Frampton suggested that they should all have a little more brandy to clinch the bargain, and at the end of the brandy hoped that old Mr. Bert would sing them one of his songs. Old Mr. Bert gladly sang; then they had a little more brandy. Then they were all the best of good friends; happy that Stubbington had so good a friend so near, proud that the old bridge was to have so find an addition to its beauties, and resolved that if there was one thing that Stubbington needed, it was a little more art, and now Mr. Frampton was going to give it. When should he give it? Well, when the leaves were out, when it was warm in the sun and people wouldn’t mind standing about. The middle of May would be a good time. They could get somebody down to speak. The Lord-Lieutenant might be unable, but the Bishop would come; and, of course, the Member; a detachment of the Tatshires would come and a good band. Would Mr. Frampton unveil the figures?
Frampton said: “No, I want the figures to be unveiled, the one by a mother who lost a son, the other by a woman who lost her lover in the War. You have plenty of both in Stubbington. I feel those are the people to do the unveiling.”
There was a hush after this; the party went away. The letter of acceptance was sent that night and was received by Frampton the next morning.
It chanced that a few days later, Faringdon came down to see the site. He was much pleased with it; he had liked the old bridge, which had been built in days when the Hen Marsh stretched beyond the little river. He liked the amendment which Stubbington had made of it. As Frampton and he were walking back from the site, they turned from the bridge to a little space on the river-bank, where people could hire canoes and punts.
“This is a pretty little patch, with the pub there,” Faringdon said.
“It is, isn’t it?” Frampton said. “And it’s famous in Stubbington history. You ought to do a bronze of King Stubba, to go there.”
“Who was King Stubba?” Faringdon asked.
“Who was King Arthur?” Frampton answered. “I don’t swear that he existed, but Stubba is the local hero, who gave his name to the town, Stubba’s town. He is said to have driven out the enemy here. The enemy were in the town, sacking it, and had set fire to the bridge. Stubba galloped up to save the town, rode over the burning bridge, which collapsed just as he got across, and so had to fight the whole lot of them single-handed until his men could swim or ford across to help him. It would be a fine theme for you, Stubba on a war-horse, just at this point, and a plinth with a relief all round it, of the fight just here. It won’t all have happened, but something of it happened, and at this very place.”
Faringdon looked at the place with a kindling eye.
“I wish he’d a prettier name,” he said. “It would be a pretty good place to put something.”
“Well, what d’ye think about it?”
“I think yes about it, if you mean it and these chaps would give the site.”
“I’ll see them about it.”
Faringdon had an impassive face, but expressive eyes; his face moved no muscle but his eyes gleamed. He walked about the space, seeing it all round. It wasn’t a market-place nor a Cathedral close, but it was a good space and no doubt busy with people all day long. After doing those two contemplatives, Andromache and Polyxena; and the third, the Hecuba, which Frampton had commissioned, it would be fun to try a piece of vivid action, as well as the narrative on the plinth. Frampton saw that he had touched him to a big work. They drove home to lunch. After lunch, while Faringdon sketched designs for Stubba, Frampton went to see Old Fist and plied him with incitement to have King Stubba on the scene of Stubba’s fight. Old Fist liked the idea.
He had not been nicknamed “Old Fist” for nothing. Once in the far past, Old Fist when he was Young Fist had stood up to John L. on a music-hall stage and had lasted for three rounds with him. John L. had called him the best amateur he’d ever met, and had said he was proud to shake his hand. Old Fist took to the idea of King Stubba.
“Why, yes, Mr. Mansold,” he said, “that would be something we understand.”
However, the Council was less swayed by sudden feeling. They pointed out to Old Fist that the citizens hadn’t yet had a chance of judging the other two statues. They didn’t want a third, till they knew how the other two had gone down. Old Fist said that there was something in that, but in this case, though he didn’t know anything about art, he did know what he liked. Perhaps, somewhere in his innocent heart was a feeling that he was like Old Stubba. Anyhow, he made the Council offer the site, for a statue, or a bronze, or a bronze statue.
The lady whom Frampton called the angry ham was the secretary of a local branch of the County Charity. The Charity, being largely dependent upon subscriptions, was often short of money. When this happened, efforts were made to make money for it, by holding bazaars, jumble-sales, and sales of work, or by giving concerts or entertainments. These took place usually in or near Stubbington. Soon after Frampton had offered a King Stubba to the Council, it chanced that the angry ham was compelled to organise a concert in aid of the Charity; funds had never before been so low. Concerts were difficult to organise, and of late years there had been so much competition, in the way of cinemas, the wireless, and the gramophone, that they had been less popular and had brought in less money. However, the need of the Charity was pressing; ruin stared it in the face, so to speak; she, therefore, organised her Committee, and announced a concert in the Stokeley-Pitte Institute at Subbington.
Though she had cut Frampton in the street, she considered that in so holy a cause as charity that might be wiped out for the moment. He was the richest man in the district and might be persuaded to give generously, might even, with one cheque, flung, as these fellows do fling cheques, as entrance money to society, make the concert a success without further trouble to her. It is possible, that she believed, that Frampton was longing to buy his way to social recognition in this way. Judgment was not strong in her. She wrote to Frampton, enclosing a leaflet, and saying that they all so much hoped that he would buy some tickets and head the list of subscribers. She was sure that so good a cause would appeal to him. Of course, she added, she knew how busy he was, but she hoped that even if he could not come himself he would still buy tickets and subscribe.
Frampton wondered a little at her cheek, for he remembered her cut and had meant to avenge it presently. Here was a weapon for him, a sword that would cut the ham both as patron of the poor and of the arts. He would go to the concert and get young Harold to let him write about it in the Gazette. Young Harold was going in a few days to a real big chance in Liverpool; he would not mind what was said. He went to ask Dick about this, to make sure; Dick said that he was willing, as long as Frampton avoided libel.
“I won’t libel ’em,” Frampton said. “Fair critical comment is what they’ll get from me.”
“Very well, then,” Dick said, “you shall do it for us.”
“I won’t promise to write you a set criticism,” Frampton said, “only give you the thoughts that arise in me, if any do.”