The costume was one of Mr. Tibbetts's schemes. It was faithfully
copied from one worn by a gentleman of colour who serves the Turkish
coffee at the Wistaria Restaurant. It may be said that there was no
special reason why an ordinary business man should possess a bodyguard
at all, and less reason why he should affect one who had the appearance
of a burlesque Othello, but Mr. Augustus Tibbetts, though a business
man, was not ordinary.
"Bones"--for such a name he bore without protest in the limited circles
of his friendship--looked up severely.
"Ali," he demanded, "have you posted the ledger?"
"Sir," said Ali, with a profound obeisance, "the article was too
copious for insertion in aperture of collection box, so it was
transferred to the female lady behind postal department counter."
Bones leapt up, staring.
"Goodness gracious, Heavens alive, you silly old ass--you--you haven't
posted it--in the post?"
"Sir," said Ali reproachfully, "you instructed posting volume in exact
formula. Therefore I engulfed it in wrappings and ligatures of string,
and safely delivered it to posting authority."
Bones sank back in his chair.
"It's no use--no use, Ali," he said sadly, "my poor uncivilized savage,
it's not your fault. I shall never bring you up to date, my poor silly
old josser. When I say 'post' the ledger, I mean write down all the
money you've spent on cabs in the stamp book. Goodness gracious alive!
You can't run a business without system, Ali! Don't you know that, my
dear old image? How the dooce do you think the auditors are to know
how I spend my jolly old uncle's money if you don't write it down, hey?
Posting means writing. Good Heavens"--a horrid thought dawned on
him--"who did you post it to?"
"Lord," said Ali calmly, "destination of posted volume is your
lordship's private residency."
All's English education had been secured in the laboratory of an
English scientist in Sierra Leone, and long association with that
learned man had endowed him with a vocabulary at once impressive and
recondite.
Bones gave a resigned sigh.
"I'm expecting----" he began, when a silvery bell tinkled.
It was silvery because the bell was of silver. Bones looked up, pulled
down his waistcoat, smoothed back his hair, fixed his eye-glass, and
took up a long quill pen with a vivid purple feather.
"Show them in," he said gruffly.
"Them" was one well-dressed young man in a shiny silk hat, who, when
admitted to the inner sanctum, came soberly across the room, balancing
his hat.
"Ah, Mr. Pole--Mr. Fred Pole." Bones read the visitor's card with the
scowl which he adopted for business hours. "Yes, yes. Be seated, Mr.
Pole. I shall not keep you a minute."
He had been waiting all the morning for Mr. Pole. He had been weaving
dreams from the letter-heading above Mr. Pole's letter.