Chapter 3

O’Hagan dropped the monocle and laid his cane upon the counter. At the
moment that Parkins stood upright and squared his chest, the Captain
snatched up Mr. Crichton’s day-book—a heavy, leather-bound volume—and
hurled it full at the pugilist’s head. One of the precepts of the Higher
Jiu-jitsu, or “Art of Gentle Thought,” he will tell you, is to avail
yourself of any missile within reach. His aim, then, is deadly. The
day-book struck Parkins edgewise across the face, felling him like a
stricken bullock—felling him utterly, brutally.

He crashed into the corner by the door—and lay still. (“A dreadful blow
was struck at every gentleman when the sword was taken from him,”
O’Hagan will say. “One cannot soil one’s gloves with the blood of
churls.”)

“If you compel me to deal with you,” said the Captain, as Parkins
returned to groaning consciousness of his injuries, “I shall cut your
ears off!”

Do not judge my friend harshly. He was born three centuries too late,
that is all. The claim of Democracy to an equality with Aristocracy is
as unintelligible to him as it must have been to Denis O’Hagan, who
upheld the Stuart cause whilst he had breath, and died at last like a
gentleman at Worcester, having demonstrated his distaste for plebeian
company by personally dispatching seven Roundheads. Or perhaps the
autocratic soul of Patrick O’Hagan lives again within Bernard. This
member of the family, sometime of the _Mousquetaires du roi_, narrowly
escaped the Bastille for decapitating a Paris grocer who insulted a lady
and attaching the erring tradesman’s head to his own shop-sign.

Parkins dizzily strove to get upon his feet. Mr. Crichton, trembling,
was seeking to reach the telephone.

“Sit down, Mr. Crichton,” directed O’Hagan, turning the monocle upon
him.

“This is my shop—and that’s one o’ my friends——”

“Sit down, Mr. Crichton.”

Mr. Crichton sat down.

“You”—to the tottering pugilist—“put on your filthy rags, and get
out.”

Parkins steadied himself against the door.

“What d’you mean, get out? I’ve got more right ’ere than you! Just wait,
you cowardly skunk! I’ll ’ave you yet! I’ll quod you for this!”

“You have one minute to get out. If I hear from you again, I shall give
you in charge for assault and battery!”

O’Hagan, lolling against the counter, swung the monocle carelessly. The
amplitude of his nonchalance prevailed. Parkins, recalling that he had
struck the first blow, stuffed his “dicky” into his coat, resumed that
garment, and began to unbolt the door.

With never a backward glance, the discredited Mr. Parkins made his exit.
One of a curious group, without, entered on the pretence of buying a
halfpenny paper. He was served by the trembling newsagent, but save for
the presence of a hatless, distinguished gentleman, saw nothing to
satisfy his curiosity in Mr. Crichton’s shop.

“Now, Mr. Crichton,” said O’Hagan, the customer departed, “in reference
to Pamela: has the fellow, Parkins, pretensions?”

Mr. Crichton, _pro tempore_, was past protest.

“He’s an old pal o’ mine,” he explained, unsteadily, “and well
off—and——”

“Pamela does not approve him?”

“Well, she’s got such superior ideas. But Parkins——”

“It is out of the question, Crichton. Dismiss the idea. Mrs. Crichton
was a woman of higher social standing than yourself?”

The newsagent felt suffocation to be an imminent danger.

“She was the daughter of a lit’r’y gentleman——”

“Singular that she should have married you! Her father was badly in
debt, possibly?”

“Look here——!”

“I say, possibly the late Mrs. Crichton’s father was financially
indebted to you?”

Crichton, cowed:

“I pretty well kept him, for years!”

“Ah! poor girl! A tragedy of poverty! But you have not neglected
Pamela’s education?”

“She’s had the best that money could give her!”

O’Hagan seized the hand of the bewildered Mr. Crichton and wrung it
warmly.

“There are redeeming features in your character, Crichton!” he said.
“For your endeavours on the girl’s behalf I can forgive you much. Rely
upon my friendship! And Pamela has literary inclinations?”

“No, sir,” answered the newsagent, whose world was being turned
topsy-turvy, who alternately believed that he was in the company of a
madman or that he himself was mad. “She’s a musician; I’ve had her
properly taught; she composes!”

Above all the chaos reigning in his mind, paternal pride asserted its
sovereignty and his voice proclaimed it.

“Ah! composes? She has just gone to see a publisher? She had music in
the leather case?”

“Her new piece, sir. She reckons it’s goin’ to make her!”

“What has she published?”

Mr. Crichton, crestfallen:

“Nothing, sir! You see, she’s unknown. They won’t give her a chance.”

“She will return to lunch?”

The newsagent stared.

“Pamela’ll be home to dinner!” he said.

“The midday meal? Exactly. I will lunch with you, Crichton. My name is
Captain O’Hagan.”

His mode of patronage was superb, incomparable.

—————

III.
PAMELA RETURNS.

Pamela arrived late, a dainty figure in her neat serge costume; but the
very curl that floated across her brow, the limp little hand that held
the music-case, spoke of dejection. Her charming face was not habitually
pale, O’Hagan felt assured, nor were such glorious eyes meant to be
dimmed with threatening tears.

“Hullo, Pam!” began her father heartily—and hesitated. “Why—won’t they
take it?”

A forlorn little shake of the head.

“That horrible Ritzmann offered to publish it—if I would let him have
it for nothing!”

“For nothing! Didn’t he offer to pay anything?”

“Not after I had declined to go to lunch with him!”

Pamela laughed; not mirthfully.

“Cheer up, Pam,” said Mr. Crichton, in a voice of abysmal gloom.
“A—er—a friend——”

“A friend, yes, Crichton,” interrupted O’Hagan. “Don’t be nervous.”

“A friend of mine—_Captain_ O’Hagan—has called to see us!”

Pamela blushed delightfully; O’Hagan bowed inimitably.

“Didn’t Mr.—Parkins—stay?”

Crichton coughed.

“He couldn’t stop, after all!” He replied.

Pamela removed her hat. “Good job, too,” she muttered under her breath.