn't as bad as that... No, I don't mean that," he broke off apologetically. "Both awfully jolly names, of course..."

  "Get on," said Sally.

  "Well, they called me Lancelot. And, of course, the thing is that I don't look like a Lancelot and never shall. My pals," he added in a more cheerful strain, "call me Ginger."

  "I don't blame them," said Sally.

  "Perhaps you wouldn't mind thinking of me as Ginger?'' suggested the young man diffidently.

  "Certainly."

  "That's awfully good of you."

  "Not at all."

  Jules stirred in his sleep and grunted. No other sound came to disturb the stillness of the night.

  "You were going to tell me about yourself?" said Mr. Lancelot (Ginger) Kemp.

  "I'm going to tell you all about myself," said Sally, "not because I think it will interest you..."

  "Oh, it will!"

  "Not, I say, because I think it will interest you..."

  "It will, really."

  Sally looked at him coldly.

  "Is this a duet?" she inquired, "or have I the floor?"

  "I'm awfully sorry."

  "Not, I repeat for the third time, because I think It will interest you, but because if I do you won't have any excuse for not telling me your life-history, and you wouldn't believe how inquisitive I am. Well, in the first place, I live in America. I'm over here on a holiday. And it's the first real holiday I've had in three years—since I left home, in fact." Sally paused. "I ran away from home," she said.

  "Good egg!" said Ginger Kemp.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I mean, quite right. I bet you were quite right."

  "When I say home," Sally went on, "it was only a sort of imitation home, you know. One of those just-as-good homes which are never as satisfactory as the real kind. My father and mother both died a good many years ago. My brother and I were dumped down on the reluctant doorstep of an uncle."

  "Uncles," said Ginger Kemp, feelingly, "are the devil. I've got an... but I'm interrupting you."

  "My uncle was our trustee. He had control of all my brother's money and mine till I was twenty-one. My brother was to get his when he was twenty-five. My poor father trusted him blindly, and what do you think happened?"

  "Good Lord! The blighter embezzled the lot?"

  "No, not a cent. Wasn't it extraordinary! Have you ever heard of a blindly trusted uncle who was perfectly honest? Well, mine was. But the trouble was that, while an excellent man to have looking after one's money, he wasn't a very lovable character. He was very hard. Hard! He was as hard as—well, nearly as hard as this seat. He hated poor Fill..."

  "Phil?"

  "I broke it to you just now that my brother's name was Fillmore."

  "Oh, your brother. Oh, ah, yes."

  "He was always picking on poor Fill. And I'm bound to say that Fill rather laid himself out as what you might call a pickee. He was always getting into trouble. One day, about three years ago, he was expelled from Harvard, and my uncle vowed he would have nothing more to do with him. So I said, if Fill left, I would leave. And, as this seemed to be my uncle's idea of a large evening, no objection was raised, and Fill and I departed. We went to New York, and there we've been ever since. About six months' ago Fill passed the twenty-five mark and collected his money, and last month I marched past the given point and got mine. So it all ends happily, you see. Now tell me about yourself."

  "But, I say, you know, dash it, you've skipped a lot. I mean to say, you must have had an awful time in New York, didn't you? How on earth did you get along?"

  "Oh, we found work. My brother tried one or two things, and finally became an assistant stage-manager with some theatre people. The only thing I could do, having been raised in enervating luxury, was ballroom dancing, so I ball-room danced. I got a job at a place in Broadway called 'The Flower Garden' as what is humorously called an 'instructress,' as if anybody could 'instruct' the men who came there. One was lucky if one saved one's life and wasn't quashed to death."

  "How perfectly foul!"

  "Oh, I don't know. It was rather fun for a while. Still," said Sally, meditatively, "I'm not saying I could have held out much longer: I was beginning to give. I suppose I've been trampled underfoot by more fat men than any other girl of my age in America. I don't know why it was, but every man who came in who was a bit overweight seemed to make for me by instinct. That's why I like to sit on the sands here and watch these Frenchmen bathing. It's just heavenly to lie back and watch a two hundred and fifty pound man, coming along and feel that he isn't going to dance with me."

  "But, I say! How absolutely rotten it must have been for you!"

  "Well, I'll tell you one thing. It's going to make me a very domesticated wife one of these days. You won't find me gadding about in gilded jazz-palaces! For me, a little place in the country somewhere, with my knitting and an Elsie book, and bed at half-past nine! And now tell me the story of your life. And make it long because I'm perfectly certain there's going to be no relief-expedition. I'm sure the last dweller under this roof came in years ago. We shall be here till morning."

  "I really think we had better shout, you know."

  "And lose Jules his job? Never!"

  "Well, of course, I'm sorry for poor old Jules' troubles, but I hate to think of you having to..."

  "Now get on with the story," said Sally.

  6

  Ginger Kemp exhibited some of the symptoms of a young bridegroom called upon at a wedding-breakfast to respond to the toast. He moved his feet restlessly and twisted his fingers.

  "I hate talking about myself, you know," he said.

  "So I supposed," said Sally. "That's why I gave you my autobiography first, to give you no chance of backing out. Don't be such a shrinking violet. We're all shipwrecked mariners here. I am intensely interested in your narrative. And, even if I wasn't, I'd much rather listen to it than to Jules' snoring."

  "He is snoring a bit, what? Does it annoy you? Shall I stir him?"

  "You seem to have an extraordinary brutal streak in your nature," said Sally. "You appear to think of nothing else but schemes for harassing poor Jules. Leave him alone for a second, and start telling me about yourself."

  "Where shall I start?"

  "Well, not with your childhood, I think. We'll skip that."

  "Well..." Ginger Kemp knitted his brow, searching for a dramatic opening. "Well, I'm more or less what you might call an orphan, like you. I mean to say, both my people are dead and all that sort of thing."

  "Thanks for explaining. That has made it quite clear."

  "I can't remember my mother. My father died when I was in my last year at Cambridge. I'd been having a most awfully good time at the 'varsity,'" said Ginger, warming to his theme. "Not thick, you know, but good. I'd got my rugger and boxing blues and I'd just been picked for scrum-half for England against the North in the first trial match, and between ourselves it really did look as if I was more or less of a snip for my international."

  Sally gazed at him wide eyed.

  "Is that good or bad?" she asked.

  "Eh?"

  "Are you reciting a catalogue of your crimes, or do you expect me to get up and cheer? What is a rugger blue, to start with?"

  "Well, it's... it's a rugger blue, you know."

  "Oh, I see," said Sally. "You mean a rugger blue."

  "I mean to say, I played rugger—footer—that's to say, football—Rugby football—for Cambridge, against Oxford. I was scrum-half."

  "And what is a scrum-half?" asked Sally, patiently. "Yes, I know you're going to say it's a scrum-half, but can't you make it easier?"

  "The scrum-half," said Ginger, "is the half who works the scrum. He slings the pill out to the fly-half, who starts the three-quarters going. I don't know if you understand?"

  "I don't."

  "It's dashed ha
rd to explain," said Ginger Kemp, unhappily. "I mean, I don't think I've ever met anyone before who didn't know what a scrum-half was."

  "Well, I can see that it has something to do with football, so we'll leave it at that. I suppose it's something like our quarter-back. And what's an international?"

  "It's called getting your international when you play for England, you know. England plays Wales, France, Ireland, and Scotland. If it hadn't been for the smash, I think I should have played for England against Wales."

  "I see at last. What you're trying to tell me is that you were very good at football."

  Ginger Kemp blushed warmly.

  "Oh, I don't say that. England was pretty short of scrum-halves that year."

  "What a horrible thing to happen to a country! Still, you were likely to be picked on the All-England team when the smash came? What was the smash?"

  "Well, it turned out that the poor old pater hadn't left a penny. I never understood the process exactly, but I'd always supposed that we were pretty well off; and then it turned out that I hadn't anything at all. I'm bound to say it was a bit of a jar. I had to come down from Cambridge and go to work in my uncle's office. Of course, I made an absolute hash of it."

  "Why, of course?"

  "Well, I'm not a very clever sort of chap, you see. I somehow didn't seem able to grasp the workings. After about a year, my uncle, getting a bit fed-up, hoofed me out and got me a mastership at a school, and I made a hash of that. He got me one or two other jobs, and I made a hash of those."

  "You certainly do seem to be one of our most prominent young hashers!" gasped Sally.

  "I am," said Ginger, modestly.

  There was a silence.

  "And what about Scrymgeour?" Sally asked.

  "That was the last of the jobs," said Ginger. "Scrymgeour is a pompous old ass who thinks he's going to be Prime Minister some day. He's a big bug at the Bar and has just got into Parliament. My cousin used to devil for him. That's how I got mixed up with the blighter."