"No coaxing required," thought the sub-editor. "Once get in to see the old fellow and put the actual figures before him, he would clamour to come in."
"Won't he see Clodd?" asked the Babe.
"Won't see anybody on behalf of anything new just at present, apparently," answered Miss Ramsbotham. "It was my fault. I was foolish enough to repeat that I had heard he was susceptible to female charm. They say it was Mrs. Sarkitt that got the advertisement for The Lamp out of him. But, of course, it may not be true."
"Wish I was a soap man and had got advertisements to give away," sighed the Babe.
"Wish you were," agreed the sub-editor.
"You should have them all, Tommy."
"My name," corrected him the sub-editor, "is Miss Hope."
"I beg your pardon," said the Babe. "I don't know how it is, but one gets into the way of calling you Tommy."
"I will thank you," said the sub-editor, "to get out of it."
"I am sorry," said the Babe.
"Don't let it occur again," said the sub-editor.
The Babe stood first on one leg and then on the other, but nothing seemed to come of it. "Well," said the Babe, "I just looked in, that's all. Nothing I can do for you?"
"Nothing," thanked him the sub-editor.
"Good morning," said the Babe.
"Good morning," said the sub-editor.
The childlike face of the Babe wore a chastened expression as it slowly descended the stairs. Most of the members of the Autolycus Club looked in about once a day to see if they could do anything for Tommy. Some of them had luck. Only the day before, Porson--a heavy, most uninteresting man--had been sent down all the way to Plaistow to inquire after the wounded hand of a machine-boy. Young Alexander, whose poetry some people could not even understand, had been commissioned to search London for a second-hand edition of Maitland's Architecture. Since a fortnight nearly now, when he had been sent out to drive away an organ that would not go, Johnny had been given nothing.
Johnny turned the corner into Fleet Street feeling bitter with his lot. A boy carrying a parcel stumbled against him.
"Beg yer pardon--" the small boy looked up into Johnny's face, "miss," added the small boy, dodging the blow and disappearing into the crowd.
The Babe, by reason of his childlike face, was accustomed to insults of this character, but to-day it especially irritated him. Why at twenty-two could he not grow even a moustache? Why was he only five feet five and a half? Why had Fate cursed him with a pink-and-white complexion, so that the members of his own club had nicknamed him "the Babe," while street-boys as they passed pleaded with him for a kiss? Why was his very voice, a flute-like alto, more suitable-- Suddenly an idea sprang to life within his brain. The idea grew. Passing a barber's shop, Johnny went in.
"'Air cut, sir?" remarked the barber, fitting a sheet round Johnny's neck.
"No, shave," corrected Johnny.
"Beg pardon," said the barber, substituting a towel for the sheet. "Do you shave up, sir?" later demanded the barber.
"Yes," answered Johnny.
"Pleasant weather we are having," said the barber.
"Very," assented Johnny.
From the barber's, Johnny went to Stinchcombe's, the costumier's, in Drury Lane.
"I am playing in a burlesque," explained the Babe. "I want you to rig me out completely as a modern girl."
"Peeth o' luck!" said the shopman. "Goth the very bundle for you. Juth come in."
"I shall want everything," explained the Babe, "from the boots to the hat; stays, petticoats--the whole bag of tricks."
"Regular troutheau there," said the shopman, emptying out the canvas bag upon the counter. "Thry 'em on."
The Babe contented himself with trying on the costume and the boots.
"Juth made for you!" said the shopman.
A little loose about the chest, suggested the Babe.
"Thath's all right," said the shopman. "Couple o' thmall towelths, all thath's wanted."
"You don't think it too showy?" queried the Babe.
"Thowy? Sthylish, thath's all."
"You are sure everything's here?"
"Everythinkth there. 'Thept the bit o' meat inthide," assured him the shopman.
The Babe left a deposit, and gave his name and address. The shopman promised the things should be sent round within an hour. The Babe, who had entered into the spirit of the thing, bought a pair of gloves and a small reticule, and made his way to Bow Street.
"I want a woman's light brown wig," said the Babe to Mr. Cox, the perruquier.
Mr. Cox tried on two. The deceptive appearance of the second Mr. Cox pronounced as perfect.
"Looks more natural on you than your own hair, blessed if it doesn't!" said Mr. Cox.
The wig also was promised within the hour. The spirit of completeness descended upon the Babe. On his way back to his lodgings in Great Queen Street, he purchased a ladylike umbrella and a veil.
Now, a quarter of an hour after Johnny Bulstrode had made his exit by the door of Mr. Stinchcombe's shop, one, Harry Bennett, actor and member of the Autolycus Club, pushed it open and entered. The shop was empty. Harry Bennett hammered with his stick and waited. A piled-up bundle of clothes lay upon the counter; a sheet of paper, with a name and address scrawled across it, rested on the bundle. Harry Bennett, given to idle curiosity, approached and read the same. Harry Bennett, with his stick, poked the bundle, scattering its items over the counter.
"Donth do thath!" said the shopman, coming up. "Juth been putting 'em together."
"What the devil," said Harry Bennett, "is Johnny Bulstrode going to do with that rig-out?"
"How thoud I know?" answered the shopman. "Private theathricals, I suppoth. Friend o' yourth?"
"Yes," replied Harry Bennett. "By Jove! he ought to make a good girl. Should like to see it!"
"Well arthk him for a ticket. Donth make 'em dirty," suggested the shopman.
"I must," said Harry Bennett, and talked about his own affairs.
The rig-out and the wig did not arrive at Johnny's lodgings within the hour as promised, but arrived there within three hours, which was as much as Johnny had expected. It took Johnny nearly an hour to dress, but at last he stood before the plate-glass panel of the wardrobe transformed. Johnny had reason to be pleased with the result. A tall, handsome girl looked back at him out of the glass--a little showily dressed, perhaps, but decidedly chic.
"Wonder if I ought to have a cloak," mused Johnny, as a ray of sunshine, streaming through the window, fell upon the image in the glass. "Well, anyhow, I haven't," thought Johnny, as the sunlight died away again, "so it's no good thinking about it."
Johnny seized his reticule and his umbrella and opened cautiously the door. Outside all was silent. Johnny stealthily descended; in the passage paused again. Voices sounded from the basement. Feeling like an escaped burglar, Johnny slipped the latch of the big door and peeped out. A policeman, pasting, turned and looked at him. Johnny hastily drew back and closed the door again. Somebody was ascending from the kitchen. Johnny, caught between two terrors, nearer to the front door than to the stairs, having no time, chose the street. It seemed to Johnny that the street was making for him. A woman came hurriedly towards him. What was she going to say to him? What should he answer her? To his surprise she passed him, hardly noticing him. Wondering what miracle had saved him, he took a few steps forward. A couple of young clerks coming up from behind turned to look at him, but on encountering his answering stare of angry alarm, appeared confused and went their way. It began to dawn upon him that mankind was less discerning than he had feared. Gaining courage as he proceeded, he reached Holborn. Here the larger crowd swept around him indifferent.
"I beg your pardon," said Johnny, coming into collision with a stout gentleman.