came into the small tobacconist's and inquired, across the counter, whether there happened to be in the neighbourhood a branch establishment of a well-known firm (mentioned by name) dealing in similar goods and guaranteeing to save the consumer thirty-three per cent. He required the information, it appeared, because he contemplated buying a packet of cigarettes.
No, said the proprietor (after he finished his speech and the youth had gone), not quite the limit. Near to the edge, I admit; but remembering my friend, Mr. Ardwick, I can't say it's what you'd call the highest possible. It was a privilege to know Ardwick; he was, without any doubt whatsoever, a masterpiece. I've give up all hopes of ever finding his equal.
He was a customer here at the time Mrs. Ingram had the shop—and when I say customer, of course I don't mean that he ever handed over a single halfpenny. Mrs. Ingram had only been a widow for about a twelvemonth, and naturally enough she liked gentlemen's society; and Ardwick, after he got his compensation out of the County Council—that, by the by, was one of his triumphs—he had nothing else to do, and he became very much attached to that chair what you're sitting on now. He'd call in to have a look at the morning paper, and read it through from start to finish; later in the day he'd call to see the evening paper, and keep tight hold of it till he'd come to the name of the printers at the foot of the last page. Between whiles he'd pretend to make himself handy at dusting the counter, and help himself to a pipe of tobacco, out of the shag-jar. It was a pretty sight to see old Ardwick, before he left of an evening, talk, as he filled a pocket with matches out of the stand, about the way the rich robbed the poor.
Having caught sight of Mrs. Ingram's pass-book that she was sending to the bank—he offered to post it, and walked all the way to Lombard Street and stuck to the twopence—Ardwick makes up his mind to take the somewhat desperate step of proposing to Mrs. I.
“Very kind of you,” she says, “but I fancy, Mr. Ardwick, you're a shade too stingy to run in double harness with me. Poor Ingram,” she says, “was always freehanded with his money, and if I should ever get married again it will have to be to some one of a similar disposition. But thank you all the same,” she says, “for asking!”
Ardwick ran across his friend Kimball in Downham Road that evening and lent him a match, and said Kimball was the very party he wanted to meet. They had a long, confidential sort of talk together outside the fire-station, and they came to such high words that a uniformed man, who was talking to one of his girls, threatened to turn the hose on them. The two strolled down Kingsland Road in a cooler frame of mind, and when they said “Good-night” at the canal bridge Kimball promised to do the best for Mr. Ardwick that lay in his power. Kimball explained that he was not going to do it out of friendship, but mainly because his wife had recently docked his allowance, and, in consequence, he felt a grudge against the sex in general.
“I promise you,” said Mr. Ardwick, still shaking his hand, “that you won't lose over the transaction.”
“Knowing you as I do,” remarked Kimball, “I quite recognise that it'll take a bit of doing to make anything out of it.”
Mr. Ardwick was in the shop, here, the following afternoon. Mrs. Ingram felt surprised to see him at that hour, and she locks up the till pretty smartly and moves the box of World-Famed Twopenny Cheroots.
“Something you said, Mrs. Ingram,” he began, “has been worryin' of me, and I've called round to talk it over. You seem to have got the impression in your mind that I'm, if anything, a trifle close with my money. I should like to convince you, ma'am, that you are doing me an injustice, and to prove it I'm going to adopt a very simple plan.”
“Have you brought back that watch of mine I gave you to get mended?”
“One topic at a time,” urged Mr. Ardwick. “My idea of benevolence is something wider and broader than that of most people.” He glanced at the clock. “What I propose to do is this. To the first customer what enters this shop after half-past three I shall present the sum of five pound.”
“Five what?”
“Five quid,” he said, in a resolute sort of manner. “The first one, mind you, after half-past three. It wants two minutes to the half-hour now. All you've got to do, ma'am, is to stand where you are, and to judge whether I'm a man of a generous disposition or whether I'm the opposite.”