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

round the church yard, full chiefly of dead bargains in the shop windows, to Cheapside. But now Kipps was getting demoralised, and each house of refreshment seemed to promise still more complicated obstacles to food. He didn’t know how you went in and what was the correct thing to do with your hat, he didn’t know what you said to the waiter or what you called the different things; he was convinced absolutely he would “fumble,” as Shalford would have said, and look like a fool. Somebody might laugh at him! The hungrier he got the more unendurable was the thought that anyone should laugh at him. For a time he considered an extraordinary expedient to account for his ignorance. He would go in and pretend to be a foreigner and not know English. Then they might understand.⁠ ⁠… Presently he had drifted into a part of London where there did not seem to be any refreshment places at all.

“Oh, desh!” said Kipps, in a sort of agony of indecisiveness. “The very nex’ place I see, in I go.”

The next place was a fried fish shop in a little side street, where there were also sausages on a gas-lit grill.

He would have gone in, but suddenly a new scruple came to him, that he was too well dressed for the company he could see dimly through the steam sitting at the counter and eating with a sort of nonchalant speed.

He was half minded to resort to a hansom and brave the terrors of the dining-room of the Royal Grand⁠—they wouldn’t know why he had gone out really⁠—when the only person he knew in London appeared (as the only person one does know will do in London) and slapped him on the shoulder. Kipps was hovering at a window at a few yards from the fish shop, pretending to examine some really strikingly cheap pink baby linen, and trying to settle finally about those sausages.

“Hullo, Kipps!” cried Sid; “spending the millions?”

Kipps turned, and was glad to perceive no lingering vestige of the chagrin that had been so painful at New Romney. Sid looked grave and important, and he wore a quite new silk hat that gave a commercial touch to a generally socialistic costume. For a moment the sight of Sid uplifted Kipps wonderfully. He saw him as a friend and helper, and only presently did it come clearly into his mind that this was the brother of Ann.

He made amiable noises.

“I’ve just been up this way,” Sid explained, “buying a secondhand ’namelling stove.⁠ ⁠… I’m going to ’namel myself.”

“Lor’!” said Kipps.

“Yes. Do me a lot of good. Let the customer choose his colour. See? What brings you up?”

Kipps had a momentary vision of his foiled Uncle and Aunt. “Jest a bit of a change,” he said.

Sid came to a swift decision. “Come down to my little show. I got someone I’d like to see talking to you.”

Even then Kipps did not think of Ann in this connection.

“Well,” he said, trying to invent an excuse on the spur of the moment. “Fact is,” he explained, “I was jest looking ’round to get a bit of lunch.”

“Dinner, we call it,” said Sid. “But that’s all right. You can’t get anything to eat hereabout. If you’re not too haughty to do a bit of slumming, there’s some mutton spoiling for me now⁠—”

The word “mutton” affected Kipps greatly.

“It won’t take us ’arf an hour,” said Sid, and Kipps was carried.

He discovered another means of London locomotion in the Underground Railway, and recovered his self-possession in that interest. “You don’t mind going third?” asked Sid, and Kipps said, “Nort a bit of it.” They were silent in the train for a time, on account of strangers in the carriage, and then Sid began to explain who it was that he wanted Kipps to meet. “It’s a chap named Masterman⁠—do you no end of good.

“He occupies our first floor front room, you know. It isn’t so much for gain I let as company. We don’t want the whole ’ouse, and another, I knew the man before. Met him at our Sociological, and after a bit he said he wasn’t comfortable where he was. That’s how it came about. He’s a first-class chap⁠—first-class. Science! You should see his books!

“Properly he’s a sort of journalist. He’s written a lot of things, but he’s been too ill lately to do very much. Poetry he’s written, all sorts. He writes for the Commonweal sometimes, and sometimes he reviews books. ’E’s got ’eaps of books⁠—’eaps. Besides selling a lot.

“He knows a regular lot of people, and all sorts of things. He’s been a dentist, and he’s a qualified chemist, an’ I seen him often reading German and French. Taught ’imself. He was here⁠—”

Sid indicated South Kensington, which had come opportunely outside the carriage windows, with a nod of his head, “⁠—three years. Studying science. But you’ll see ’im. When he really gets to talking⁠—he pours it out.”

“Ah!” said Kipps, nodding sympathetically, with his two hands on his umbrella knob.

“He’ll do big things some day,” said Sid. “He’s written a book on science already. Physiography, it’s called. Elementary Physiography! Some day he’ll write an Advanced⁠—when he gets time.”

He let this soak into Kipps.

“I can’t introduce you to Lords and swells,” he went on, “but I can show you a Famous Man, that’s going to be. I can do that. Leastways⁠—unless⁠—”

Sid hesitated.

“He’s got a frightful cough,” he said.

“He won’t care to talk with me,” weighed Kipps.

“That’s all right; he won’t mind. He’s fond of talking. He’d talk to anyone,” said Sid, reassuringly, and added a perplexing bit of Londonized Latin. “He doesn’t pute anything, non alienum. You know.”

“I know,” said Kipps, intelligently, over his umbrella knob, though of course that was altogether untrue.

Kipps found Sid’s shop a practical looking establishment, stocked with the most remarkable collection of bicycles and pieces of bicycle that he had ever beheld. “My hiring stock,” said Sid, with a wave to this ironmongery, “and there’s the best