Sketches in Lavender, Blue and Green [62]
The bump on his head was swelling visibly before my eyes. Anyone but an idiot must have seen that he was hurt. I expected an irritable reply. I should have given one myself had I been in his place. Instead, however, he seemed to regard the inquiry as a natural and kindly expression of sympathy.
"It did, a little," he replied.
"What were you doing with it?" I asked. It was an odd sort of thing for a man to be travelling with.
"It was lying in the roadway just outside the station," he explained; "I picked it up for luck."
He refolded his handkerchief so as to bring a cooler surface in contact with the swelling, while I murmured something genial about the inscrutability of Providence.
"Yes," he said, "I've had a deal of luck in my time, but it's never turned out well."
"I was born on a Wednesday," he continued, "which, as I daresay you know, is the luckiest day a man can be born on. My mother was a widow, and none of my relatives would do anything for me. They said it would be like taking coals to Newcastle, helping a boy born on a Wednesday; and my uncle, when he died, left every penny of his money to my brother Sam, as a slight compensation to him for having been born on a Friday. All I ever got was advice upon the duties and responsibilities of wealth, when it arrived, and entreaties that I would not neglect those with claims upon me when I came to be a rich man."
He paused while folding up his various insurance papers and placing them in the inside breast-pocket of his coat.
"Then there are black cats," he went on; "they're said to be lucky. Why, there never was a blacker cat than the one that followed me into my rooms in Bolsover Street the very first night I took them."
"Didn't it bring you luck?" I enquired, finding that he had stopped.
A far-away look came into his eyes.
"Well, of course it all depends," he answered dreamily. "Maybe we'd never have suited one another; you can always look at it that way. Still, I'd like to have tried."
He sat staring out of the window, and for a while I did not care to intrude upon his evidently painful memories.
"What happened then?" I asked, however, at last.
He roused himself from his reverie.
"Oh," he said. "Nothing extraordinary. She had to leave London for a time, and gave me her pet canary to take charge of while she was away."
"But it wasn't your fault," I urged.
"No, perhaps not," he agreed; "but it created a coldness which others were not slow to take advantage of."
"I offered her the cat, too," he added, but more to himself than to me.
We sat and smoked in silence. I felt that the consolations of a stranger would sound weak.
"Piebald horses are lucky, too," he observed, knocking the ashes from his pipe against the window sash. "I had one of them once."
"What did it do to you?" I enquired.
"Lost me the best crib I ever had in my life," was the simple rejoinder. "The governor stood it a good deal longer than I had any right to expect; but you can't keep a man who is ALWAYS drunk. It gives a firm a bad name."
"It would," I agreed.
"You see," he went on, "I never had the head for it. To some men it would not have so much mattered, but the very first glass was enough to upset me. I'd never been used to it."
"But why did you take it?" I persisted. "The horse didn't make you drink, did he?"
"Well, it was this way," he explained, continuing to rub gently the lump which was now about the size of an egg. "The animal had belonged to a gentleman who travelled in the wine and spirit line, and who had been accustomed to visit in the way of business almost every public-house he came to. The result was you couldn't get that little horse past a public-house --at least I couldn't. He sighted them a quarter of a mile off, and made straight for the door. I struggled with him at first, but it was five to ten minutes' work getting him away, and folks used to gather round and bet on us. I think, maybe, I'd have stuck to it, however, if it hadn't been for a temperance chap who stopped one day and
"It did, a little," he replied.
"What were you doing with it?" I asked. It was an odd sort of thing for a man to be travelling with.
"It was lying in the roadway just outside the station," he explained; "I picked it up for luck."
He refolded his handkerchief so as to bring a cooler surface in contact with the swelling, while I murmured something genial about the inscrutability of Providence.
"Yes," he said, "I've had a deal of luck in my time, but it's never turned out well."
"I was born on a Wednesday," he continued, "which, as I daresay you know, is the luckiest day a man can be born on. My mother was a widow, and none of my relatives would do anything for me. They said it would be like taking coals to Newcastle, helping a boy born on a Wednesday; and my uncle, when he died, left every penny of his money to my brother Sam, as a slight compensation to him for having been born on a Friday. All I ever got was advice upon the duties and responsibilities of wealth, when it arrived, and entreaties that I would not neglect those with claims upon me when I came to be a rich man."
He paused while folding up his various insurance papers and placing them in the inside breast-pocket of his coat.
"Then there are black cats," he went on; "they're said to be lucky. Why, there never was a blacker cat than the one that followed me into my rooms in Bolsover Street the very first night I took them."
"Didn't it bring you luck?" I enquired, finding that he had stopped.
A far-away look came into his eyes.
"Well, of course it all depends," he answered dreamily. "Maybe we'd never have suited one another; you can always look at it that way. Still, I'd like to have tried."
He sat staring out of the window, and for a while I did not care to intrude upon his evidently painful memories.
"What happened then?" I asked, however, at last.
He roused himself from his reverie.
"Oh," he said. "Nothing extraordinary. She had to leave London for a time, and gave me her pet canary to take charge of while she was away."
"But it wasn't your fault," I urged.
"No, perhaps not," he agreed; "but it created a coldness which others were not slow to take advantage of."
"I offered her the cat, too," he added, but more to himself than to me.
We sat and smoked in silence. I felt that the consolations of a stranger would sound weak.
"Piebald horses are lucky, too," he observed, knocking the ashes from his pipe against the window sash. "I had one of them once."
"What did it do to you?" I enquired.
"Lost me the best crib I ever had in my life," was the simple rejoinder. "The governor stood it a good deal longer than I had any right to expect; but you can't keep a man who is ALWAYS drunk. It gives a firm a bad name."
"It would," I agreed.
"You see," he went on, "I never had the head for it. To some men it would not have so much mattered, but the very first glass was enough to upset me. I'd never been used to it."
"But why did you take it?" I persisted. "The horse didn't make you drink, did he?"
"Well, it was this way," he explained, continuing to rub gently the lump which was now about the size of an egg. "The animal had belonged to a gentleman who travelled in the wine and spirit line, and who had been accustomed to visit in the way of business almost every public-house he came to. The result was you couldn't get that little horse past a public-house --at least I couldn't. He sighted them a quarter of a mile off, and made straight for the door. I struggled with him at first, but it was five to ten minutes' work getting him away, and folks used to gather round and bet on us. I think, maybe, I'd have stuck to it, however, if it hadn't been for a temperance chap who stopped one day and