One and Sevenpence Ha'penny

by Edgar Wallace

ONE AND SEVENPENCE HA'PENNY

By EDGAR WALLACE

Author of "Sanders of the River," "Private Selby" "The Council of Justice," "Grey Timothy," "The People of the River," etc.

CARFEW sat in his study in Jermyn Street, one bright June morning, in a happy frame of mind. It was a mental condition which, as a rule, he did not encourage, for happiness is one of the most unbusinesslike relaxations that a man can allow himself.

Happiness makes one receptive to impossible schemes and unbalances one's judgment. But Carfew had reason for happiness. He had spent a whole day working out his financial position with the aid of an accountant, and that marvellous man had discovered that Carfew was worth exactly thirty-four thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds eighteen shillings and fourpence ha'penny. Those were the exact figures, though where the odd fourpence ha'penny came from, Carfew was at some loss to understand.

"If you lent me one and sevenpence ha'penny," he said, "I should have an even thirty-five thousand pounds."

The accountant smiled.

"If you wait until to-morrow," he suggested, "you will have more. All your money is in gilt-edged stock, producing forty pounds eight shillings per diem, and if I lent you one and sevenpence ha'penny, you would be no better off, because you would still owe me that sum."

Carfew pulled at his cigar, amused but faintly irritated. The one and sevenpence ha'penny annoyed him unaccountably. It was the finest speck of sand in the smooth-running motor of his complacency.

Of course, it was absurd, but then Carfew was absurd. He took absurd risks at times and did absurd things at times. If he had not been absurd, he would have been a poor man all his life. The eccentricities which unthinking people condemn in a mature and comfortable man are very often the forces which secured him that assured position.

"You have reckoned everything, I suppose?" he suggested hopefully.

"Everything—your furniture and household effects are put in at valuation," said the patient accountant.

Carfew rose and pushed the bell; he could be very determined in small as well as great matters. His man Villiers, a calm and gracious servitor, answered the call.

"Villiers," said Carfew, "have you any things in the pantry, such as siphons, baskets, or cases, for which money has been deposited?"

"No, sir," said Villiers promptly. "I have ordered some new siphons."

Carfew thought.

"Go through the pockets of all my clothes," he said gravely, "and see if you can find one and sevenpence ha'penny, or something worth that amount."

"One and sevenpence ha'penny," repeated Villiers in a tone which disguised, as far as a well-bred servant could disguise so apparent an emotion, his contempt for odd coppers. "Have you lost that sum, sir?"

"I haven't exactly lost it," said Carfew sharply, "but I want to find it."

Villiers bowed and withdrew.

"I don't like his face," said Carfew, shaking his head at the laughing accountant. "I never did like black-eyebrowed people." He frowned thoughtfully. "Perhaps he's robbed me at one period of his service, and his conscience will get busy to the extent of one and sevenpence ha'penny."

But if the superior Mr. Villiers had ever succeeded in robbing Carfew, his conscience, so far from getting busy, was exceedingly lethargic, and in ten minutes he returned from his search with no more tangible evidence of unexpected prosperity than a crushed and discoloured rosebud.

"This was the only article, sir," he said, handling the withered flower gingerly. "I found it in the breast pocket of your dress-coat."

Carfew wriggled and went painfully red. "Thank you," he said loudly, and took the flower with all the unconcern which accompanies the process of feeling a fool.

"Perhaps," suggested the accountant, when Villiers had departed, "we might regard that as worth the money."

Carfew deliberately placed the rosebud in his pocket-book, and as deliberately slipped the book into his inside pocket.

"I regard that," he said a little stiffly, "as beyond the value of anything in the world."

Whereby he succeeded in establishing a painful silence, broken only by the murmured apologies of the man of figures.

It was this embarrassing situation which brought about one of the most remarkable and momentous days in Carfew's life. From being a whim, the pursuit of the one and sevenpence ha'penny became a serious purpose in life.

He started up from his chair and examined his watch. It was eleven o'clock. He snapped the case viciously.

"You may think I'm mad," he said, "but I'm going out to earn that one and sevenpence ha'penny, and I'm going to earn it in solid cash."

He went out into the world and hailed a taxi, and was half-way to his broker's before he realised that, by the time he reached his destination, his deficiency would be three and a ha'penny, for taxis cost money. To be exact, the fare and the tip brought him three and tuppence ha'penny on the wrong side. He might have given away the odd ha'penny, but it wielded a certain fascination over him.

Parker was busy, but saw him after a minimum wait.

"Well, my bright boy," he greeted him, nodding towards a chair, "and what have we to thank for this visitation?"

"Parker," said Carfew earnestly, "I want to earn three and tuppence ha'penny."

"I didn't quite get you," said the puzzled Parker. "You want——"

"I want to earn three and tuppence ha'penny," repeated Carfew.

Parker leant back in his chair and surveyed him approvingly.

"At last," he said, "you have decided to earn your living—to get a little money by honest toil."

Carfew kept very calm.

"I desire that you refrain from being funny," he said, with admirable self-restraint. "I have a particular reason for wishing to earn one and sevenpence ha'penny—I mean three and tuppence ha'penny—four and eightpence ha'penny," he corrected himself, for he remembered that he had to get back to his flat.

"Make up your mind," said the patient Parker; "but how do you want to earn it?"

"I don't care how I earn it, but I just want to get it—that's all."

Parker settled himself comfortably in his chair, resigned but polite.

"What's the joke?" he demanded. "If there's a catch in it—I'll be the victim—let me hear it, and perhaps I'll be able to pass it off on to one of those clever Alecs in the Kaffir Market."

Carfew rose slowly and reached for his hat.

"I want to earn four and eightpence ha'penny," he said, "and if you can't give me a job keeping books or sweeping out the office, or something for that amount, I'll go somewhere else."

Parker smiled politely.

"The joke's a little elaborate," he said, "but I'm quite willing to laugh—ha, ha!"

Carfew closed the door quietly behind him as he went out.

His blood was up. It was absurd that a man of his attainments should have the slightest difficulty in raising one and—in raising four shillings and eightpence ha'penny.

He bought a paper in the street, giving the boy a penny. He hastily scanned the market intelligence. Of all the days in the year this would appear to be the most deadly. The earliest report showed that all markets were stagnant. There was no one market or group of stocks which looked as though it would move in any direction.

He walked along Moorgate Street, turned into Liverpool Street, and stood irresolutely before the gateways to the station. He walked over to where a newspaper seller stood.

"George," he said, hazarding the name which is common to all newspaper sellers and to the hansom cabmen of old—alas, that the taxi and the motor-bus have introduced the Horaces and the Percies to public life!—"George, suppose you wanted to make four and ninepence ha'penny, how would you do it?"

George looked his questioner up and down.

"I should back Razel for the Stayers' Handicap," he said. "Back it both ways, an' double it up with Brotherstone for the Nursery, That's what I'd do, an' that's what I've done."

"You would back Razel and double it up." Carfew repeated as much as he could remember.

Razel was evidently one of those unwieldy horses that had to be folded in two before he could be carried in comfort.

"That's what I'd do," repeated George, "an' if you want a real cast-iron racin' certainty for to-morrer, you have a little bit each way on Lord Rosebery's horse in the Royal Hunt Cap."

"Is he running each way?" asked Carfew, interested for the first time in the sport of kings.

"That's what I'd do," said George gloomily.

It was obvious to Carfew that four and ninepence ha'penny was not an easy sum to earn. He felt that racing—even if he had known the slightest thing about it—was too hazardous a means. After all, the horses might not win, and he had a suspicion that George might not be right in his prediction.

Strolling up Broad, Street, he ran against Wilner, a man in the shipping trade. Wilner was a hard-headed Lancashire man, with whom Carfew had done business on several occasions. At least, he was a Lancashire man, and people have got the habit of applying the prefix to anybody who counts his change and bites dubious-looking half-crowns. In all probability—the theory is offered for what it is worth—North-countrymen aren't any harder-headed than people who live in Balham.

Wilner would have passed on with a nod, but Carfew had an inspiration and stopped him.

"Give me five shillings," he demanded.

Wilner drew back a pace, then he grinned, and his hand wandered to his trousers pocket.

"Come out without money?" he said. "Shall I lend you a sovereign?"

"I don't want you to lend me anything," said Carfew firmly; "I want you to give me five shillings."

Mr. Wilner looked hard.

"Give you five shillings—for a charity or something?"

"I want five shillings for myself," said Carfew doggedly.

"I'll lend you a fiver——" began Mr. Wilner.

"I don't want you to lend me anything," snarled Carfew, hot and angry. "I want you to give me five shillings."

Mr. Wilner was pardonably alarmed.

"Of course I'll give you five shillings," he said soothingly. "Look here, Carfew, my boy, you wouldn't like to get in a taxi with me and come along and see my doctor?"

Carfew groaned.

"Merciful Heavens," he appealed to the patch of sunlit sky above Broad Street, "I ask the man to give me five shillings, and he offers me a medical examination!"

"But why?" demanded the exasperated Mr. Wilner. "Why the devil do you want five shillings? Haven't you got plenty of money?"

"Of course I have, you ass!" bellowed Carfew, to the scandal of the neighbourhood. "But I want thirty-five thousand pounds, and I must have five shillings. I really only wanted one and sevenpence ha'penny, but I took a taxi and bought a paper, and I was going to take a taxi back. As a matter of fact, I want three and threepence ha'penny, if I walk."

Mr. Wilner drew himself away significantly. His attitude was that of a man who did not wish to be mixed up in an unpleasant and painful situation.

"Well," he said hastily, "let's hope for the best." And with a sympathetic pressure of Carfew's hand, he hurried away.

From the Bank to Bulwich Village the fare works out at approximately three and tenpence. Carfew gave the driver five shillings, so that he arrived at the home of May Tobbin exactly eight and threepence ha'penny on the wrong side of thirty-five thousand pounds.

May was at home, and it seemed to Carfew's prejudiced eyes that she had never looked so beautiful as she did in the domestic garb she wore that morning. Her sleeves were not rolled up, nor did she wipe the flour from her hands as she offered him a grip which betrayed her athletic propensities. Nor was her print gown open at the neck, or her face flushed with the healthy exercise of making up a kitchen fire. Such things do not happen in the suburbs except in good books.

She was wearing a simple morning frock, a modified Poiret model, and nothing short of a tin-opener would have rolled her sleeves up. But she was beautiful enough, with the clear eye and the firm line of confident youth.

"I am glad to see you," she said, with a smile that went straight to Carfew's heart. "I suppose you've come to lunch?"

"I never thought of that," confessed Carfew, brightening up. "That's half-a-crown saved, anyway."

He could say as much to May because she knew him; because, a year or so before, they had worked together, he and she, to put a tottering business upon its feet.

She had worked with him in his high-principled effort to revive interest in the modern drama, and had taken her share of the profits. Moreover, though Carfew would never guess this, she had settled down at the advanced age of twenty-three to the calm contemplation of lifelong spinsterhood for no other reason than because—well, just because. She surveyed him now with a little anxiety in her grey eyes.

"You look a little under the weather. "Would you like to lie down?" she asked.

Carfew braced himself.

"Would you give me eight and three-pence ha'penny?" he asked with great resolution. "Or shall we say ten and three-pence ha'penny? I think I can get home for two shillings."

She was bewildered. He saw the distress in her eyes, and felt a brute.

"The fact is," he said, laying his hand upon her arm, for she appeared to be on the point of taking flight, "the fact is, I discovered this morning that I was one and sevenpence ha'penny short of thirty-five thousand pounds, and, half for a joke, I went out to get one and sevenpence ha'penny. But now it is eight and threepence ha'penny—that is to say, I have thirty-four thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds, eleven shillings and eightpence ha'penny. Unless I raise eight and threepence ha'penny—I only wanted one and sevenpence ha'penny, but it has been awfully expensive——"

May rose.

"I'll call father," she said gently. "Perhaps, if you sat in the garden under the awning for a little while, you'd feel better."

"You misunderstand me," expostulated Carfew. "I want eight and threepence ha'penny——"

"I'll lend you anything you like, you poor boy," she said, and there were tears in her eyes.

"I don't want to borrow anything!" moaned Carfew. "I——" But she was gone.

Mr. Tobbin appeared after a while, a tactful Mr. Tobbin, a coaxing, humouring, infernally irritating Mr. Tobbin.

"Hot weather, my boy," he said, and patted Carfew's shoulder cautiously, not being quite sure in his mind whether his guest would bite or whether he was merely the King of Siam.

"Come along and smoke," he said. "You young fellows overdo it—just a wee bit overdo it. There's no repose in business as there was when I was a youngster. It's this infernal American method of hustle, hustle, hustle."

He led his captive to the big garden at the back of the house.

"You stay and have a little lunch," he said, when he had seated Carfew in a position where he could be patted without risk to the patter.

"One moment, Mr. Tobbin," said Carfew, warding off the marks of his host's friendship. "I want to ask you this: Will you give me some work to do—something I can earn ten and threepence ha'penny before to-night? I don't ask you to give me the money—I prefer to earn it. This thing started as a joke, you understand. If I hadn't been an ass, I should not have gone fooling round for one and sevenpence ha'penny."

"Naturally, naturally," murmured Mr. Tobbin sympathetically.

"Now"—Carfew spoke rapidly—"you and May—Miss Tobbin—think I'm off my head. Well, I'm not."

"I'm sure you're not," said the other, in simulated indignation. "If anybody said such a thing, I should be extremely vexed."

"There is no sense in borrowing one and sevenpence ha'penny," pursued Carfew confidentially. "I should be no better off than I am. What I want to do is to find somebody to give me a job to earn the one and sevenpence ha'penny, or eight and three-pence ha'penny, as it is now—that is to say, ten and threepence ha'penny——"

"Calm yourself, my dear boy," urged Mr. Tobbin. "Here is May."

Unless Carfew's eyes were at fault, and May Tobbin's eyes were being particularly disloyal, she had been crying. Mr. Tobbin retired with every evidence of relief, announcing—from a safe distance—that he was taking lunch in the study, and May sat herself by Carfew's side.

"You've got to be very quiet," she said softly. "We'll have lunch together."

"May," said Carfew desperately, "will you please listen to me whilst I recite you a perfectly coherent and consecutive narrative of what has happened since this morning?"

"I think you had better——" she began. Then, as Carfew jumped up in genuine annoyance, she pulled him down again.

"Tell me," she commanded.

Carfew began his story—the story of the audit, the story of his happy breakfast, gloating over his balance, the story of the accountant's arrival with the true total of his fortune, and as he went on, the anxiety died away from the girl's eyes and her lips twitched. Then, as he described his meeting with Wilner, her sense of humour was too strong for repression, and she leant back in an ecstasy of laughter.

"You poor creature!" she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. "And you want——"

"Ten and threepence ha'penny," said Carfew mournfully. "But I can't take it from you now, after I have told you. Isn't there any work I could do—genuine work that you'd have to pay somebody else ten and threepence ha'penny for, if they did it?"

She thought, her chin on her palm, her lips pursed. Then she went into the house. Carfew judged she was interviewing her father, and his calculation was correct. She came back in ten minutes, and her return synchronised with the booming of the luncheon gong.

"Come along," she invited, with a smile. "Come to lunch, and I will explain just how father wants the coal-cellar whitewashed."

It was a happy lunch. Mr. Tobbin, by no means convinced that Carfew was not a dreadful example of how the evil hustling tendencies of the age may affect a man, lunched in his study and listened apprehensively to the bursts of insane laughter which floated up from the dining-room.

"And so poor Villiers found nothing?" asked May.

Carfew blushed.

"Nothing," he said.

She looked up at him quickly.

"What did he find?" she asked.

Carfew hesitated, then he took out his pocket-book, and from the pocket-book an ill-used rosebud. She took it in the palm of her hand, and the colour came and went in her face.

"Who is the fortunate lady?" she asked quietly.

"As a matter of fact," stammered Carfew, "it was from a—a sort of a bouquet. Don't you remember? One night—a sort of dance that Tobbins, Limited, gave their employés when I was managing director, and—and you were managing—me? You had some flowers——"

He was pardonably disturbed. The girl looked at the rosebud in her hand and did not raise her eyes. "Was it really mine?" she asked, in so low a tone that he thought she was speaking to herself.

He nodded.

She put out her hand across the table and he clasped it.

I forget who whitewashed Mr. Tobbin's cellar.

Copyright, 1914, by Edgar Wallace, in the United States of America.