HAVE always been sorry about Brand.
He meant well, and he ended badly, which is never anything but tragic.
The first hint I got of his good intentions was gained one day when we were walking down a little byway of the Strand. We came upon one of those old-fashioned organs that have monkeys on the top, and I seized the occasion to enlarge upon the alien peril—a very favourite topic, I may say, of mine, on which I hold some strong and seasoned views.
"Pah!" I said, as we went by, because I make a duty of it. Brand, on the contrary, gave the man some coppers.
I walked on in silence for a little, naturally expecting some explanation of this extraordinary and unpatriotic action, when suddenly my poor friend halted.
"I must," he said almost to himself, and turned.
Puzzled, but with a faint hope that some British blood had stirred in him and moved him to demand his money back, I waited to observe the sequel. There was much gesticulation from the alien, whilst Brand's tone seemed now wheedling and now full of threats. The interview was an enigma, though a stormy one. Presently, however, there were obvious signs of an agreement; but just as I looked forward to my friend's vindication, he put his hand into his pocket, drew out what I knew to be his sovereign purse, and showed every sign that it was he who would pay as a result of this amazing colloquy. Very suspiciously the alien took whatever the sum was, and then, before my astounded eyes, unloosed a grimy chain and, with no sign of regret, handed his moth-eaten monkey over to my deluded friend as though it had been a mere pound of biscuits. Brand, on the contrary, took it to his coat front with a gentleness which I always observed in his perplexing nature.
I must confess that as he came towards me—who always wear a top-hat when in the West, South-West, or West-Central districts—my first thought was of flight. Then, rightly or wrongly, I reflected that this man, though he held a preposterous and inappropriate creature in his arms, had not merely been my school-fellow, but was the godfather of my only sister's little girl, and the bonds of patriotism and kinship triumphed. I stood firm and waited for him.
"What on earth is that for?" I could not help asking, and in my justifiable excitement I very nearly began "whatever"—a vulgarism to which I especially object.
"Sorry, old man!" he replied. "I never do it, as a rule, except when I'm alone."
"Do what," I asked, adding with what I admit I intended to be ironical rebuke—"buy monkeys?"
"Yes," answered my poor friend quite simply. And he fondled the fly-blown-looking monster as though it had been something human, pressing his cheek against its domed forehead till it bit his chin; and even then he did not do what I confess I should have done. "Poor little devil!" he said. "No wonder it does not trust man!" and held it rather lower on his chest.
I walked along in silence and .
"Look here, old boy," the poor fellow said after a while, "I can see that you regard me as ridiculous!" (I paraphrase his always flippant way of speech.) "Let me explain. When I was a little kiddie, we—I and my sister—we had hairy monkeys—no dolls or golliwogs, or any modern rubbish of that sort, but splendid things with real fur and a button for their eyes, and little bits of leather as their ears. Mine was Tommy, hers Sally; and mine was white at first, but hers was always black. We loved those monkeys as if they had been alive. We slept with them beside us, and when our mother took them from us because we and they were too old, I know we wept for hours together. Well, that made me love monkeys. I know this poor little devil here is ugly and vicious and all that—not a bit like Tommy—but I can't help that. I think I've got an ideal monkey treasured up for me, just like Plato and those old Greek Johnnies."
"My dear fellow!" I protested, for this was really too absurd, and I remember nothing about monkeys in my Plato.
"Well, anyhow," went on Brand, opening his coat to shelter the monkey, which now stopped shivering and began to scratch, "as a child, for Tommy's sake, I never could bear the sight of monkeys upon organs, cold and hungry and teased by disgusting little children." (These are his own words—I remember them.) "I always longed to let them go, and now—now that I've made some money, I am doing it."
"But where?" I asked in my astonishment.
He lowered his voice mysteriously, and I began to have doubts even then about his sanity.
"Look here," he said, "don't tell anyone. I've not till now, but, of course, it is bound to get about before I can carry out my scheme."
"Your scheme? But what?"