The Penguin Book of Gaslight Crime - Michael Sims [76]
This being the psychological moment, Mr. Wallingford put forth his hand and had Mr. Lamb dump the tacks back into the large palm that had at first held them. He left them open to view, however, and presently Mr. Lamb picked out one of them for examination. This particular tack was of an exquisite apple-green color, the covering for which had been clipped from one of Mr. Wallingford’s own expensive ties, glued to its place and carefully trimmed by Mr. Wallingford’s own hands. Mr. Lamb took it to the window for closer admiration, and the promoter, left to himself for a moment, stood before the glass to mop his face and head and neck. He had been working until he had perspired; but, looking into the glass at Mr. Lamb’s rigid back, he perceived that the work was well done. Mr. Lamb was profoundly convinced that the Universal Covered Carpet Tack Company was an entity to be respected; nay, to be revered! Mr. Lamb could already see the smoke belching from the tall chimneys of its factory, the bright lights gleaming out from its myriad windows where it was working overtime, the thousands of workmen streaming in at its broad gates, the loaded freight cars leaving every seven minutes!
“You’re not going home to dinner, are you, Mr. Lamb?” asked Mr. Wallingford suddenly. “I owe you one for the splash, you know.”
“Why—I’m expected home.”
“Telephone them you’re not coming.”
“We—we haven’t a telephone in the house.”
“Telephone to the nearest drug store and send a messenger over.”
Mr. Lamb looked down at himself. He was always neatly dressed, but he did not feel equal to the glitter of the big dining room downstairs.
“I am not—cleaned up,” he objected.
“Nonsense! However, as far as that goes, we’ll have ’em bring a table right here.” And, taking the matter into his own hands, Mr. Wallingford telephoned for a waiter.
From that moment Mr. Lamb strove not to show his wonder at the heights to which human comfort and luxury can attain, but it was a vain attempt; for from the time the two uniformed attendants brought in the table with its snowy cloth and began to place upon it the shining silver and cut-glass service, with the centerpiece of red carnations, he began to grasp at a new world—and it was about this time that he wished he had on his best black suit. In the bathroom Mr. Wallingford came upon him as he held his collar ruefully in his hand, and needed no explanation.
“I say, old man, we can’t keep ’em clean, can we? We’ll fix that.”
The bellboys were anxious to answer summons from 44-A by this time. Mr. Wallingford never used money in a hotel except for tips. It was scarcely a minute until a boy had that collar, with instructions to get another just like it.
“How are the cuffs? Attached, old man? All right. What size shirt do you wear?”
Mr. Lamb gave up. He was now past the point of protest. He told Mr. Wallingford the number of his shirt. In five minutes more he was completely outfitted with clean linen, and when, washed and refreshed and spotless as to high lights, he stepped forth into what was now a perfectly appointed private dining room, he felt himself gradually rising to Mr. Wallingford’s own height and able to be supercilious to the waiters, under whose gaze, while his collar was soiled, he had quailed.
It was said by those who made a business of dining that Mr. Wallingford could order a dinner worth while, except for the one trifling fault of over-plenty; but then, Mr. Wallingford himself was a large man, and it took much food and drink to