The Firm of Girdlestone | Page 7

upon him.
"Faugh!" his father ejaculated, glancing round at him with disgust.
"You have been drinking already this morning."
"I took a brandy and seltzer on the way to the office," he answered
carelessly. "I needed one to steady me."
"A young fellow of your age should not want steadying. You have a
strong constitution, but you must not play tricks with it. You must have
been very late last night. It was nearly one before I went to bed."
"I was playing cards with Major Clutterbuck and one or two others. We
kept it up rather late."
"With Major Clutterbuck?"
"Yes."
"I don't care about your consorting so much with that man. He drinks
and gambles, and does you no good. What good has he ever done
himself? Take care that he does not fleece you." The merchant felt
instinctively, as he glanced at the shrewd, dark face of his son, that the
warning was a superfluous one.
"No fear, father," Ezra answered sulkily; "I am old enough to choose
my own friends."
"Why such a friend as that?"
"I like to know men of that class. You are a successful man, father, but
you--well, you can't be much help to me socially. You need some one

to show you the ropes, and the major is my man. When I can stand
alone, I'll soon let him know it."
"Well, go your own way," said Girdlestone shortly. Hard to all the
world, he was soft only in this one direction. From childhood every
discussion between father and son had ended with the same words.
"It is business time," he resumed. "Let us confine ourselves to business.
I see that Illinois were at 112 yesterday."
"They are at 113 this morning."
"What! have you been on 'Change already?"
"Yes, I dropped in there on my way to the office. I would hold on to
those. They will go up for some days yet."
The senior partner made a pencil note on the margin of the list.
"We'll hold on to the cotton we have," he said.
"No, sell out at once," Ezra answered with decision, "I saw young
Featherstone, of Liverpool, last night, or rather this morning. It was
hard to make head or tail of what the fool said, but he let fall enough to
show that there was likely to be a drop."
Girdlestone made another mark upon the paper. He never questioned
his son's decisions now, for long experience had shown him that they
were never formed without solid grounds. "Take this list, Ezra," he said,
handing him the paper, "and run your eye over it. If you see anything
that wants changing, mark it."
"I'll do it in the counting-house," his son answered. "I can keep my eye
on those lazy scamps of clerks. Gilray has no idea of keeping them in
order."
As he went out he cannoned against an elderly gentleman in a white
waistcoat, who was being shown in, and who ricochetted off him into
the office, where he shook hands heartily with the elder Girdlestone. It

was evident from the laboured cordiality of the latter's greeting that the
new-comer was a man of some importance. He was, indeed, none other
than the well-known philanthropist, Mr. Jefferson Edwards, M.P. for
Middlehurst, whose name upon a bill was hardly second to that of
Rothschild.
"How do, Girdlestone, how do?" he exclaimed, mopping his face with
his handkerchief. He was a fussy little man, with a brusque, nervous
manner. "Hard at it as usual, eh? Always pegging away. Wonderful
man. Ha, ha! Wonderful!"
"You look warm," the merchant answered, rubbing his hands. "Let me
offer you some claret. I have some in the cupboard."
"No, thank you," the visitor answered, staring across at the head of the
firm as though he were some botanical curiosity. "Extraordinary fellow.
'Iron' Girdlestone, they call you in the City. A good name, too-- ha!
ha!--an excellent name. Iron-grey, you know, and hard to look at, but
soft here, my dear sir, soft here." The little man tapped him with his
walking-stick over the cardiac region and laughed boisterously, while
his grim companion smiled slightly and bowed to the compliment.
"I've come here begging," said Mr. Jefferson Edwards, producing a
portentous-looking roll of paper from an inner pocket. "Know I've
come to the right place for charity. The Aboriginal Evolution Society,
my dear boy. All it wants are a few hundreds to float it off. Noble aim,
Girdlestone--glorious object."
"What is the object?" the merchant asked.
"Well, the evolution of the aborigines," Edwards answered in some
confusion. "Sort of practical Darwinism. Evolve 'em into higher types,
and turn 'em all white in time. Professor Wilder gave us a lecture about
it. I'll send you round a Times with the account. Spoke about