DON'T say," observed the Colonel, "that limited liability companies haven't great advantages. In fact I'm a director myself—it's a big grocery—and draw three hundred a year—a very welcome addition to my half-pay—and, for all I know, I may supply some of you fellows with your morning bacon. If I do, it just exemplifies the point I was about to make; which is this— When it comes to limited companies, you never know who anybody is. I could tell you a little story to illustrate that; it's rather a sad one, though."
The club smoking-room was cheerfully lighted, the fire burned brightly, we each had a cigar and a drink. We intimated to the Colonel that we felt in a position to endure a touch of tragedy.
"It's some years ago now," he said, "but it affected me considerably at the time. Do any of you go to Stretchley's for your clothes?"
Three of us shook our heads wistfully. The fourth—a young man, and a new member, whom none of us knew, but who had a legal look about him and wore admirable trousers of a delicate gray—answered the Colonel's question in the affirmative.
"If I may say so, you and Stretchley's do one another credit, sir," said the Colonel, with an approving glance at the new member's trousers. "And I needn't tell you that Stretchley's have few equals—and no superiors. When you say Stretchley's, you say everything. I have never gone to them myself: partly because I couldn't afford it, more perhaps from motives of delicacy—from consideration for poor George Langhorn's feelings. He has always preferred not to act professionally for his personal friends, even though he lost money in consequence."
"How does George Langhorn come in?" I ventured to ask.
"He is Stretchley's, to all intents and purposes. It's a small family company. The business was founded by George's maternal grandfather, and carried to greatness by his mother's brother, Fred Stretchley, whom I used to see at Brighton years ago. Fred made it into a company, but of course kept the bulk of the shares to himself, besides the entire control; and when he died, he left all he had to George, on condition—mark you, on condition—that George remained in the business, and in active control of it. He did that because he knew that George hated it, and, at the same time, had a wonderful turn for it."
"Rather odd, that!" the new member observed.
"I don't think so, sir," said the Colonel. "He had a knack for it, because it was in his blood; and he hated it, because he'd had it crammed down his throat all his life. He'd been right through the mill from a boy; the only holiday he'd ever had from it was a year at Bonn—and that was to learn German, with a view to business. It was at Bonn that I became acquainted with him, and a very nice fellow he was—quite a gentleman, and extremely well-informed. We became great friends. His only fault was his exaggerated dislike of his own occupation. On that subject he was morbid—and, I'm afraid I must add, a trifle snobbish. All the same, he was unmistakably proud of Stretchley's. He was quite alive to the fact that if he had to be a tailor, it was a fine thing to be Stretchley's, and in moments of confidence he would thank Heaven that he hadn't been born in the ready-made line—'reach-me-downs,' he called it. 'It might have been worse,' he would say manfully. At those times I felt a great respect for him."
"They do know how to make a pair of breeches," murmured the new member, regarding his own legs with pensive satisfaction.