Jacob's Ladder - Free Audiobook

CHAPTER I

Precisely two years later, Jacob Pratt sat once more in his cottage sitting-room, contemplating the remains of a barely tasted breakfast. Before him, read for the fiftieth time, were the wonderful letters, in his brain a most amazing confusion, in his heart an almost hysterical joy. Presently Mrs. Harris brought in his hat and stick.

“You’ll excuse my mentioning it, sir,” she said, looking at the former a little disparagingly, “but, brush though I may, there’s no doing much with this hat of yours. The nap’s fair gone. Maybe you haven’t noticed it, sir, but, with the summer coming on, a straw hat—”

“I’ll buy a straw hat to-day, Mrs. Harris,” Jacob promised.

“And you’ll be home at the usual time for your supper, sir?”

“I—I expect so. I am not quite sure, Mrs. Harris. I shall be home sometime during the day, all right.”

Mrs. Harris shook her head at the sight of the untasted egg.

“You’ll excuse my saying so, sir,” she pronounced severely, “but there’s no good work done on an empty stomach. Times is hard, as we all know, but eggs is cheap.”

“Mrs. Harris,” Jacob reminded her, “it is two years since I left one of your eggs. I left it then because I was miserable. I am leaving it this morning because—I have had good news. I can’t eat. Later on—later on, Mrs. Harris.”

“And a bit of good news is what you deserve, sir,” the latter declared, lingering while he cut his accustomed rose with fingers which trembled strangely.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Harris,” he said. “When I come back to-night, I’ll tell you all about it.”

Once more, then, two years almost to a day after Mr. Edward Bultiwell, of the great firm of Bultiwell and Sons, had laid down his newspaper and spoken his mind, Jacob was on his way to the station, again wearing a choice rose in his buttonhole. He had found no occasion to change his lodgings, for he had been an economical man who took great care of his possessions even in the days of his prosperity, and his moderate salary as traveller for a Bermondsey firm of merchants brought him in quite enough for his simple needs. He had to some extent lived down his disgrace. The manager of the International Stores nodded to him now, a trifle condescendingly, yet with tacit acknowledgement of the fact that in domestic affairs Jacob was a man of principle who always paid his way. The greengrocer’s wife passed the time of day when not too preoccupied, and the newspaper boy no longer clutched for his penny. Jacob generally met the melancholy man at the corner of the avenue and walked to the station with him. And he still grew roses and worshipped them.

On the way to the station, on this particular morning, he amazed his friend.

“Richard,” he said, “I shall not travel to the City with you to-day. At least I shall not start with you. I shall change carriages at Wendley, as I did once before.”

“The devil!” Richard exclaimed.

They were passing the plate-glass window of a new emporium, and Jacob paused to glance furtively at his reflection. He was an exceedingly neat man, and his care for his clothes and person had survived two years of impecuniosity. Nevertheless, although he passed muster well enough to the casual observer, there were indications in his attire of the inevitable conflict between a desire for adornment and the lack of means to indulge it. His too often pressed trousers were thin at the seams; his linen, though clean, was frayed; there were cracks in his vigorously polished shoes. He looked at himself, and he was suddenly conscious of a most amazing thrill. One of the cherished desires of his life loomed up before him. Even Savile Row was not an impossibility.

At the station he puzzled the booking clerk by presenting himself at the window and demanding a first single to Liverpool Street.

The youth handed him the piece of pasteboard with a wondering glance.

“Your season ain’t up yet, Mr. Pratt.”

“It is not,” Jacob acquiesced, “but this morning I desire to travel to town first-class.”

Whilst he waited for the train, Jacob read again the wonderful letters, folded them up, and was ready, with an air of anticipation, when the little train with its reversed engine came puffing around the curve and brought its few antiquated and smoke-encrusted carriages to a standstill. Everything went as he had hoped. In that familiar first-class carriage, into which he stepped with beating heart, sat Mr. Bultiwell in the farthest corner, with his two satellites, Stephen Pedlar, the accountant, and Lionel Groome. They all stared at him in blank bewilderment as he entered. Mr. Bultiwell, emerging from behind the Times, sat with his mouth open and a black frown upon his forehead.

“Good morning, all,” Jacob remarked affably, as he sprawled in his place and put his legs up on the opposite seat.

He might have dropped a bombshell amongst them with less effect. Every newspaper was lowered, and every one stared at this bold intruder. Then they turned to Mr. Bultiwell. It seemed fittest that he should deal with the matter. Unfortunately, he, too, seemed temporarily bereft of words.

“I seem to have startled you all a bit, what?” Jacob continued, with the air of one thoroughly enjoying the sensation he had produced. “I’ve got my ticket all right. Here you are,” he went on, producing it,—“first-class to Liverpool Street. Thought I’d like to have a look at you all once more. Sorry to see you’re not looking quite your old self, Mr. Bultiwell. Nasty things, these bad debts, eh? Three last week, I noticed. You’ll have to be careful down Bristol way. Things there are pretty dicky.”

“It would be more becoming on your part, sir,” Mr. Bultiwell pronounced furiously, “if you were to hold your tongue about bad debts.”

Jacob snapped his fingers.

“I don’t owe any man a farthing,” he declared.

“An undischarged bankrupt—”

“Sold again,” Jacob interrupted amiably. “Got my discharge last week.”

Mr. Bultiwell found his tongue at the same time that he lost his temper.

“So that’s the reason you’re butting in here amongst gentlemen whom you’ve lost the right to associate with!” he exclaimed. “You think because you’re whitewashed by the courts you can count yourself an honest man again, eh? You think that because—”

“Wrong—all wrong,” Jacob interrupted once more, with ever-increasing geniality. “You’ll have to guess again.”

Mr. Groome—the very superior Mr. Groome, who had married a relative of Mr. Bultiwell’s, and who occasionally wore an eyeglass and was seen in the West End—intervened with gentle sarcasm.

“Mr. Pratt has perhaps come to tell us that it is his intention to celebrate the granting of his discharge by paying his debts in full.”

Jacob glanced at the speaker with the air of one moved to admiration.

“Mr. Groome, sir,” he pronounced, “you are a wizard! You must have seen right through into the breast pocket of my coat. Allow me to read you a couple of letters.”

He produced these amazing documents, leisurely unfolding the first. There was no question of newspapers now.

“You will remember,” he said, “that I came to grief because I stood bondsman to my brother, who was out prospecting for oil lands in America. ‘Disgraceful speculation’ Mr. Bultiwell called it, I think. Well, this letter is from Sam:”

Ritz-Carlton Hotel,
New York.

My dear Jacob,

I cabled you this morning to prepare for good news, so don’t get heart failure when you receive this letter. We’ve struck it rich, as I always told you we should. I sold the worse half of our holdings in Arizona for four million dollars last week, and Lord knows what we’ll get for the rest. I’ve cabled you a hundred thousand pounds, to be going on with, to the Bank of England.

Sorry you’ve had such a rough time, old chap, but you’re on velvet for the rest of your life. Have a bottle with your best pal when you get this, and drink my health.

Cheerio!
Sam.

P. S. I should say, roughly speaking, that your share of the rest of the land will work out at something like five million dollars. I hope you’ll chuck your humdrum life now and come out into the world of adventure.

“It’s a fairy tale!” Mr. Groome gasped.

“Let me see the letter,” the accountant implored.

Mr. Bultiwell only breathed hard.

“The other communication,” Jacob continued, unfolding a stiff sheet of paper, “is from the Bank of England, and it is what you might call short and sweet:”

Dear Sir,

We beg to inform you that we have to-day received a credit on your behalf, from our New York branch, amounting to one hundred thousand pounds sterling, which sum we hold at your disposal.

Faithfully yours,
BANK OF ENGLAND.
p. p. J. Woodridge Smith.

“One hundred thousand pounds! God bless my soul!” Mr. Bultiwell gasped.

“I shall be at your office, Mr. Pedlar,” Jacob announced, folding up the letters, “at eleven o’clock.”

“It is your intention, I presume,” the accountant enquired, “to pay your debts in full?”

“Certainly,” Jacob replied. “I thought I had made that clear.”

“A very laudable proceeding,” Mr. Pedlar murmured approvingly.

The train was beginning to slacken speed. Jacob rose to his feet.

“I am changing carriages here,” he remarked. “I am obliged to you all for putting up with my company for so long.”

Mr. Bultiwell cleared his throat. There was noticeable in his tone some return of his former pomposity.

“Under the present circumstances, Mr. Pratt,” he said, “I see no reason why you should leave us. I should like to hear more about your wonderful good fortune and to discuss with you your plans for the future. If you are occupied now, perhaps this evening at home. My roses are worth looking at.”

Jacob smiled in a peculiar fashion.

“I have a friend waiting for me in the third-class portion of the train,” he replied. “Until eleven o’clock, Mr. Pedlar.”