tailor’s dummy and say you’re married. That was your story, wasn’t it?”
The fat man opened his eyes while he spoke and shut them again the instant he had finished. Mr. Vick squealed with delight and appealed to the man whose hair he was cutting.
“That’s a very old anecdote of mine,” he said, grinning at his client through the mirror. “You remember it, don’t you, Major? It was you who was so took with it.”
“Me? Not guilty.” The driver of the sports car spoke idly and his smile was casual enough. But the denial was complete and Richard, who had not heard him speak before, looked at him sharply.
“You’ve forgot.” Mr. Vick seemed gratified. “You laughed like a two-gallon flush. I can ’ear you now.”
The man who sat beside Richard folded his paper.
“Who won what?” he enquired.
“It ’appened in Islington when I was a ’prentice.” Mr. Vick spoke through his teeth, his attention concentrated on some fine work he was doing with the razor. “A young fellow in a draper’s picked up five pounds in the street and put it all on an ’orse called Lucky Gutter, which ’e see was running in the big race that day. It came in at two ’undred to one and the excitement pushed ’im over the edge. ’E turned ’is coat inside out, pinched one of the female dummies out of the window, put a lace curtain over its ’ead, and drove round in front of ’is young lady’s ’ouse with it as if he was getting married. The shock upset ’er and she fell down the area, broke ’er leg and sued ’im. It’s a sad story really.”
“Lucky Gutter,” remarked the salesman, who had a one-track mind. “I never heard of such a name.”
“There was a line of them,” said the fat man, not bothering to open his eyes at all this time, “like the Cottages were later. Lucky Rooftop, Lucky Verandah, and—correct me if I’m wrong—Lucky Clocktower.”
“You remember it now, don’t you, Major? I see you smiling.” Mr. Vick was coy.
“It’s a staggering tale,” said the Major, catching Richard’s eye through the glass and grinning at him, “but I never heard it before.”
Mr. Vick opened his mouth to protest and thought better of it. After a while he sniffed.
“You’ve been coming in ’ere on and off ever since the war,” he began. “Tell me, Major, any more developments in the you-know-what business? You mentioned it last time.”
“What was that?” The Major was friendly but cautious.
“The h-u-s-h h-u-s-h,” spelled Mr. Vick rather unnecessarily, and the man in the chair burst out laughing, the colour flooding his coarse fair skin.
“Oh, that’s in abeyance,” he said with disarming embarrassment, “whatever it was. You haven’t any old Rolls Royces about you, I suppose? Any age, any condition, good prices paid.”
“Ah.” Mr. Vick seized on it. “You’re in that line now, are you?”
“No, I’m not.” The fair man spoke lightly. “Not at all.” He closed his narrow lips and sat smiling with his eyes, while the little barber’s curiosity became as noticeable as if he had shouted it.
“You’ve been abroad, I see,” he said suddenly, cutting clean across a pronouncement made by the fat man, who was still talking of the names of race-horses.
“No.”
Mr. Vick was unabashed. He picked up a single wiry lock, pulled it out of curl and let it spring back.
“I made certain this was a bit of foreign cutting,” he said. “Isle of Wight perhaps.”
“Or Wigan, of course,” said the Major and again his shiny brown eyes flickered and his glance met Richard’s own in the looking-glass.
“Lucky Clocktower …” The voice of the sporting salesman was pathetic. “Who could get a tip out of a name like that. What does it mean?”
“Invariably fast.” The eyes in the mirror laughed into Richard’s and dropped as the Major glanced at his watch. “Just like this blessed thing. What
is
the time exactly?”
The question turned out to be amazingly popular with
The fat man opened his eyes while he spoke and shut them again the instant he had finished. Mr. Vick squealed with delight and appealed to the man whose hair he was cutting.
“That’s a very old anecdote of mine,” he said, grinning at his client through the mirror. “You remember it, don’t you, Major? It was you who was so took with it.”
“Me? Not guilty.” The driver of the sports car spoke idly and his smile was casual enough. But the denial was complete and Richard, who had not heard him speak before, looked at him sharply.
“You’ve forgot.” Mr. Vick seemed gratified. “You laughed like a two-gallon flush. I can ’ear you now.”
The man who sat beside Richard folded his paper.
“Who won what?” he enquired.
“It ’appened in Islington when I was a ’prentice.” Mr. Vick spoke through his teeth, his attention concentrated on some fine work he was doing with the razor. “A young fellow in a draper’s picked up five pounds in the street and put it all on an ’orse called Lucky Gutter, which ’e see was running in the big race that day. It came in at two ’undred to one and the excitement pushed ’im over the edge. ’E turned ’is coat inside out, pinched one of the female dummies out of the window, put a lace curtain over its ’ead, and drove round in front of ’is young lady’s ’ouse with it as if he was getting married. The shock upset ’er and she fell down the area, broke ’er leg and sued ’im. It’s a sad story really.”
“Lucky Gutter,” remarked the salesman, who had a one-track mind. “I never heard of such a name.”
“There was a line of them,” said the fat man, not bothering to open his eyes at all this time, “like the Cottages were later. Lucky Rooftop, Lucky Verandah, and—correct me if I’m wrong—Lucky Clocktower.”
“You remember it now, don’t you, Major? I see you smiling.” Mr. Vick was coy.
“It’s a staggering tale,” said the Major, catching Richard’s eye through the glass and grinning at him, “but I never heard it before.”
Mr. Vick opened his mouth to protest and thought better of it. After a while he sniffed.
“You’ve been coming in ’ere on and off ever since the war,” he began. “Tell me, Major, any more developments in the you-know-what business? You mentioned it last time.”
“What was that?” The Major was friendly but cautious.
“The h-u-s-h h-u-s-h,” spelled Mr. Vick rather unnecessarily, and the man in the chair burst out laughing, the colour flooding his coarse fair skin.
“Oh, that’s in abeyance,” he said with disarming embarrassment, “whatever it was. You haven’t any old Rolls Royces about you, I suppose? Any age, any condition, good prices paid.”
“Ah.” Mr. Vick seized on it. “You’re in that line now, are you?”
“No, I’m not.” The fair man spoke lightly. “Not at all.” He closed his narrow lips and sat smiling with his eyes, while the little barber’s curiosity became as noticeable as if he had shouted it.
“You’ve been abroad, I see,” he said suddenly, cutting clean across a pronouncement made by the fat man, who was still talking of the names of race-horses.
“No.”
Mr. Vick was unabashed. He picked up a single wiry lock, pulled it out of curl and let it spring back.
“I made certain this was a bit of foreign cutting,” he said. “Isle of Wight perhaps.”
“Or Wigan, of course,” said the Major and again his shiny brown eyes flickered and his glance met Richard’s own in the looking-glass.
“Lucky Clocktower …” The voice of the sporting salesman was pathetic. “Who could get a tip out of a name like that. What does it mean?”
“Invariably fast.” The eyes in the mirror laughed into Richard’s and dropped as the Major glanced at his watch. “Just like this blessed thing. What
is
the time exactly?”
The question turned out to be amazingly popular with
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