Tales of the Five Towns | Page 8

Councillor Gordon would occupy the
chair on that occasion. Mechanically Councillor Gordon stopped and
tore the fragment away from the hoarding.
The treat, which took the form of a dinner, was an unqualified success;
it surpassed all expectations. Even the diners themselves were

satisfied--a rare thing at such affairs. Goose was a prominent item in
the menu. After the repast the replete guests were entertained from the
platform, the Mayor being, of course, in the chair. Harry sang 'In Old
Madrid,' accompanied by his stepmother, with faultless expression. Mr.
Duncalf astonished everybody with the famous North-Country
recitation, 'The Patent Hair-brushing Mashane.' There were also a banjo
solo, a skirt dance of discretion, and a campanological turn. At last,
towards ten o'clock, Mr. Gordon, who had hitherto done nothing, rose
in his place, amid good-natured cries of 'Gas!'
'I feel sure you will all agree with me,' he began, 'that this evening
would not be complete without a vote of thanks--a very hearty vote of
thanks--to our excellent host and chairman.'
Ear-splitting applause.
'I've got a little story to tell you,' he continued--'a story that up to this
moment has been a close secret between his Worship the Mayor and
myself.' His Worship looked up sharply at the speaker. 'You've heard
about some geese, I reckon. (Laughter.) Well, you've not heard all, but
I'm going to tell you. I can't keep it to myself any longer. You think his
Worship drove those geese--I hope they're digesting well (loud
laughter)--just for fun. He didn't. I was with him when he bought them,
and I happened to say that goosedriving was a very difficult
accomplishment.'
'Depends on the geese!' shouted a voice.
'Yes, it does,' Mr. Gordon admitted. 'Well, his Worship contradicted me,
and we had a bit of an argument. I don't bet, as you know--at least, not
often--but I don't mind confessing that I offered to bet him a sovereign
he couldn't drive his geese half a mile. "Look here, Gordon," he said to
me: "there's a lot of distress in the town just now--trade bad, and so on,
and so on. I'll lay you a level ten pounds I drive these geese to Hillport
myself, the loser to give the money to charity." "Done," I said. "Don't
say anything about it," he says. "I won't," I says--but I am doing.
(Applause.) I feel it my duty to say something about it. (More applause.)
Well, I lost, as you all know. He drove 'em to Hillport. ('Good old Jos!')

That's not all. The Mayor insisted on putting his own ten pounds to
mine and making it twenty. Here are the two identical notes, his and
mine.' Mr. Gordon waved the identical notes amid an uproar. 'We've
decided that everyone who has dined here to-night shall receive a
brand-new shilling. I see Mr. Septimus Lovatt from the bank there with
a bag. He will attend to you as you go out. (Wild outbreak and tumult
of rapturous applause.) And now three cheers for your Mayor--and
Mayoress!'
It was colossal, the enthusiasm.
'And for Gas Gordon!' called several voices.
The cheers rose again in surging waves.
Everyone remarked that the Mayor, usually so imperturbable, was quite
overcome--seemed as if he didn't know where to look.
Afterwards, as the occupants of the platform descended, Mr. Gordon
glanced into the eyes of Mrs. Curtenty, and found there his exceeding
reward. The mediocrity had blossomed out that evening into something
new and strange. Liar, deliberate liar and self-accused gambler as he
was, he felt that he had lived during that speech; he felt that it was the
supreme moment of his life.
'What a perfectly wonderful man your husband is!' said Mrs. Duncalf to
Mrs. Curtenty.
Clara turned to her husband with a sublime gesture of satisfaction. In
the brougham, going home, she bewitched him with wifely
endearments. She could afford to do so. The stigma of the geese
episode was erased.
But the barmaid of the Tiger, as she let down her bright hair that night
in the attic of the Tiger, said to herself, 'Well, of all the----' Just that.
* * * * *

THE ELIXIR OF YOUTH
It was Monday afternoon of Bursley Wakes--not our modern rectified
festival, but the wild and naïve orgy of seventy years ago, the days of
bear-baiting and of bull-baiting, from which latter phrase, they say, the
town derives its name. In those times there was a town-bull, a sort of
civic beast; and a certain notorious character kept a bear in his pantry.
The 'beating' (baiting) occurred usually on Sunday mornings at six
o'clock, with formidable hungry dogs; and little boys used to look
forward eagerly to the day when they would be old enough to be
permitted to attend. On Sunday afternoons colliers and potters,
gathered round the