Danger! and Other Stories by Arthur Conan Doyle (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📖

The American glanced at the passage and approved his own phrases.

“Yes, that’s you,” he admitted.

The footman folded up his document once more and replaced it in his pocket.

“I’d like to ’ave a word or two with you over that, sir,” he said in the same suave imperturbable voice.  “I don’t think, sir, that you quite see the thing from our point of view.  I’d like to put it to you as I see it myself.  Maybe it would strike you different then.”

The American became interested.  There was “copy” in the air.

“Sit down,” said he.

“No, sir, begging your pardon, sir, I’d very much rather stand.”

“Well, do as you please.  If you’ve got anything to say, get ahead with it.”

“You see, sir, it’s like this: There’s a tradition—what you might call a standard—among the best servants, and it’s ’anded down from one to the other.  When I joined I was a third, and my chief and the butler were both old men who had been trained by the best.  I took after them just as they took after those that went before them.  It goes back away further than you can tell.”

“I can understand that.”

“But what perhaps you don’t so well understand, sir, is the spirit that’s lying behind it.  There’s a man’s own private self-respect to which you allude, sir, in this ’ere article.  That’s his own.  But he can’t keep it, so far as I can see, unless he returns good service for the good money that he takes.”

“Well, he can do that without—without—crawling.”

The footman’s florid face paled a little at the word.  Apparently he was not quite the automatic machine that he appeared.

“By your leave, sir, we’ll come to that later,” said he.  “But I want you to understand what we are trying to do even when you don’t approve of our way of doing it.  We are trying to make life smooth and easy for our master and for our master’s guests.  We do it in the way that’s been ’anded down to us as the best way.  If our master could suggest any better way, then it would be our place either to leave his service if we disapproved it, or else to try and do it as he wanted.  It would hurt the self-respect of any good servant to take a man’s money and not give him the very best he can in return for it.”

“Well,” said the American, “it’s not quite as we see it in America.”

“That’s right, sir.  I was over there last year with Sir Henry—in New York, sir, and I saw something of the men-servants and their ways.  They were paid for service, sir, and they did not give what they were paid for.  You talk about self-respect, sir, in this article.  Well now, my self-respect wouldn’t let me treat a master as I’ve seen them do over there.”

“We don’t even like the word ‘master,’” said the American.

“Well, that’s neither ’ere nor there, sir, if I may be so bold as to say so.  If you’re serving a gentleman he’s your master for the time being and any name you may choose to call it by don’t make no difference.  But you can’t eat your cake and ’ave it, sir.  You can’t sell your independence and ’ave it, too.”

“Maybe not,” said the American.  “All the same, the fact remains that your manhood is the worse for it.”

“There I don’t ’old with you, sir.”

“If it were not, you wouldn’t be standing there arguing so quietly.  You’d speak to me in another tone, I guess.”

“You must remember, sir, that you are my master’s guest, and that I am paid to wait upon you and make your visit a pleasant one.  So long as you are ’ere, sir, that is ’ow I regard it.  Now in London—”

“Well, what about London?”

“Well, in London if you would have the goodness to let me have a word with you I could make you understand a little clearer what I am trying to explain to you.  ’Arding is my name, sir.  If you get a call from ’Enery ’Arding, you’ll know that I ’ave a word to say to you.”

* * * * *

So it happened about three days later that our American journalist in his London hotel received a letter that a Mr. Henry Harding desired to speak with him.  The man was waiting in the hall dressed in quiet tweeds.  He had cast his manner with his uniform and was firmly deliberate in all he said and did.  The professional silkiness was gone, and his bearing was all that the most democratic could desire.

“It’s courteous of you to see me, sir,” said he.  “There’s that matter of the article still open between us, and I would like to have a word or two more about it.”

“Well, I can give you just ten minutes,” said the American journalist.

“I understand that you are a busy man, sir, so I’ll cut it as short as I can.  There’s a public garden opposite if you would be so good as talk it over in the open air.”

The Pressman took his hat and accompanied the footman.  They walked together down the winding gravelled path among the rhododendron bushes.

“It’s like this, sir,” said the footman, halting when they had arrived at a quiet nook.  “I was hoping that you would see it in our light and understand me when I told you that the servant who was trying to give honest service for his master’s money, and the man who is free born and as good as his neighbour are two separate folk.  There’s the duty man and there’s the natural man, and they are different men.  To say that I have no life of my own, or self-respect of my own, because there are days when I give myself to the service of another, is not fair treatment.  I was hoping, sir, that when I made this clear to you, you would have met me like a man and taken it back.”

“Well, you have not convinced me,” said the American.  “A man’s a man, and he’s responsible for all his actions.”

“Then you won’t take back what you said of me—the degradation and the rest?”

“No, I don’t see why I should.”

The man’s comely face darkened.

“You will take it back,” said he.  “I’ll smash your blasted head if you don’t.”

The American was suddenly aware that he was in the presence of a very ugly proposition.  The man was large, strong, and evidently most earnest and determined.  His brows were knotted, his eyes flashing, and his fists clenched.  On neutral ground he struck the journalist as really being a very different person to the obsequious and silken footman of Trustall Old Manor.  The American had all the courage, both of his race and of his profession, but he realised suddenly that he was very much in the wrong.  He was man enough to say so.

“Well, sir, this once,” said the footman, as they shook hands.  “I don’t approve of the mixin’ of classes—none of the best servants do.  But I’m on my own to-day, so we’ll let it pass.  But I wish you’d set it right with your people, sir.  I wish you would make them understand that an English servant can give good and proper service and yet that he’s a human bein’ I after all.”

These are few social historians of those days who have not told of the long and fierce struggle between those two famous bucks, Sir Charles Tregellis and Lord Barrymore, for the Lordship of the Kingdom of St. James, a struggle which divided the whole of fashionable London into two opposing camps.  It has been chronicled also how the peer retired suddenly and the commoner resumed his great career without a rival.  Only here, however, one can read the real and remarkable reason for this sudden eclipse of a star.

It was one morning in the days of this famous struggle that Sir Charles Tregellis was performing his very complicated toilet, and Ambrose, his valet, was helping him to attain that pitch of perfection which had long gained him the reputation of being the best-dressed man in town.  Suddenly Sir Charles paused, his coup d’archet half-executed, the final beauty of his neck-cloth half-achieved, while he listened with surprise and indignation upon his large, comely, fresh-complexioned face.  Below, the decorous hum of Jermyn Street had been broken by the sharp, staccato, metallic beating of a doorknocker.

“I begin to think that this uproar must be at our door,” said Sir Charles, as one who thinks aloud.  “For five minutes it has come and gone; yet Perkins has his orders.”

At a gesture from his master Ambrose stepped out upon the balcony and craned his discreet head over it.  From the street below came a voice, drawling but clear.

“You would oblige me vastly, fellow, if you would do me the favour to open this door,” said the voice.

“Who is it?  What is it?” asked the scandalised Sir Charles, with his arrested elbow still pointing upwards.

Ambrose had returned with as much surprise upon his dark face as the etiquette of his position would allow him to show.

“It is a young gentleman, Sir Charles.”

“A young gentleman?  There is no one in London who is not aware that I do not show before midday.  Do you know the person?  Have you seen him before?”

“I have not seen him, sir, but he is very like some one I could name.”

“Like some one?  Like whom?”

“With all respect, Sir Charles, I could for a moment have believed that it was yourself when I looked down.  A smaller man, sir, and a youth; but the voice, the face, the bearing—”

“It must be that young cub Vereker, my brother’s ne’er-do-weel,” muttered Sir Charles, continuing his toilet.  “I have heard that there are points in which he resembles me.  He wrote from Oxford that he would come, and I answered that I would not see him.  Yet he ventures to insist.  The fellow needs a lesson!  Ambrose, ring for Perkins.”

A large footman entered with an outraged expression upon his face.

“I cannot have this uproar at the door, Perkins!”

“If you please, the young gentleman won’t go away, sir.”

“Won’t go away?  It is your duty to see that he goes away.  Have you not your orders?  Didn’t you tell him that I am not seen before midday?”

“I said so, sir.  He would have pushed his way in, for all I could say, so I slammed the door in his face.”

“Very right, Perkins.”

“But now, sir, he is making such a din that all the folk are at the windows.  There is a crowd gathering in the street, sir.”

From below came the crack-crack-crack of the knocker, ever rising in insistence, with a chorus of laughter and encouraging comments from the spectators.  Sir Charles flushed with anger.  There must be some limit to such impertinence.

“My clouded amber cane is in the corner,” said he.  “Take it with you, Perkins.  I give you a free hand.  A stripe or two may bring the young rascal to reason.”

The large Perkins smiled and departed.  The door was heard to open below and the knocker was at rest.  A few moments later there followed a prolonged howl and a noise as of a beaten carpet.  Sir Charles listened with a smile which gradually faded from his good-humoured face.

“The fellow must not overdo it,” he muttered.  “I would not do the lad an injury, whatever his deserts may be.  Ambrose, run out on the balcony and call him off.  This has gone far enough.”

But before the valet could move there came the swift patter of agile