“Sir,” said Reuben’s waiter, in a voluble, not to say insolent manner, “when two gents comes in and eats a dinner, and one gent walks off, the other gent pays the bill. That’s law, isn’t it?” said he, appealing to the head waiter.
“That’s the usual thing, sir,” the head waiter politely explained to Reuben, washing his hands with an imaginary cake of soap.
Just then one of the jewelled gentlemen entered the dining-saloon, walked straight up to Reuben’s table, and placed a letter in his hand. He opened it, and read thus:
My dear Fowler,—An unforeseen accident, arising out of the petty malignity of a retail tradesman, prevents my rejoining you at dinner. Would you therefore kindly settle the bill, and if, in recollection of our old happy days at Saint Shells', you could advance me a ten-pound note, the bearer of this missive, Mr. Levison, will take charge of it, and I will repay you on Monday next. No—I like to be particular—on Tuesday next. My remittances will then have reached me.
Your faithful old chum,John Dorking.
This letter, which was dated from a street in the neighbourhood of Chancery Lane, Reuben read with feelings of indignation. “He’s a bad fellow,” thought he, “claiming assistance on the score of a college intimacy which never existed. However, I must buy my knowledge of the world, I suppose, and this seventeen and sixpence is the beginning of my purchases.” Reuben then dismissed Mr. Levison by informing him that there was no reply to the letter he had brought, and proceeded to discharge his bill. The first step necessary to this end was to take out his pocket-book. He accordingly thrust his hand into the breast pocket of his coat. There was no pocket-book there! Pale with anxiety and flurried with excitement, he searched pocket after pocket unavailingly. In examining his coat he found that a perpendicular slit had been made through the cloth with some sharp instrument, and the valuable contents abstracted.
Reuben threw himself back in his chair, and covered his face with his hands. When he ventured to look up, the circle of waiters pressed closely and threateningly around him, backed by the various faces of half the customers in the saloon.
“Waiter,” at length he said in a broken voice, “I’ve been robbed; I’ve no money but this,” producing from his waistcoat pocket a threepenny piece and twopence in coppers. “Where is the master of this place?”
“I am the proprietor,” said a stout gentleman with an authoritative voice.
“Look here, sir!” exclaimed the unfortunate Reuben, “this morning when I left the steam-wharf I had seventeen pounds ten shillings in my pocket—what am I to do?”
“That’s what I want to know,” said the proprietor. “I can’t afford to pay rent and butcher’s bills and find gentlemen dinners gratis.”
“Do you believe my intentions were honest?” inquired Reuben.
“I don’t know anything about your intentions,” retorted the host. “The proverb says, ‘Birds of a feather, &c.,’ and I know you came here in company with a man who was arrested for debt as he left the house.”
“This letter will prove to you,” said Reuben, handing Jack Dorking’s epistle to the landlord, “that the writer considers me a fool rather than a rogue.”
The proprietor read the letter, knitting his brows, and said in a softened voice:
“Hum, well I don’t know, the whole thing may be a dodge. Have you no article of value you can leave as security—your watch, for instance?”
“Unfortunately I left my watch to be repaired in the country, and I never wear rings,” replied the unlucky Reuben, spreading out his hands.
The landlord’s brow darkened. He said:
“I’ve been victimised too often this way. Charles” (to Reuben’s waiter), “fetch a policeman.”
Reuben entreated the landlord to pause a few minutes while he related his adventures, beginning with a short sketch of his birth and education to the moment when he found himself moneyless and unable to pay for his dinner.
“Well, sir,” said the landlord, “I hardly know what to say. It’s a very unpleasant predicament for all parties. However I won’t proceed to extremities. Charles, take this gentleman over to Clucking’s hotel, and see if you can arrange anything there.”
“You won’t object to my taking your arm, sir?” said the waiter, as soon as they got outside. “It looks more gentlemanly, and don’t excite observation.”
Reuben complied unhesitatingly, although he found that walking arm-in-arm with a bare-headed waiter in low shoes, through the Strand on a chilly March evening, did excite a good deal of comment; but waiters are an extraordinary race of beings, with a chronic aversion to hats.
They reached that celebrated hotel of five-minutes’-walk notoriety, and asked for Mr. Clucking. He was in his inner sanctum—a handsome room well-furnished with books and pictures. Mr. Clucking did not answer in the least to Reuben’s preconceived notions of a landlord; being tall, thin, and youthful, with elaborately drooping whiskers, and a languid manner.
Reuben explained the purport of his visit.
“Ya—as,” said Mr. Clucking, “it’s a very nasty thing, to be sure, to have your pocket picked. Very cleverly done too,” continued he, examining Reuben’s coat, “upon my word. Well, sir, what can I do for you in the matter?”
“I thought.” stammered Reuben, “you would pay this man’s claim, and charge it in the bill.”
“Ya—as, a very nice, pleasant arrangement,” pursued Mr. Clucking; “but don’t you perceive, my dear sir, that you would only be transferring the difficulty to my shoulders? Anthony!” he exclaimed in a brisk business voice, quite opposed to the drawling Bond Street manner he had hitherto adopted. “Anthony!”
“Sir,” replied a withered elderly man with a pen behind his ear.
“Let me look at this gentleman’s account. Let me see” (to Reuben) “what number, sir?”
“Fifty-one and fifty-two,” replied Reuben.
