LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1660, 16 June 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

TWO THOUSAND POUNDS. I shall never forget the uncomfortable position that I found myself in through too free use of that unruly member, the tongue I was a young fellow then, clerk in a London bank. My father was an officer in the army, and he often told us boys that setting us up in some business or profession was all he could ever do for ns, as the scanty pittance he would leave behind must belong solely to my mother and sister. But my brother and I were energetic and hopeful So long as each day brought us enough to satisfy our wants, we reckoned little of the future. Oae blea v , cold January morning I was greatly surprised, on my arrival at the bant to find my father pacing up and down before the building. I was not living at home just then, and his presence there made me fear lest something was wrong. ‘ Philip, be began, * are you in time ? Can yon spare me three minutes ? ‘Yes, sir,’l replied, ‘for a wonder, I see I am ten minutes earlier than I need be. What is the matter?’ ‘Do not look so startled,’ he said. ‘Nothing is wrong. You know MrFosberry 1 ’ ‘ Oh, you mean the half cracked old man who is awfully rich, and is my godfather, as well as cousin, thirty times removed ? ’ ‘ Yes,’ was the reply. ‘Well, last night I received a letter from him, after years of silence, in which he asks for you. ’ And he reads me the letter. ‘What a queer old man!’ I exclaimed, ‘ What does he mean V for I did not exactly understand it. * Mean ! ’ cried my father excitedly, snatching the letter from me, and crashing it into his pocket. ‘ Mean —why to make you his heir, Phillip—his heir! ’ ‘ Whew ! ’ said I blushing ; ‘ that’s a good idea ! ’ ‘You must apply for leave and go off at once,’ said my father. ‘ Strike while the iron’s hot. It’s a splendid chance, Phillip, splendid! Use it well and your fortune’s made!’ So I thought, applied for leavo, and set off for the Paddington Station soon after, with my ears ringing with a legion of instructions for pleasing old men, given me by follow clerks. The only one I could clearly remember was to rise whenever he came into the room, and then eschow every comfortable armchair for fear he should want it. I felt bursting with importance, and actually treated myself to a glass of hot whiskey and water at the refreshment room. * Hello William ! ” suddenly cried a voice, ‘Why, Jack, what brings you here? 1 replied, recognising an old friend. ‘ I’m goirg down to Gloucester,’ said he, ‘ Where are you off to 1 ’ , ‘ Oh, to such luck ?’ I said, ‘lm off beyond Hereford, to humour an old gentleman.’ * What V said Jack. ‘ Come along, and I’ll tell you all about it,’said I. ‘Second-class. Yes, all right. Here we are.’ After we got settled in our places, an old man got in’ He was poorly fixed, and had a green shade over one eye, while his other looked weak and drooping. We granted our strong disapproval at his entrance, and made mutual grimaces, but as his blind eye was towards us, they were doubtless.lost on him. As the train moved off I told my story, which yon know already. ‘ Well done, Phillip. Your bread is buttered for you !’ ho exclaimed, when he had heard me to the end, ‘ What a glorious chance ! Man alive, I wish I was in your shoe’s that’s all !’

‘Yes, yes, my boy. All right!’ I exclaimed. ‘ Well it’s a shame if I don’t secure a good smoke before the light of ray pipe goes out in obscurity. Do you object to smoke sir V This latter question was addressed to the old gentleman in the corner, who appeared a curious mass of seedy old coats, railway rugs, and newspapers. ‘I do object very much,’ was the old gentleman’s gruff reply. ‘Very sorry, sir,’ said I. * I’ll keep my head out of the window, then.’ Shame seizes me when I recall this incident. In lieu of attending to the old man’s wishes, I coolly lit my pipe, and though I knew the wind would blow the smoke right into his eyes —though I heard him growling with rage —I puffed heedlessly. I should bo sorry to be so rude, now, but you see I was young and very excited. The short January afternoon was drawing to a close, and very soon after wo were dependent on the lamp that hung from the centre of the carriage roof for light. Whether it was the old man’s example who had gone|toJ sleep, of the monotonous noise of the train as it speeded along, or that our powers of chattering were exhausted, I know not, but anyhow we, too, began to feel inclined for a nap. But wo found the lamp an intolerable nuisance, with its incessantly flickering light. ‘Bother it!’ Can’t we blow it out?’ I exclaimed.

4 Not if we cracked onr cheeks. But I’ve a notion!’ cried the ready-witted Jack. ‘Hand me the old boy’s hat.’ 4 What for?’ I asked, as I handed the article in question. It was worn and rusty, but well broshed and well shaped. ‘To make an extinguisher of,” said Jack, and so saying he fitted it on to the lamp, making the globe act like the bald head of the owner of the hat. It fitted to a nicety, and so tightly as to keep well in Its place. The arrangement answered splendidly, and not a glimmer of light was to be soon. When the train stopped at Swindon we awoke, and rushed out of the carriage to got refreshments, quite forgetting our fellow passenger and his hat. On returning we found they had both flown. The train started, and when we arrived at Gloucester, Jack left me. I had a cold journey to my destination, a little station just below Hereford. When I arrived it was nine o’clock ; a dark, raw night; 1 was very sleepy and tired For some momenta I could not find my portmanteau ; then my hat box was missing, and while I was searching, the guard was exclaiming about the delay of the train At last it was all found, the guard whistled, the train moved off, and I was left standing on a little country platform, in a strange place. 4 Any cabs or flys to be got here ? ’ I asked the station master. 4 Dear me no, sir,’ was the reply. 4 But we can get you something down in the town. Where is it, too, sir ! ’ ‘ I want to go to Mr Frosberry’s, of Castle Hall,’ I replied. I paced the wretched little station till the conveyance came, with my mind full of tho coming meeting. I asked the driver how far wo had to go, 4 How far, sir,’ said he. 4 Oh, only about four mile?.’ I got in, and we bowled along the dark narrow lanes. After half an hour’s drive we entered some handsome iron gates, and drove into what seemed to me, in the dim light, a very extensive park. The whole aspect impressed me with the idea of a grand estate. And I questioned the driver on the subject. 4 Indeed it is a big place, sir, said he.’ 4 It’s about fifteen miles round the estate. Eh, Mr Fosberry’s very rich People do say ho has two hundred thousand pounds to leave, if ho has one penny, besides this property.’ My driver jumped down and pulled the bell. The peal resounded through the house like the clang of a triumph, A footman in livery flung open the door, and I was admitted into the hall glowing with light and warmth, and then shown into a largo, brilliantly lighted drawing-room. Soon we were at the house. A moment later and the tall footman re appeared. He apologised for his master’s non appearance, and requested me to obey the instructions of a note, which he handed me from a massive silver salver. I tore it open and read ; 4 Mr Philip Frosbcrry Williams ; The next time you travel by rail do not smoke nor annoy old gentlemen ; do not make the infirmities of age and seeming povery your laughing stock ; do not tell your friends of your great expectations ; do not speak of your old cracked-brained relatives; do not make extinguishers of old gentlemen’s hats; do not be slangy, vulgar and insulting to strangers ; do not nourish vain hopes of inheriting me; and finally, do not lose any time in leaving forever the house of your old “fireworks” of a fellow traveller. —Philip Frosberry. 4 P.S.—I enclose a £2O note to pay your expenses.’ *###** How I got out of the house—how I got back to the station, and spent the night in a wretched inn—how I returned to town and told to my enraged relations my woeful tale, wherein I played such a sorry part—how my abject letter of apology was returned unread—l cannot tell. I only know old Frosberry died, worth the £200,000, leaving his neice sole heiress, and that I quarrelled with Jack Evans about it, nor have I ever spoken to him since.