Kipps H. G. Wells (best thriller novels to read .txt) 📖

umbrella in his left hand. His right hand was anyone’s to shake rather than his own. (Ring-a-dinger, ring-a-dinger ding, ding, ding, dang you! went the neglected dinner bell.)

“Good old Kipps,” said Pierce, shaking; “Good old Kipps.”

Booch rubbed one anaemic hand upon the other. “You’re sure it’s all right, Mr. Kipps,” he said in the background.

“I’m sure we all congratulate him,” said Miss Mergle.

“Great Scott!” said the new young lady in the glove department. “Twelve hundred a year! Great Scott! You aren’t thinking of marrying anyone, are you, Mr. Kipps?”

“Three pounds, five and ninepence a day,” said Mr. Booch, working in his head almost miraculously.⁠ ⁠…

Everyone, it seemed, was saying how glad they were it was Kipps, except the junior apprentice, upon whom⁠—he being the only son of a widow and used to having the best of everything as a right⁠—an intolerable envy, a sense of unbearable wrong, had cast its gloomy shade. All the rest were quite honestly and simply glad⁠—gladder perhaps at that time than Kipps because they were not so overpowered.⁠ ⁠…

Kipps went downstairs to dinner, emitting fragmentary, disconnected statements. “Never expected anything of the sort.⁠ ⁠… When this here old Bean told me, you could have knocked me down with a feather.⁠ ⁠… He says, ‘You b’en lef’ money.’ Even then I didn’t expect it’d be mor’n a hundred pounds perhaps. Something like that.”

With the sitting down to dinner and the handing of plates the excitement assumed a more orderly quality. The housekeeper emitted congratulations as she carved and the maidservant became dangerous to clothes with the plates⁠—she held them anyhow, one expected to see one upside down even⁠—she found Kipps so fascinating to look at. Everyone was the brisker and hungrier for the news (except the junior apprentice) and the housekeeper carved with unusual liberality. It was High Old Times there under the gaslight, High Old Times. “I’m sure if Anyone deserves it,” said Miss Mergle⁠—“pass the salt, please⁠—it’s Kipps.”

The babble died away a little as Carshot began barking across the table at Kipps. “You’ll be a bit of a Swell, Kipps,” he said. “You won’t hardly know yourself.”

“Quite the gentleman,” said Miss Mergle.

“Many real gentlemen’s families,” said the housekeeper, “have to do with less.”

“See you on the Leas,” said Carshot. “My gu⁠—!” He met the housekeeper’s eye. She had spoken about that before. “My eye!” he said tamely, lest words should mar the day.

“You’ll go to London, I reckon,” said Pierce. “You’ll be a man about town. We shall see you mashing ’em, with violets in your button’ole down the Burlington Arcade.”

“One of these West End Flats. That’d be my style,” said Pierce. “And a first-class club.”

“Aren’t these clubs a bit ’ard to get into?” asked Kipps, open-eyed, over a mouthful of potato.

“No fear. Not for Money,” said Pierce. And the girl in the laces who had acquired a cynical view of Modern Society from the fearless exposures of Miss Marie Corelli, said, “Money goes everywhere nowadays, Mr. Kipps.”

But Carshot showed the true British strain.

“If I was Kipps,” he said, pausing momentarily for a knifeful of gravy, “I should go to the Rockies and shoot bears.”

“I’d certainly ’ave a run over to Boulogne,” said Pierce, “and look about a bit. I’m going to do that next Easter myself, anyhow⁠—see if I don’t.”

“Go to Oireland, Mr. Kipps,” came the soft insistence of Biddy Murphy, who managed the big workroom, flushed and shining in the Irish way, as she spoke. “Go to Oireland. Ut’s the loveliest country in the world. Outside Car-rs. Fishin’, shootin’, huntin’. An’ pretty gals! Eh! You should see the Lakes of Killarney, Mr. Kipps!” And she expressed ecstasy by a facial pantomime and smacked her lips.

And presently they crowned the event.

It was Pierce who said, “Kipps, you ought to stand Sham!”

And it was Carshot who found the more poetical word, “Champagne.”

“Rather!” said Kipps hilariously, and the rest was a question of detail and willing emissaries. “Here it comes!” they said as the apprentice came down the staircase. “How about the shop?” said someone. “Oh! hang the shop!” said Carshot and made gruntulous demands for a corkscrew with a thing to cut the wire. Pierce, the dog! had a wire cutter in his pocket knife. How Shalford would have stared at the gold tipped bottles if he had chanced to take an early train! Bang with the corks, and bang! Gluck, gluck, gluck, and sizzle!

When Kipps found them all standing about him under the gas flare, saying almost solemnly “Kipps!” with tumblers upheld⁠—“Have it in tumblers,” Carshot had said; “have it in tumblers. It isn’t a wine like you have in glasses. Not like port and sherry. It cheers you up, but you don’t get drunk. It isn’t hardly stronger than lemonade. They drink it at dinner, some of ’em, every day.”

“What! At three and six a bottle!” said the housekeeper incredulously.

“They don’t stick at that,” said Carshot; “not the champagne sort.”

The housekeeper pursed her lips and shook her head.⁠ ⁠…

When Kipps, I say, found them all standing up to toast him in that manner, there came such a feeling in his throat and face that for the life of him he scarcely knew for a moment whether he was not going to cry. “Kipps!” they all said, with kindly eyes. It was very good of them, it was very good of them, and hard there wasn’t a stroke of luck for them all!

But the sight of upturned chins and glasses pulled him together again.⁠ ⁠…

They did him honour. Unenviously and freely they did him honour.

For example, Carshot being subsequently engaged in serving cretonne and desiring to push a number of rejected blocks up the counter in order to have space for measuring, swept them by a powerful and ill-calculated movement of the arm, with a noise like thunder partly on to the floor and partly on to the foot of the still gloomily preoccupied junior apprentice. And Buggins, whose place it was to shopwalk while Carshot served, shopwalked with quite unparalleled dignity, dangling a new season’s sunshade with a crooked handle on one finger. He