Cliffford Ashdown

The Adventures of Romney Pringle

Warsaw 2022

Contents

PREFACE

I. THE ASSYRIAN REJUVENATOR

II. THE FOREIGN OFFICE DESPATCH

III. THE CHICAGO HEIRESS

IV. THE LIZARD’S SCALE

V. THE PASTE DIAMONDS

VI. THE KAILYARD NOVEL

PREFACE

IN the course of the present year there died suddenly at Sandwich a gentleman who had only a short time previously taken up his residence in one of the curious old red-brick houses which, surrounded by large gardens, sleepily nestle in the shade of its venerable towers. He was reputed wealthy, his name given as Romney, being popularly supposed to denote ancestral, if not actual, connection with the town and district of that name on the South Coast. A man of highly-cultured tastes and of rare and varied information, he led a very retired life, divided between his books, the cataloguing of a valuable collection of antique gems, and cycle-rides into the surrounding country–for he was an ardent cyclist. A chance meeting on the Sandwich Flats, whereon he had lost his way one misty evening, was the commencement of a close friendship with the present writers, who, on Mr. Romney’s demise soon after, were found to be designated his literary executors. A series of MS. stories, apparently intended for publication, furnished the sole explanation of this somewhat surprising provision. Whether, as might be imagined from their intimate record of the chief actor’s career, they were derived from the notes of actual experience, or whether they were simply the result of imagination, they are here presented exactly as left by the author.

I. THE ASSYRIAN REJUVENATOR

First published in Cassell’s Magazine, June 1902

AS six o’clock struck the procession of the un-dined began to stream beneath the electric arcade which graces the entrance to Cristiani’s. The doors swung unceasingly; the mirrors no longer reflected a mere squadron of tables and erect serviettes; a hum of conversation now mingled with the clatter of knives and the popping of corks; and the brisk scurry of waiters’ slippers replaced the stillness of the afternoon.

Although the restaurant had been crowded some time before he arrived, Mr Romney Pringle had secured his favourite seat opposite the feminine print after Gainsborough, and in the intervals of feeding listened to a selection from Mascagni through a convenient electrophone, price sixpence in the slot. It was a warm night for the time of year, a muggy spell having succeeded a week of biting north-east wind, and as the evening wore on the atmosphere grew somewhat oppressive, more particularly to those who had dined well. Its effects were not very visible on Pringle, whose complexion (a small port-wine mark on his right cheek its only blemish) was of that fairness which imparts to its fortunate possessor the air of youth until long past forty; especially in a man who shaves clean, and habitually goes to bed before two in the morning.

As the smoke from Pringle’s havana wreathed upwards to an extractor, his eye fell, not for the first time, upon a diner at the next table. He was elderly, probably on the wrong side of sixty, but with his erect figure might easily have claimed a few years’ grace, while the retired soldier spoke in his scrupulous neatness, and in the trim of a carefully tended moustache. He had finished his dinner some little time, but remained seated, studying a letter with an intentness more due to its subject than to its length, which Pringle could see was by no means excessive. At last, with a gesture almost equally compounded of weariness and disgust, he rose and was helped into his overcoat by a waiter, who held the door for him in the obsequious manner of his kind.

The languid attention which Pringle at first bestowed on his neighbour had by this time given place to a deeper interest, and as the swing-doors closed behind the old gentleman, he scarcely repressed a start, when he saw lying beneath the vacant table the identical letter which had received such careful study. His first impulse was to run after the old gentleman and restore the paper, but by this time he had disappeared, and the waiter being also invisible, Pringle sat down and read:

The Assyrian Rejuvenator Co.,
82, Barbican, E.C.
April 5th

Dear Sir–We regret to hear of the failure of the “Rejuvenator” in your hands. This is possibly due to your not having followed the directions for its use sufficiently closely, but I must point out that we do not guarantee its infallible success. As it is an expensive preparation, we do not admit the justice of your contention that our charges are exorbitant. In any case we cannot entertain your request to return the whole or any part of the fees. Should you act upon your threat to take proceedings for the recovery of the same, we must hold your good self responsible for any publicity which may follow your trial of the preparation.

Yours faithfully,
Henry Jacobs,
Secretary.

Lieut.-Col. Sandstream,
272, Piccadilly, W.

To Pringle this businesslike communication hardly seemed to deserve so much consideration as Colonel Sandstream had given it, but having read and pondered it over afresh, he walked back to his chambers in Furnival’s Inn.

He lived at No. 33, on the left as you enter from Holborn, and anyone who, scaling the stone stairs, reached the second floor, might observe on the entrance to the front set of chambers the legend, “Mr Romney Pringle, Literary Agent.” According to high authority, the reason of being of the literary agent is to act as a buffer between the ravening publisher and his prey. But although a very fine oak bureau with capacious pigeon-holes stood conspicuously in Pringle’s sitting-room, it was tenanted by no rolls of MS, or type-written sheets. Indeed, little or no business appeared to be transacted in the chambers. The buffer was at present idle, if it could be said to have ever worked! It was “resting” to use the theatrical expression.

Mr Pringle was an early riser, and as nine o’clock chimed the next morning from the brass lantern-clock which ticked sedately on a mantel unencumbered by the usual litter of a bachelor’s quarters, he had already spent some time in consideration of last night’s incident, and a further study of the letter had only served thoroughly to arouse his curiosity, and decided him to investigate the affair of the mysterious “Rejuvenator.” Unlocking a cupboard in the bottom of the bureau, he disclosed a regiment of bottles and jars. Sprinkling a few drops from one on to a hare’s-foot, he succeeded, with a little friction, in entirely removing the port-wine mark from his cheek. Then from another phial he saturated a sponge and rubbed it into his eyebrows, which turned in the process from their original yellow to a jetty black. From a box of several, he selected a waxed moustache (that most facile article of disguise), and having attached it with a few drops of spirit-gum, covered his scalp with a black wig, which, as is commonly the case, remained an aggressive fraud in spite of the most assiduous adjustment. Satisfied with the completeness of his disguise, he sallied out in search of the offices of the “Assyrian Rejuvenator,” affecting a military bearing which his slim but tall and straight-backed figure readily enabled him to assume.

“My name is Parkins–Major Parkins,” said Pringle, as he opened the door of a mean-looking room on the second floor of No. 82, Barbican. He addressed an oleaginous-looking gentleman, whose curly locks and beard suggested the winged bulls of Nineveh, and who appeared to be the sole representative of the concern. The latter bowed politely, and handed him a chair.

“I have been asked,” Pringle continued, “by a friend who saw your advertisement to call upon you for some further information.”

Now the subject of rejuvenation being a delicate one, especially where ladies are concerned, the business of the company was mainly transacted through the post. So seldom, indeed, did a client desire a personal interview, that the Assyrian-looking gentleman jumped to the conclusion that his visitor was interested in quite another matter.

“Ah yes! You refer to “Pelosia”,” he said briskly. “Allow me to read you an extract from the prospectus.”

And before Pringle could reply he proceeded to read from a small leaflet with unctuous elocution:

“Pelosia. The sovereign remedy of Mud has long been used with the greatest success in the celebrated baths of Schwalbach and Franzensbad. The proprietors of Pelosia having noted the beneficial effect which many of the lower animals derive from the consumption of earth with their food, have been led to investigate the internal uses of mud. The success which has crowned the treatment of some of the longest-standing cases of dyspepsia (the disease so characteristic of this neurotic age), has induced them to admit the world at large to its benefits. To thoroughly safeguard the public, the proprietors have secured the sole right to the alluvial deposits of a stream remote from human habitation, and consequently above any suspicion of contamination. Careful analysis has shown that the deposit in this particular locality, consisting of finely divided mineral particles, practically free from organic admixture, is calculated to give the most gratifying results. The proprietors are prepared to quote special terms for public institutions.”

“Many thanks,” said Pringle, as the other momentarily paused for breath; “but I think you are under a slight misapprehension. I called on you with reference to the “Assyrian Rejuvenator.’ Have I mistaken the offices?”

“Pray excuse my absurd mistake! I am secretary of the “Assyrian Rejuvenator Company,’ who are also the proprietors of “Pelosia’.” And in evident concern he regarded Pringle fixedly.

It was not the first time he had known a diffident person to assume an interest in the senility of an absent friend, and he mentally decided that Pringle’s waxed moustache, its blue-blackness speaking loudly of hair-dye, together with the unmistakable wig, were evidence of the decrepitude for which his new customer presumably sought the Company’s assistance.

“Ours, my dear sir,” he resumed, leaning back in his chair, and placing the tips of his fingers in apposition–“Ours is a world-renowned specific for removing the ravages which time effects in the human frame. It is a secret which has been handed down for many generations in the family of the original proprietor. Its success is frequently remarkable, and its absolute failure is impossible. It is not a drug, it is not a cosmetic, yet it contains the properties of both. It is agreeable and soothing to use, and being best administered during the hours of sleep does not interfere with the ordinary avocations of every-day life. The price is so moderate–ten and sixpence, including the Government stamp–that it could only prove remunerative with an enormous sale. If you–ah, on behalf of your friend!–would care to purchase a bottle, I shall be most happy to explain its operation.”

Mr Pringle laid a half sovereign and a sixpence on the table, and the secretary, diving into a large packing-case which stood on one side, extracted a parcel. This contained a cardboard box adorned with a representation of Blake’s preposterous illustration to “The Grave,” in which a centenarian on crutches is hobbling into a species of banker’s strongroom with a rocky top, whereon is seated a youth clothed in nothing, and with an ecstatic expression.

“This,” said Mr Jacobs impressively, “is the entire apparatus!” And he opened the box, displaying a moderate-sized phial and a spirit-lamp with a little tin dish attached. “On retiring to rest, a teaspoonful of the contents of the bottle is poured into the receptacle above the lamp, which is then lighted, and the preparation being vaporized is inhaled by the patient. It is best to concentrate the thoughts on some object of beauty whilst the delicious aroma sooths the patient to sleep.”

“But how does it act?” inquired the Major a trifle impatiently.

“In this way,” replied the imperturbable secretary. “Remember that the appearance of age is largely due to wrinkles; that is to say, to the skin losing its elasticity and fulness–so true is it that beauty is only skin-deep.” Here he laughed gaily. “The joints grow stiff from loss of their natural tone, the figure stoops, and the vital organs decline their functions from the same cause. In a word, old age is due to a loss of elasticity, and that is the very property which the “Rejuvenator” imparts to the system, if inhaled for a few hours daily.”

Mr Pringle diplomatically succeeded in maintaining his gravity while the merits of the “Rejuvenator” were expounded, and it was not until he had bidden Mr Jacobs a courteous farewell, and was safely outside the office, that he allowed the fastening of his moustache to be disturbed by an expansive grin.

About nine o’clock the same evening the housekeeper of the Barbican offices was returning from market, her thoughts centred on the savoury piece of fried fish she was carrying home for supper.

“Mrs Smith?” said a man’s voice behind her, as she produced her latch-key.

“My name’s “Odges,” she replied unguardedly, dropping the key in her agitation.

“You’re the housekeeper, aren’t you?” said the stranger, picking up the key and handing it to her politely.

“Lor’, sir! You did give me a turn,” she faltered.

“Very sorry, I’m sure. I only want to know where I can find Mr Jacobs, of the “Assyrian Rejuvenator Company”.”

“Well, sir, he told me I wasn’t to give his address to anyone. Not that I know it either, sir, for I always send the letters to Mr Weeks.”

“I’ll see you’re not found fault with. I know he won’t mind your telling me.” A sovereign clinked against the latch-key in her palm.

For a second she hesitated, then her eye caught the glint of the gold, and she fell.

“All I know, sir, is that when Mr Jacobs is away I send the letters–and a rare lot there are–to Mr Newton Weeks, at the Northumberland Avenue Hotel.”

“Is he one of the firm?”

“I don’t know, sir, but there’s no one comes here but Mr Jacobs.”

“Thank you very much, and good night,” said the stranger; and he strode down Barbican, leaving Mrs Hodges staring at the coin in her hand as if doubting whether, like fairy gold, it might not disappear even as she gazed.

The next day Mr Jacobs received a letter at his hotel:

April 7th

Sir–My friend Col. Sandstream informs me he has communicated with the police, and has sworn an information against you in respect of the moneys you have obtained from him, as he alleges, by false pretences. Although I am convinced that his statements are true, a fact which I can more readily grasp after my interview with you today, I give you this warning in order that you may make your escape before it is too late. Do not misunderstand my motives; I have not the slightest desire to save you from the punishment you so richly deserve. I am simply anxious to rescue my old friend from the ridiculous position he will occupy before the world should he prosecute you.

Your obedient servant,
Joseph Parkins, Major.
Newton Weeks, Esq.,
Northumberland Avenue Hotel.

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