Bones in London

"You hear?" said Bones in a hoarse whisper.

" – so much genuine comedy – "

Bones nodded.

" – so much that I might say goes straight to the passionate heart ofthe great public, as this remarkable, brilliantly planned, admirablyplanted, exquisitely balanced little cameo of real life."

"It's to be a two-roller," said Bones.

"Reeler," murmured Mr. Becksteine.

"Reeler or roller, dear old thing; don't let's quarrel over how athing's spelt," said Bones.

"Who wrote it?" asked Hamilton.

Mr. Becksteine coughed modestly.

"Jolly old Becksteine wrote it," said Bones. "That man, Ham, is one ofthe most brilliant geniuses in this or any other world. Aren't you?Speak up, old playwright. Don't be shy, old thing."

Mr. Becksteine coughed again.

"I do not know anything about other worlds," he admitted.

"Now, this is my idea," said Bones, interrupting what promised to be afree and frank admission of Mr. Becksteine's genius. "I've worked thething out, and I see just how we can save money. In producingtwo-roller cinematographs – that's the technical term," explained Bones,"the heavy expense is with the artistes. The salaries that thesepeople are paid! My dear old Ham, you'd never believe."

"I don't see how you can avoid paying salaries," said Hamiltonpatiently. "I suppose even actors have to live."

"Ah!" said Mr. Becksteine, shaking his head.

"Of course, dear old thing. But why pay outside actors?" said Bonestriumphantly.

He glared from one face to the other with a ferocity of expressionwhich did no more than indicate the strength of his conviction.

"Why not keep the money in the family, dear old Ham? That's what I askyou. Answer me that." He leaned back in his chair, thrust his handsin his trousers pockets, and blandly surveyed his discomfited audience.

"But you've got to have actors, my dear chap," said Hamilton.

"Naturally and necessarily," replied Bones, nodding with very largenods. "And we have them. Who is Jasper Brown, the villain who triesto rob the poor girl of her legacy and casts the vilest aspersions uponher jolly old name?"

"Who is?" asked the innocent Hamilton.

"You are," said Bones.

Hamilton gasped.

"Who is Frank Fearnot, the young and handsome soldier – well, notnecessarily handsome, but pretty good-looking – who rescues the girlfrom her sad predicament?"

"Well, that can't be me, anyway," said Hamilton.

"It is not," said Bones. "It is me! Who is the gorgeous but sad oldinnocent one who's chased by you, Ham, till the poor little souldoesn't know which way to turn, until this jolly young officer stepsbrightly on the scene, whistling a merry tune, and, throwing his armsabout her, saves her, dear old thing, from her fate – or, really, from aperfectly awful rotten time."

"Who is she?" asked Hamilton softly.

Bones blinked and turned to the girl slowly.

"My dear old miss," he said, "what do you think?"

"What do I think?" asked the startled girl. "What do I think aboutwhat?"

"There's a part," said Bones – "there's one of the grandest parts thatwas ever written since Shakespeare shut his little copybook."

"You're not suggesting that I should play it?" she asked, open-mouthed.

"Made for you, dear old typewriter, positively made for you, thatpart," murmured Bones.

"Of course I shall do nothing so silly," said the girl, with a laugh.

"Oh, Mr. Tibbetts, you really didn't think that I'd do such a – "

She didn't finish the sentence, but Hamilton could have supplied thethree missing words without any difficulty.

Thereafter followed a discussion, which in the main consisted of jointand several rejection of parts. Marguerite Whitland most resolutelyrefused to play the part of the bad girl, even though Bones promised tochange the title to "The Good Girl," even though he wheedled his best, even though he struck attitudes indicative of despair and utter ruin, even though the gentle persuasiveness of Mr. Lew Becksteine was addedto his entreaties. And Hamilton as resolutely declined to haveanything to do with the bad man. Mr. Becksteine solved the difficultyby undertaking to produce the necessary actors and actresses at theminimum of cost.

"Of course you won't play, Bones?" said Hamilton.

"I don't know," said Bones. "I'm not so sure, dear old thing. I'vegot a lot of acting talent in me, and I feel the part – that's atechnical term you won't understand."

"But surely, Mr. Tibbetts," said the girl reproachfully, "you won'tallow yourself to be photographed embracing a perfectly strange lady?"

Bones shrugged his shoulders.

"Art, my dear old typewriter," he said. "She'll be no more to me thana bit of wood, dear old miss. I shall embrace her and forget all aboutit the second after. You need have no cause for apprehension, reallyand truly."

"I am not at all apprehensive," said the girl coldly, and Bonesfollowed her to her office, showering explanations of his meaning overher shoulder.

On the third day Hamilton went back to Twickenham a very weary man.

"Bones is really indefatigable," he said irritably, but yet admiringly."He has had those unfortunate actors rehearsing in the open fields, onthe highways and byways. Really, old Bones has no sense of decency.He's got one big scene which he insists upon taking in a private park.I shudder to think what will happen if the owner comes along andcatches Bones and his wretched company."

Sanders laughed quietly.

"What do you think he'll do with the film?" he asked.

"Oh, he'll sell it," said Hamilton. "I tell you, Bones is amazing. Hehas found a City man who is interested in the film industry, astockbroker or something, who has promised to see every bit of film asit is produced and give him advice on the subject; and, incredible asit may sound, the first half-dozen scenes that Bones has taken havepassed muster."

"Who turns the handle of the camera?" asked the girl.

"Bones," said Hamilton, trying not to laugh. "He practised therevolutions on a knife-cleaning machine!"

The fourth day it rained, but the fifth day Bones took his company in ahired motor into the country, and, blissfully ignoring such admonitionsas "Trespassers will be shot," he led the way over a wall to the sacredsoil of an Englishman's stately home. Bones wanted the wood, becauseone of his scenes was laid on the edge of a wood. It was the scenewhere the bad girl, despairing of convincing anybody as to her inherentgoodness, was taking a final farewell of the world before "leaving alife which had held nothing but sadness and misunderstanding," to quotethe title which was to introduce this touching episode.

Bones found the right location, fitted up his camera, placed theyellow-faced girl – the cinema artiste has a somewhat bilious appearancewhen facing the lens – and began his instructions.

"Now, you walk on here, dear old Miss What's-Your-Name. You come fromthat tree with halting footsteps – like this, dear old thing. Watch andlearn."

Bones staggered across the greensward, clasping his brow, sank on hisknees, folded his arms across his chest, and looked sorrowfully at theheavens, shaking his head.

Hamilton screamed with laughter.

"Behave yourself, naughty old sceptic," said Bones severely.

After half an hour's preliminary rehearsal, the picture was taken, and

Bones now prepared to depart; but Mr. Lew Becksteine, from whose hands

Bones had taken, not only the direction of the play, but the very excuse for existence, let fall a few uncomfortable words.

"Excuse me, Mr. Tibbetts," he said, in the sad, bored voice of anartiste who is forced to witness the inferior work of another, "it isin this scene that the two lawyers must be taken, walking through thewood, quite unconscious of the unhappy fate which has overtaken theheiress for whom they are searching."

"True," said Bones, and scratched his nose.

He looked round for likely lawyers. Hamilton stole gently away.

"Now, why the dickens didn't you remind me, you careless old producer,to bring two lawyers with me?" asked Bones. "Dash it all, there'snothing here that looks like a lawyer. Couldn't it be taken somewhereelse?"

Mr. Becksteine had reached the stage where he was not prepared to makethings easy for his employer.

"Utterly impossible," he said; "you must have exactly the same scenery.

The camera cannot lie."

Bones surveyed his little company, but without receiving anyencouragement.

"Perhaps I might find a couple of fellows on the road," he suggested.

"It is hardly likely," said Mr. Lew Becksteine, "that you will discoverin this remote country village two gentlemen arrayed in faultlesslyfitting morning-coats and top-hats!"

"I don't know so much about that," said the optimistic Bones, and tooka short cut through the wood, knowing that the grounds made an abruptturn where they skirted the main road.

He was half-way through the copse when he stopped. Now, Bones was agreat believer in miracles, but they had to be very spectacularmiracles. The fact that standing in the middle of the woodland pathwere two middle-aged gentlemen in top-hats and morning-coats, seemed toBones to be a mere slice of luck. It was, in fact, a miracle of thefirst class. He crept silently back, raced down the steps to where thelittle party stood.

"Camera!" he hissed. "Bring it along, dear old thing. Don't make anoise! Ham, old boy, will you help? You other persons, stay where youare."

Hamilton shouldered the camera, and on the way up the slope Bonesrevealed his fell intention.

"There is no need to tell these silly old jossers what we're doing," hesaid. "You see what I mean, Ham, old boy? We'll just take a pictureof them as they come along. Nobody will be any the wiser, and allwe'll have to do will be to put a little note in." All the time he wasfixing the camera on the tripod, focussing the lens on a tree by thepath. (It was amazing how quickly Bones mastered the technique of anynew hobby he took up.)

From where Hamilton crouched in the bushes he could see the two menplainly. His heart quaked, realising that one at least was possiblythe owner of the property on which he was trespassing; and he had allan Englishman's horror of trespass. They were talking together, theserespectable gentlemen, when Bones began to turn the handle. They hadto pass through a patch of sunlight, and it was upon this that Bonesconcentrated. Once one of them looked around as the sound of clickingcame to him, but at that moment Bones decided he had taken enough andstopped.

"This," said he, as they gained the by-road where they had made theirunauthorised entry into the park, "is a good day's work."

Their car was on the main road, and to Hamilton's surprise he found thetwo staid gentlemen regarding it when the party came up. They wereregarding it from a high bank behind the wall – a bank which commanded aview of the road. One of them observed the camera and said somethingin a low tone to the other; then the speaker walked down the bank, opened a little wicker door in the wall, and came out.

He was a most polite man, and tactful.

"Have you been taking pictures?" he asked.

"Dear old fellow," said Bones. "I will not deceive you – we have."

There was a silence.

"In the – park, by any chance?" asked the gentleman carelessly.

Bones flinched. He felt rather guilty, if the truth be told.

"The fact is – " he began.

The elderly man listened to the story of "The Bad Girl's Legacy," itsgenesis, its remarkable literary qualities, and its photographic value.He seemed to know a great deal about cinematographs, and asked severalquestions.

"So you have an expert who sees the pieces as they are produced?" heasked. "Who is that?"

"Mr. Tim Lewis," said Bones. "He's one of the – "

"Lewis?" said the other quickly. "Is that Lewis the stockbroker? Anddoes he see every piece you take?"

Bones was getting weary of answering questions.

"Respected sir and park proprietor," he said, "if we have trespassed, Iapologise. If we did any harm innocently, and without knowing that wetransgressed the jolly old conventions – if we, as I say, took a pictureof you and your fellow park proprietor without a thank-you-very-much, Iam sorry."

"You took me and my friend?" asked the elderly man quickly.

"I am telling you, respected sir and cross-examiner, that I took youbeing in a deuce of a hole for a lawyer."

"I see," said the elderly man. "Will you do me a favour? Will you letme see your copy of that picture before you show it to Mr. Lewis? Asthe respected park proprietor" – he smiled – "you owe me that."

"Certainly, my dear old friend and fellow-sufferer," said Bones.

"Bless my life and heart and soul, certainly!"

He gave the address of the little Wardour Street studio where the filmwould be developed and printed, and fixed the morrow for an exhibition.

"I should very much like to see it to-night, if it is no trouble toyou."

"We will certainly do our best, sir," Hamilton felt it was necessary tointerfere at this point.

"Of course, any extra expense you are put to as the result offacilitating the printing, or whatever you do to these films," said theelderly man, "I shall be glad to pay."

He was waiting for Bones and Hamilton at nine o'clock that night in thedingy little private theatre which Bones, with great difficulty, hadsecured for his use. The printing of the picture had been accelerated, and though the print was slightly speckled, it was a good one.

The elderly man sat in a chair and watched it reeled off, and when thelights in the little theatre went up, he turned to Bones with a smile.

"I'm interested in cinema companies," he said, "and I rather fancy thatI should like to include your property in an amalgamation I am making.I could assist you to fix a price," he said to the astonished Bones,"if you would tell me frankly, as I think you will, just what thisbusiness has cost you from first to last."

"My dear old amalgamator," said Bones reproachfully, "is that business?

I ask you."

"It may be good business," said the other.

Bones looked at Hamilton. They and the elderly man, who had driven upto the door of the Wardour Street studio in a magnificent car, were theonly three people, besides the operator, who were present.

Hamilton nodded.

"Well," said Bones, "business, dear old thing, is my weakness. Buyingand selling is my passion and Lobby. From first to last, after payingjolly old Brickdust, this thing is going to cost me more than threethousand pounds – say, three thousand five hundred."

The elderly man nodded.

"Let's make a quick deal," he said. "I'll give you six thousand poundsfor the whole concern, with the pictures as you have takenthem – negatives, positives, cameras, etc. Is it a bargain?"

Bones held out his hand.

They dined together, a jubilant Bones and a more jubilant Hamilton, ata little restaurant in Soho.

"My dear old Ham," said Bones, "it only shows you how things happen.This would have been a grand week for me if those beastly oil shares ofmine had gone up. I'm holding 'em for a rise." He opened a newspaperhe had bought in the restaurant. "I see that Jorris andWalters – they're the two oil men – deny that they've ever met or thatthey're going to amalgamate. But can you believe these people?" heasked. "My dear old thing, the mendacity of these wretchedfinanciers – "

"Have you ever seen them?" asked Hamilton, to whom the names of Jorrisand Walters were as well known as to any other man who read his dailynewspaper.

"Seen them?" said Bones. "My dear old fellow, I've met them time andtime again. Two of the jolliest old birds in the world. Well, here'sluck!"

At that particular moment Mr. Walters and Mr. Jorris were sittingtogether in the library of a house in Berkeley Square, the blinds beinglowered and the curtains being drawn, and Mr. Walters was saying:

"We'll have to make this thing public on Wednesday. My dear fellow, Inearly fainted when I heard that that impossible young person hadphotographed us together. When do you go back to Paris?"

"I think I had better stay here," said Mr. Jorris. "Did the young manbleed you?"

"Only for six thousand," said the pleasant Mr. Walters. "I hope theyoung beggar's a bear in oil," he added viciously.

But Bones, as we know, was a bull.

CHAPTER VI

A DEAL IN JUTE

It is a reasonable theory that every man of genius is two men, onevisible, one unseen and often unsuspected by his counterpart. For whohas not felt the shadow's influence in dealing with such as have theSpark? Napoleon spoke of stars, being Corsican and a mystic. Thosewho met him in his last days were uneasily conscious that the secondBonaparte had died on the eve of Waterloo, leaving derelict hisbrother, a stout and commonplace man who was in turn sycophantic, choleric, and pathetic, but never great.

Noticeable is the influence of the Shadow in the process ofmoney-making. It is humanly impossible for some men to be fortunate.They may amass wealth by sheer hard work and hard reasoning, but ifthey seek a shorter cut to opulence, be sure that short cut ends in acul-de-sac where sits a Bankruptcy Judge and a phalanx of stony-facedcreditors. "Luck" is not for them – they were born single.

For others, the whole management of life is taken from their hands bytheir busy Second, who ranges the world to discover opportunities forhis partner.

So it comes about that there are certain men, and AugustusTibbetts – or, as he was named, "Bones" – was one of these, to whom theincrements of life come miraculously. They could come in no other way,be he ever so learned and experienced.

Rather would a greater worldliness have hampered his familiar and intime destroyed its power, just as education destroys the more subtleinstincts. Whilst the learned seismographer eats his dinner, cheerfully unconscious of the coming earthquake, his dog shiversbeneath the table.

By this preamble I am not suggesting that Bones was a fool. Far fromit. Bones was wise – uncannily wise in some respects. His success wasdue, as to nine-tenths, to his native sense. His x supplied theother fraction.

No better illustration of the working of this concealed quantity can begiven than the story of the great jute sale and Miss Bertha Stegg.

The truth about the Government speculation in jute is simply told. Itis the story of an official who, in the middle of the War, was seizedwith the bright idea of procuring enormous quantities of jute for themanufacture of sand-bags. The fact that by this transaction he mighthave driven the jute lords of Dundee into frenzy did not enter into hiscalculations. Nor did it occur to him that the advantageous positionin which he hoped to place his Department depended for its attainmentupon a total lack of foresight on the part of the Dundee merchants.

As a matter of fact, Dundee had bought well and wisely. It hadsufficient stocks to meet all the demands which the Government madeupon it; and when, after the War, the Department offered its purchaseat a price which would show a handsome profit to the Government, Dundeelaughed long and loudly.

And so there was left on the official hands, at the close of the War, aquantity of jute which nobody wanted, at a price which nobody wouldpay. And then somebody asked a question in the House of Commons, andthe responsible Secretary went hot all over, and framed the reply whichan Under-secretary subsequently made in such terms as would lead thecountry to believe that the jute purchased at a figure beyond themarket value was a valuable asset, and would one day be sold at aprofit.

Mr. Augustus Tibbetts knew nothing about jute. But he did read, almostevery morning in the daily newspapers, how one person or another hadmade enormous purchases of linen, or of cloth, or of motor chassis, paying fabulous sums on the nail and walking off almost immediatelywith colossal profits; and every time Bones read such an account hewriggled in his chair and made unhappy noises.

Then one afternoon there came to his office a suave gentleman infrock-coat, carrying with him a card which was inscribed "Ministry ofSupplies." And the end of that conversation was that Bones, all atwitter of excitement, drove to a gloomy office in Whitehall, where heinterviewed a most sacred public official, to whom members of thepublic were not admitted, perhaps, more than four times a year.

Hamilton had watched the proceedings with interest and suspicion. WhenBones was mysterious he was very mysterious; and he returned that nightin such a condition of mystery that none but a thought-readingdetective could have unravelled him.

"You seem infernally pleased with yourself, Bones," said Hamilton.

"What lamentable error have you fallen into?"

"Dear old Ham," said Bones, with the helpless little laugh whichcharacterised the very condition of mind which Hamilton had described,"dear old pryer, wait till to-morrow. Dear old thing, I wouldn't spoilit. Read your jolly old newspaper, dear old inquirer."

"Have you been to the police court?" asked Hamilton.

"Police court? Police court?" said Bones testily. "Good Heavens, lad!Why this jolly old vulgarity? No, dear boy, live and learn, dear oldthing!"

Hamilton undoubtedly lived until the next morning, and learnt. He sawthe headlines the second he opened his newspaper.

GREAT DEAL IN JUTE. PROMINENT CITY MAN BUYS GOVERNMENT SUPPLY OF JUTE FOR A MILLION

Hamilton was on his way to the office, and fell back in the corner ofthe railway carriage with a suppressed moan. He almost ran to theoffice, to find Bones stalking up and down the room, dictating aninterview to a reporter.

"One minute, one minute, dear old Ham," said. Bones warningly. Andthen, turning to the industrious journalist, he went on where Hamiltonhad evidently interrupted him. "You can say that I've spent a greatdeal of my life in fearfully dangerous conditions," he said. "Youneedn't say where, dear old reporter, just say 'fearfully dangerousconditions.'"

"What about jute?" asked the young man.

"Jute," said Bones with relish, "or, as we call it, Corchariscapsilaris, is the famous jute tree. I have always been interested injute and all that sort of thing – But you know what to say betterthan I can tell you. You can also say that I'm young – no, don't saythat. Put it like this: 'Mr. Tibbetts, though apparentlyyoung-looking, bears on his hardened old face the marks of years spentin the service of his country. There is a sort of sadness about hisfunny old eyes – ' You know what to say, old thing."

"I know," said the journalist, rising. "You'll see this in the nextedition, Mr. Tibbetts."

When the young man had gone, Hamilton staggered across to him.

"Bones," he said, in a hollow voice, "you've never bought this stufffor a million?"

"A million's a bit of an exaggeration, dear old sportsman," said Bones."As a matter of fact, it's about half that sum, and it needn't be paidfor a month. Here is the contract." He smacked his lips and smackedthe contract, which was on the table, at the same time. "Don't getalarmed, don't get peevish, don't get panicky, don't be a wicked oldflutterer, Ham, my boy!" he said. "I've reckoned it all out, and Ishall make a cool fifty thousand by this time next week."

"What will you pay for it?" asked Hamilton, in a shaky voice. "I mean, how much a ton?"

Bones mentioned a figure, and Hamilton jotted down a note.

He had a friend, as it happened, in the jute trade – the owner of a bigmill in Dundee – and to him he dispatched an urgent telegram. Afterthat he examined the contract at leisure. On the fourth page of thatinteresting document was a paragraph, the seventh, to this effect:

"Either parties to this contract may, for any reason whatsoever, bygiving notice either to the Ministry of Supplies, Department 9, or tothe purchaser at his registered office, within twenty-four hours of thesigning of this contract, cancel the same."

He read this over to Bones.

"That's rum," he said. "What is the idea?"

"My jolly old captain," said Bones in his lordly way, "how should Iknow? I suppose it's in case the old Government get a better offer.Anyway, dear old timidity, it's a contract that I'm not going toterminate, believe me!"

The next afternoon Bones and Hamilton returned from a frugal lunch at anear-by tavern, and reached the imposing entrance of the building inwhich New Schemes Limited was housed simultaneously – or perhaps itwould be more truthful to say a little later – than a magnificentlimousine. It was so far ahead of them that the chauffeur had time todescend from his seat, open the highly-polished door, and assist to thehonoured sidewalk a beautiful lady in a large beaver coat, who carriedunder her arm a small portfolio.