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

machine at a democratic price in London, The Red-Flag, built by me. See?”

He indicated a graceful, grey-brown framework in the window. “And there’s my stock of accessories⁠—store prices.

“Go in for motors a bit,” added Sid.

“Mutton?” said Kipps, not hearing him distinctly.

“Motors, I said.⁠ ⁠… ’Owever, Mutton Department ’ere,” and he opened a door that had a curtain guarded window in its upper panel, to reveal a little room with red walls and green furniture, with a white clothed table and the generous promise of a meal. “Fanny!” he shouted. “Here’s Art Kipps.”

A bright-eyed young woman of five or six and twenty in a pink print appeared, a little flushed from cooking, and wiped a hand on an apron and shook hands and smiled, and said it would all be ready in a minute. She went on to say she had heard of Kipps and his luck, and meanwhile Sid vanished to draw the beer, and returned with two glasses for himself and Kipps.

“Drink that,” said Sid, and Kipps felt all the better for it.

“I give Mr. Masterman ’is upstairs a hour ago,” said Mrs. Sid. “I didn’t think ’e ought to wait.”

A rapid succession of brisk movements on the part of everyone, and they were all four at dinner⁠—the fourth person being Master Walt Whitman Pornick, a cheerful young gentleman of one and a half, who was given a spoon to hammer on the table with to keep him quiet, and who got “Kipps” right at the first effort and kept it all through the meal, combining it first with this previous acquisition, and then that. “Peacock Kipps” said Master Walt, at which there was great laughter, and also “More Mutton, Kipps.”

“He’s a regular oner,” said Mrs. Sid, “for catching up words. You can’t say a word but what ’e’s on to it.”

There were no serviettes and less ceremony, and Kipps thought he had never enjoyed a meal so much. Everyone was a little excited by the meeting and chatting, and disposed to laugh, and things went off easily from the very beginning. If there was a pause Master Walt filled it in. Mrs. Sid, who tempered her enormous admiration for Sid’s intellect and his socialism and his severe business methods by a motherly sense of her sex and seniority, spoke of them both as “you boys,” and dilated⁠—when she was not urging Kipps to have some more of this or that⁠—on the disparity between herself and her husband.

“Shouldn’t ha’ thought there was a year between you,” said Kipps; “you seem jest a match.”

“I’m his match, anyhow,” said Mrs. Sid, and no epigram of young Walshingham’s was ever better received.

“Match,” said young Walt, coming in on the trail of the joke and getting a round for himself.

Any sense of superior fortune had long vanished from Kipps’ mind, and he found himself looking at host and hostess with enormous respect. Really, old Sid was a wonderful chap, here in his own house at two and twenty, carving his own mutton and lording it over wife and child. No legacies needed by him! And Mrs. Sid, so kind and bright and hearty! And the child, old Sid’s child! Old Sid had jumped round a bit. It needed the sense of his fortune at the back of his mind to keep Kipps from feeling abject. He resolved he’d buy young Walt something tremendous in toys at the first opportunity.

“Drop more beer, Art?”

“Right you are, old man.”

“Cut Mr. Kipps a bit more bread, Sid.”

“Can’t I pass you a bit?”

Sid was all right, Sid was, and there was no mistake about that.

It was growing up in his mind that Sid was the brother of Ann, but he said nothing about her for excellent reasons. After all, because he remembered Sid’s irritation at her name when they had met in New Romney seemed to show a certain separation. They didn’t tell each other much.⁠ ⁠… He didn’t know how things might be between Ann and Sid, either.

Still, for all that, Sid was Ann’s brother.

The furniture of the room did not assert itself very much above the cheerful business at the table, but Kipps was impressed with the idea that it was pretty. There was a dresser at the end with a number of gay plates and a mug or so, a Labour Day poster, by Walter Crane, on the wall, and through the glass and over the blind of the shop door one had a glimpse of the bright coloured advertisement cards of bicycle dealers, and a shelfful of boxes labelled, The Paragon Bell, The Scarum Bell, and The Patent Omi! Horn.⁠ ⁠…

It seemed incredible that he had been in Folkestone that morning, and even now his Aunt and Uncle⁠—!

Brrr. It didn’t do to think of his Aunt and Uncle.

When Sid repeated his invitation to come and see Masterman, Kipps, now flushed with beer and Irish stew, said he didn’t mind if he did, and after a preliminary shout from Sid that was answered by a voice and a cough, the two went upstairs.

“Masterman’s a rare one,” said Sid over his arm and in an undertone. “You should hear him speak at a meeting.⁠ ⁠… If he’s in form, that is.”

He rapped and went into a large, untidy room.

“This is Kipps,” he said. “You know. The chap I told you of. With twelve ’undred a year.”

Masterman sat gnawing at an empty pipe and as close to the fire as though it was alight and the season midwinter. Kipps concentrated upon him for a space, and only later took in something of the frowsy furniture, the little bed half behind, and evidently supposed to be wholly behind, a careless screen, the spittoon by the fender, the remains of a dinner on the chest of drawers and the scattered books and papers. Masterman’s face showed him a man of forty or more, with curious hollows at the side of his forehead and about his eyes. His eyes were very bright; there was a spot of red in his cheeks, and the wiry black moustache under his short, red nose