The Lucky Number. Ian Hay
mainly to be directed towards embarrassing their host by asking frivolous questions, and then humiliating him in the presence of his disciples by the manner in which they received his answers.
The attitude of Mr. Pettigrew, the druggist, was understandable; for he was a mean little man, and jealous. He possessed diplomas and certificates of his own: he was steeped in all the essences of the Pharmacopœia: yet none did him reverence. The towns people purchased cough mixtures and patent pills from him with no more respect than if they had been sausages or yards of tape. Even when he assumed an air of portentous solemnity and retired behind his carved oak screen with a prescription, most of his customers took it for granted that he filled up the bottle from a water-tap and added colouring matter and a dash of something unpleasant to the taste. Probably they were not far wrong. But wrong or right, it never occurred to any of them to treat Mr. Pettigrew as an Oracle, or Savant, or Philosopher; and Mr. Pettigrew undoubtedly felt very badly about it.
Mr. Mould was our local undertaker—which was unfortunate, for nature had intended him for a low comedian. Under a professionally chastened exterior he concealed the sense of humour and powers of repartee of a small boy of ten. To him Mr. Baxter, with his studied little mannerisms and his pedantic little courtesies, was fair game.
When I entered the parlour these two worthies were heavily engaged in their favourite sport of philosopher-baiting. The philosopher himself, I noticed, was looking very old and very tired. I had not seen him for a week, and I was secretly shocked at his appearance.
“You’re not looking well,” I said, as I shook hands. “You ought not to be entertaining your friends to-night.”
“Indeed,” replied my host, with the ghost of a smile, “my friends have been entertaining me. Mr. Mould has been amusing us all. Has he not, Ada?”
“If I was his wife,” replied Miss Weeks, with a glare which would have permanently disheartened any comedian less sure of himself than Mr. Mould, “I should die of laughing—at myself!”
This dark saying was accepted by the undertaker as a compliment.
“I certainly venture to claim,” he observed complacently, “that we pulled our respected friend's leg pretty neatly to-night.” Pettigrew sniggered.
“What was the joke?” I asked, without enthusiasm.
“Well, me and Mr. Pettigrew here,” began the undertaker, “knowing Mr. Baxter's fondness for giving information and advice, brought him a little poser last time we came here. We asked him if he could find anything in his library about an ancient Greek party called Cinchona. He said he would look Mr. Cinchona up. This evening he had his little lecture all ready for us. Highly enjoyable, it was. Cinchona, it seems, was one of the less-known figures in Ancient Greek Mythology—was n’t that it, Pettigrew?”
Pettigrew grinned, and clicked. He was an unpleasant-looking creature, with false teeth which did not fit.
“In fact,” continued Mould, with immense relish, “poor old Cinchona was such a little-known figure that most people—common uneducated druggists, like Mr. Pettigrew—thought Cinchona was the name of the bark they make quinine from. Haw, haw, haw!”
The two humourists roared outright this time. Mr. Baxter, with the unruffled courtesy of perfect breeding, Smiled again, though I could see he was much put out. Jobson, the heavy-shouldered artisan from the factory, sat gazing at him in a puzzled and rather reproachful manner. One could see that he felt his master ought to have known all about Cinchona.
“An interesting coincidence,” commented the old man gently. “The drug cinchona is, of course, well known scientifically, but classically, Cinchona the demi-god is hardly known at all. In fact, he is only mentioned once or twice in the whole of ancient literature. I have been dipping into my Homer.”—he indicated the familiar volume in his hand—“and I find—”
“May I look for myself?” asked Pettigrew suddenly; and before even Ada could spring to the old man's side he had snatched the book and opened it. Baxter put out his hand anxiously.
“Let me find the passage for you, Mr. Pettigrew,” he said. “I do not know whether you are familiar with ancient Greek—”
“No,” said Mr. Pettigrew grimly, looking up from the book, “I am not. But I am familiar with modern German. This book is printed in German!”
“The marginal comments are in German, of course,” said the old man quickly. “The thoroughness of German research is proverbial. Give me back the book, pray!” I noticed he was breathing very shortly.
Ada Weeks settled the question by wrenching the volume out of Pettigrew's hand and locking it into The Liberry.
“You can go!” she announced. “We only entertain gentlemen here.”
Pettigrew took up his hat: Mould rose and did likewise. The rest of the company fidgeted uncomfortably in their seats. It was a particularly unpleasant moment.
“Good-night, Mr. Baxter,” said Pettigrew, moving towards the door, which Miss Weeks was obligingly holding wide open for him. “Sometimes I wonder,” he sniggered, turning again, “whether you are quite as ripe a scholar as you would have some of the less educated people in this town believe.”
“Ripe? He's over-ripe—rotten!” announced Mould confidently.
Mr. Baxter rose suddenly from his armchair.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “you insult me in my own house. It is your privilege to do so. You are my guests—”
I thought it time to interfere. I crossed the room, gently lowered my old friend into his seat again, and turned to the company. They were all on their feet by this time.
“Now look here,” I announced, in what I have always hoped is a breezy voice, “you people really must keep your debates academic. Here you are, all flying straight up in the air over some twopenny ha'penny point of scholarship, and exciting one of my most valued patients”—I patted Baxter solemnly on the shoulder—“to an attack of insomnia! You must n’t do it, you know—especially just now!”
“What do you mean, just now?” asked Ada quickly. She shot an apprehensive glance at her grandfather's drawn features.
“I mean this. You know the opening of Crake Hall takes place on Saturday?”
Every one looked up, surprised at the diversion.
“Yes: what of it?” said Pettigrew.
“You know that an Address of Welcome and Grateful Thanks is to be read to Mr. Crake by a representative citizen of the town?”
“Yes,” said Pettigrew again; and he said it with an intensity which gave him away badly.
“Well, Mr. Baxter here—our very dear and esteemed friend Mr. Baxter”—I spoke the words deliberately, and felt the old shoulder suddenly stiffen under my hand—“has been unanimously selected by the Council”—I breathed a prayer that the Rector might not have failed me–“to read that Address! That is why I am thoroughly angry with you all for tiring him out with your conundrums. He is not a young man, or a strong man; and I want to have him in first-class trim for his appearance on Saturday. Home to bed, all of you!”
“Outside!” commanded Miss Weeks; and shepherded the entire company into the passage, closing the door behind her.
Baxter and I were left alone. I took my stand on the worn hearth-rug, with my back to the fire, lingering over the lighting of my pipe with the uneasy selfconsciousness of the Englishman who has just participated in a scene. My old friend's thin hands were extended upon the arms of his chair; his head was sunk upon his breast. I decided to say something cheerful.
“Well,” I remarked, “I think the Council's invitation came to you at a very appropriate moment.”
Baxter raised his head, and I noticed that he seemed to have grown many years older.
“I