Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald
big game. Well, that was another matter; he had done something in the bear line himself, in India, and enjoyed it, in moderation, not like these damned Germans, who according to the shooting correspondent of The Field were going off to Spitzbergen and Greenland and slaughtering every bear in sight, which was just about what you would expect.
“If you’re hoping to shoot in England, I’m afraid you won’t find much sport, though,” he went on. “Bad year for grouse, you know. Too few birds. Nesting badly, as they’re bound to, of course, considering the way they’re over-driven. No one seems to know how to look after a moor these days; like everything else, going to the dogs. Sport especially – why, in my young days, if anyone had suggested to me that an American polo team – yes, sir, your own Yankee riders – could come over here and open our eyes to the game, well, I should have laughed at him. But that’s what they’ve done, sir – saw it myself, at Hurlingham. It’s this new technique – meeting the ball. Magnificent! Changed the whole game. Well, you remember what it used to be – when the ball was coming at your goal, what did you do, eh?”
Mr Franklin considered this gravely, but the question was fortunately rhetorical.
“You swung round, sir,” cried the old gentleman, “and you hit an orthodox back-hander. But not your fellows – no, they come to meet the ball, head-on, and damn the risk of missing at the gallop! Splendid! Mind you, there were those who didn’t care for it, thought it too chancy – but that’s our trouble. Hide-bound. Timorous. I was all for it, myself. If we won’t change, won’t show some enterprise, where shall we be? Polo’s no different from anything else, I’d have thought. But we seem to have lost the spirit, you see.” He sighed, shaking his head, and since Mr Franklin offered no consolation, the old gentleman presently retired into his paper, leaving the American to continue gazing out of the window at the rainy green country speeding past.
He was not allowed to continue his silent contemplation for long, however; the old gentleman discovered a news item about the defence budget, and drew Mr Franklin’s attention to the deplorable fact that the British Army seemed to be non-existent and was receiving only £27 million for maintenance against £38 million that the Germans were spending.
“And already they spend half as much on their navy as we do ourselves – depend upon it, they’re greedy for empire, and we’ll find ourselves face to face with them before very long. It’s this damned Liberal Government – I take it you don’t have a Liberal Party in America? Well, you can thank God for it. I must say your chap Roosevelt seems quite admirable – I’d love to see Asquith at the head of the Rough Riders, I don’t think!” The old gentleman laughed derisively. “Fool seems to think it will be time enough to arm when we have the Kaiser at our throats! Immortal ass! But what can anyone look for in a party that seems bent on our ruin, helping the blasted Socialists to get on their feet – they’ll find that that’s a plant they’ve nourished to their own undoing, one of these fine days, let me tell you. In the meantime, they curry favour with the masses with their old age pensions, and use the country’s parlous lack of defence as an excuse for bleeding us dry. But of course you know about the Budget …”
If Mr Franklin had been wise he would have said, untruthfully, yes, that he knew all about the Budget, but since he kept a polite silence his indignant informant took the opportunity to dilate on the iniquities of Mr Lloyd George, the Liberal Chancellor, who, aided and abetted by “young Churchill”, of whom the old gentleman had expected better things, was proposing to increase death duties by one-third, raise income tax to one shilling and twopence in the pound, tax undeveloped land and unearned increases in land values, and generally subject the country to a flood of legislation which any right-thinking person could see was downright communistic.
“The Lords will throw it out, I imagine – which is what the little snake is after, of course. He wants them to provoke a crisis, and break ’em. God knows where it will end – in the ruin of the property-owning class, undoubtedly, and then heaven help us. You don’t have a House of Lords in America. Well, you may be right; ours have their hearts in the right place, but they’re damned short of intelligence. No match for the Welsh Wizard, anyway.” And the old gentleman retired glumly to his paper, emerging only once more to remark on the controversy about the North Pole; personally he doubted whether either Dr Cook or Commander Peary had reached it, and much good it would do anyone if they had. Thereafter he fell asleep, snoring peacefully in his corner with the fine white moustache fluttering gently with his breathing; Mr Franklin, absorbed in his own thoughts, continued to gaze out silently on the passing scene, watching the shadows of the trees lengthening in the hazy October afternoon.
It was dark when they reached London at last, after the full five-and-a-half hours conceded by the railway company, the train clanking slowly through mile after mile of suburbs with their yellow-flaring windows, of dark deserted warehouses and factories, of long wet streets with their flickering lights, of black roofs and viaducts – that same prospect which another newly-arrived American, Henry James, had found so ugly but delightful a generation before. Possibly Mr Franklin was meditating that this was the greatest city that the world had ever seen, the most important capital of earth since ancient Rome, the heart of an empire dominating a quarter of the globe – fourteen miles long by ten miles wide, and housing more than seven million people, half as many again as New York: if so, he gave no sign of it, thought the old gentleman, who had wakened silently and was watching him through half-open eyes. Interesting face, for all its impassivity, purposeful and yet curiously innocent, with those steady eyes that obviously saw everything and yet gave away nothing. Difficult chap to know, probably; not over-given to opinion, but he’d speak his mind succinctly when he had to. Not a city man, obviously – Colorado, of course, he’d said as much. Tough customer? No, that wasn’t right – not with that almost gentle mouth and those long, slender hands. Not weak, though, by any means. And like Inspector Griffin and the Adelphi porter, the old gentleman wondered idly who he might be, and what brought him to England. Interesting bird.
“Give me a call if you feel like a week-end’s shooting.” As the train rolled slowly into Euston, and they gathered up their hand-luggage, the old gentleman drew a card from his waist-pocket. “Turf Club will always find me. Can’t promise you any bear or bison, but partridge is better than nothing, eh? Good evening to you.”
And to his astonishment, the old gentleman was rewarded first by a lift of the brows as Mr Franklin took the card, and then by a surprisingly bright, almost embarrassed smile.
“Thank you, sir. That’s most companionable of you.”
Extraordinary word to use, thought the old gentleman, as he left the carriage; American, of course; rather pleasant. Hadn’t exchanged cards, or even given his name. Still, Colorado … different conventions.
Mr Franklin left the station in a taxi, having made his customary comparison of fares and been astonished to find that the motor was fourpence a mile cheaper than the horse. He had never, in fact, ridden in an automobile before; possibly he felt it was more in keeping with the metropolitan atmosphere. The Cockney cabby, having weighed up his fare with an expert eye, asked where he would like to go, and received the disconcerting reply: “The best hotel convenient to Chancery Lane.”
“You mean – any ’otel, sir? Well, now, there’s the Savoy, in the Strand, which is about the best in London, but just a bit farver on, there’s the noo Waldorf, which is first-class, an’ on’y arf the price. Closer to Chancery Lane, an’ all, or there’s –”
“The Waldorf,” said Mr Franklin, “will do.”
“Right you are, sir. First time in London, sir? Ah, an’ from America, very nice. Then we could go round by White’all, if you like, not far aht the way, an’ let you see a few o’ the sights …”
And taking his fare’s nod for consent, the cabby cranked his machine into life and set off, shouting above the roar of his engine and the traffic, in his role as self-appointed guide. It was, he knew, an exciting ride for a stranger, and from experience he could guess to a nicety what the American made of it. First, that the streets were the most crowded he’d ever seen in his life, with the big omnibuses, taxis and cars, the two-wheel hansoms and the growlers, and the astonishing number