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  The Definite Object

  Jeffery Farnol

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  Title: The Definite Object A Romance of New York

  Author: Jeffery Farnol

  Release Date: June 15, 2005 [eBook #16074]

  Language: English

  Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)

  ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEFINITE OBJECT***

  E-text prepared by David Kline, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)

  THE DEFINITE OBJECT

  A Romance of New York

  by

  JEFFERY FARNOL

  Author of The Broad Highway, The Amateur Gentleman, The Honourable Mr. Tawnish, Beltane the Smith

  1917

  CHAPTER

  I Which Describes, among Other Things, a Pair of Whiskers II Of a Mournful Millionaire Who Lacked an Object III How Geoffrey Ravenslee Went Seeking an Object IV Telling How He Came to Hell’s Kitchen at Peep o’ Day V How Mrs. Trapes Acquired a New Lodger, Despite her Elbows VI How Spike Initiated Mr. Ravenslee into the Gentle Art of Shopping VII Concerning Ankles, Stairs, and Neighbourliness VIII Of Candies and Confidences IX Which Recounts the End of an Episode X Tells How Mr. Ravenslee Went into Trade XI Antagonism is Born and War Declared XII Containing Some Description of a Supper Party XIII Wherein may be Found Some Particulars of the Beautiful City of Perhaps XIV Of a Text, a Letter, and a Song XV Which Introduces Joe and the Old Un XVI Of the First and Second Persons, Singular Number XVII How Geoffrey Ravenslee Made a Deal in Real Estate XVIII How Spike Hearkened to Poisonous Suggestion and Soapy Began to Wonder XIX In which the Poison Begins to Work XX Of an Expedition by Night XXI How M’Ginnis Threatened and—Went XXII Tells of an Early Morning Visit and a Warning XXIII Chiefly Concerning a Letter XXIV How the Old Un and Certain Others had Tea XXV How Spike Made a Choice and a Promise XXVI Which Makes Further Mention of a Ring XXVII Mrs. Trapes Upon the Millennium XXVIII Which should have Related Details of a Wedding XXIX In which Hermione Makes a Fateful Decision XXX How Geoffrey Ravenslee Departed from Hell’s Kitchen XXXI In which Soapy Takes a Hand XXXII Of Harmony and Discord XXXIII Of Tragedy XXXIV Of Remorse XXXV How Geoffrey Ravenslee Came Out of the Dark XXXVI Concerning a Clew XXXVII The Woes of Mr. Brimberly XXXVIII In which Soapy Takes upon Himself a New Role XXXIX The Old Un Advises and Ravenslee Acts XL Concerning a Handful of Pebbles XLI Of a Packet of Letters XLII Tells How Ravenslee Broke his Word and Why XLIII How Spike Got Even XLIV Retribution XLV Of the Old Un and Fate XLVI In which Geoffrey Ravenslee Obtains his Object

  CHAPTER I

  WHICH DESCRIBES, AMONG OTHER THINGS, A PAIR OF WHISKERS

  In the writing of books, as all the world knows, two things are above all other things essential—the one is to know exactly when and where to leave off, and the other to be equally certain when and where to begin.

  Now this book, naturally enough, begins with Mr. Brimberly’s whiskers; begins at that moment when he coughed and pulled down his waistcoat for the first time. And yet (since action is as necessary to the success of a book as to life itself) it should perhaps begin more properly at the psychological moment when Mr. Brimberly coughed and pulled down the garment aforesaid for the third time, since it is then that the real action of this story commences.

  Be that as it may, it is beyond all question that nowhere in this wide world could there possibly be found just such another pair of whiskers as those which adorned the plump cheeks of Mr. Brimberly; without them he might have been only an ordinary man, but, possessing them, he was the very incarnation of all that a butler could possibly be.

  And what whiskers these were! So soft, so fleecy, so purely white, that at times they almost seemed like the wings of cherubim, striving to soar away and bear Mr. Brimberly into a higher and purer sphere. Again, what Protean whiskers were these, whose fleecy pomposity could overawe the most superior young footmen and reduce page-boys, tradesmen, and the lower orders generally, to a state of perspiring humility; to his equals how calmly aloof, how blandly dignified; and to those a misguided fate had set above him, how demurely deferential, how obligingly obsequious! Indeed, Mr. Brimberly’s whiskers were all things to all men, and therein lay their potency.

  Mr. Brimberly then, pompous, affable, and most sedate, having motioned his visitor into his master’s favourite chair, set down the tray of decanters and glasses upon the piano, coughed, and pulled down his waistcoat; and Mr. Brimberly did it all with that air of portentous dignity and leisurely solemnity which, together with his whiskers, made him the personality he was.

  “And you’re still valeting for Barberton, are you, Mr. Stevens?” he blandly enquired.

  “I’ve been with his lordship six months, now,” nodded Mr. Stevens.

  “Ah!” said Mr. Brimberly, opening a certain carved cabinet and reaching thence a box of his master’s choicest Havanas, “six months, indeed! And ‘ow is Barberton? I hacted in the capacity of his confidential valet a good many years ago, as I told you, and we always got on very well together, very well, indeed. ‘ow is Barberton?”

  “Oh, ‘e ‘d be right enough if it warn’t for ‘is gout which gets ‘im in the big toe now and then, and ‘is duns and creditors and sich-like low fellers, as gets ‘im everywhere and constant! ‘E’ll never be quite ‘imself until ‘e marries money—and plenty of it!”

  “A American hair-ess!” nodded Mr. Brimberly. “Precisely! I very nearly married ‘im to a rich widder ten years ago. ‘E’d ‘ave been settled for life if ‘e ‘d took my advice! But Barberton was always inclined to be a little ‘eadstrong. The widder in question ‘appened to be a trifle par-say, I’ll admit, also it was ‘inted that one of ‘er—lower limbs was cork. But then, ‘er money, sir—’er jools!” Mr. Brimberly raised eyes and hands and shook his head until his whiskers quivered in a very ecstasy.

  “But a wooden leg—” began Mr. Stevens dubiously.

  “I said ‘limb’, sir!” said Mr. Brimberly, his whiskers distinctly agitated, “a cork limb, sir! And Lord bless me, a cork limb ain’t to be sniffed at contemptuous when it brings haffluence with it, sir! At least, my sentiments leans that way.”

  “Oh—ditto, certainly, sir! I’d take haffluence to my ‘eart if she came with both le—both of ‘em cork, if it meant haffluence like this!” Mr. Stevens let his pale, prominent eyes wander slowly around the luxuriant splendour of the room. “My eye!” he exclaimed, “it’s easy to see as your governor don’t have to bother about marrying money, cork limbs or otherwise! Very rich, ain’t ‘e, Mr. Brimberly?”

  Mr. Brimberly set down the decanter he chanced to be holding, and having caressed each fluffy whisker, smiled.

  “I think, sir,” said he gently, “y-es, I think we may answer ‘yes’ to your latter question. I think we may tell you and admit ‘ole-‘earted and frank, sir, that the Ravenslee fortune is fab’lous, sir, stoopendious and himmense!”

  “Oh, Lord!” exclaimed Mr. Stevens, and his pale eyes, much wider, now wandered up from the Persian rug beneath his boots to the elaborately carved ceiling above his head. “My aunt!” he murmured.

  “Oh, I think we’re fairly comfortable ‘ere, sir,” nodded Mr. Brimberly complacently, “yes, fairly comfortable, I think.”

  “Comfortable!” ejaculated the awe-struck Mr. Stevens, “I should say so! My word!”

  “Yes,” pursued Mr. Brimberly, “comfortable, and I ventur’ to think, tasteful, sir,
for I’ll admit young Ravenslee—though a millionaire and young—’as taste. Observe this costly bricky-brack! Oh, yes, young Har is a man of taste indoobitably, I think you must admit.”

  “Very much so indeed, sir!” answered Mr. Stevens with his pallid glance on the array of bottles. “‘Three Star,’ I think, Mr. Brimberly?”

  “Sir,” sighed Mr. Brimberly in gentle reproach, “you ‘ere be’old Cognac brandy as couldn’t be acquired for twenty-five dollars the bottle! Then ‘ere we ‘ave jubilee port, a rare old sherry, and whisky. Now what shall we make it? You, being like myself, a Englishman in this ‘ere land of eagles, spread and otherwise, suppose we make it a B and a Hess?”

  “By all means!” nodded Mr. Stevens.

  “I was meditating,” said Mr. Brimberly, busied with the bottles and glasses, “I was cogitating calling hup Mr. Jenkins, the Stanways’ butler across the way. The Stanways is common people, parvynoo, Mr. Stevens, parvynoo, but Mr. Jenkins is very superior and plays the banjer very affecting. Our ‘ousekeeper and the maids is gone to bed, and I’ve give our footmen leave of habsence—I thought we might ‘ave a nice, quiet musical hour or so. You perform on the piano-forty, I believe, sir?”

  “Only very occasional!” Mr. Stevens admitted. “But,” and here his pale eyes glanced toward the door, “do I understand as he is out for the night?”

  “Sir,” said Mr. Brimberly ponderously, “what ”e’ might you be pleased to mean?”

  “I was merely allooding to—to your governor, sir.”

  Mr. Brimberly glanced at his guest, set down the glass he was in the act of filling and—pulled down his waistcoat for the second time.

  “Sir,” said he, and his cherubic whiskers seemed positively to quiver, “I presoom—I say, I presoom you are referring to—Young Har?”

  “I meant Mr. Ravenslee.”

  “Then may I beg that you’ll allood to him ‘enceforth as Young Har? This is Young Har’s own room, sir. These is Young Har’s own picters, sir. When Young Har is absent, I generally sit ‘ere with me cigar and observe said picters. I’m fond of hart, sir; I find hart soothing and restful. The picters surrounding of you are all painted by Young Har’s very own ‘and—subjeks various. Number one—a windmill very much out o’ repair, but that’s hart, sir. Number two—a lady dressed in what I might term dish-a-bell, sir, and there isn’t much of it, but that’s hart again. Number three—a sunset. Number four—moonlight; ‘e didn’t get the moon in the picter but the light’s there and that’s the great thing—effect, sir, effect! Of course, being only studies, they don’t look finished—which is the most hartisticest part about ‘em! But, lord! Young Har never finishes anything—too tired! ‘Ang me, sir, if I don’t think ‘e were born tired! But then, ‘oo ever knew a haristocrat as wasn’t?”

  “But,” demurred Mr. Stevens, staring down into his empty glass, “I thought ‘e was a American, your—Young Har?”

  “Why, ‘e is and ‘e ain’t, sir. His father was only a American, I’ll confess, but his mother was blue blood, every drop guaranteed, sir, and as truly English as—as I am!”

  “And is ‘e the Mr. Ravenslee as is the sportsman? Goes in for boxing, don’t ‘e? Very much fancied as a heavyweight, ain’t ‘e? My governor’s seen him box and says ‘e’s a perfect snorter, by Jove!”

  Mr. Brimberly sighed, and soothed a slightly agitated whisker.

  “Why, yes,” he admitted, “I’m afraid ‘e does box—but only as a ammitoor, Mr. Stevens, strickly as a ammitoor, understand!”

  “And he’s out making a night of it, is ‘e?” enquired Mr. Stevens, leaning back luxuriously and stretching his legs. “Bit of a rip, ain’t ‘e?”

  “A—wot, sir?” enquired Mr. Brimberly with raised brows.

  “Well, very wild, ain’t he—drinks, gambles, and hetceteras, don’t he?”

  “Why, as to that, sir,” answered Mr. Brimberly, dexterously performing on the syphon, “I should answer you, drink ‘e may, gamble ‘e do, hetceteras I won’t answer for, ‘im being the very hacme of respectability though ‘e is a millionaire and young.”

  “And when might you expect ‘im back?”

  “Why, there’s no telling, Mr. Stevens.”

  “Eh?” exclaimed Mr. Stevens, and sat up very suddenly.

  “‘Is movements, sir, is quite—ah—quite metehoric!”

  “My eye!” exclaimed Mr. Stevens, gulping his brandy and soda rather hastily.

  “Metehoric is the only word for it, sir!” pursued Mr. Brimberly with a slow nod. “‘E may drop in on me at any moment, sir!”

  “Why, then,” said his guest, rising, “p’r’aps I’d better be moving?”

  “On the other ‘and,” pursued Mr. Brimberly, smiling and caressing his left whisker, “‘e may be on ‘is way to Hafghanistan or Hasia Minor at this precise moment—’e is that metehoric, lord! These millionaires is much of a muchness, sir, ‘ere to-day, gone to-morrer. Noo York this week, London or Paris the next. Young Har is always upsetting my plans, ‘e is, and that’s a fact, sir! Me being a nat’rally quiet, reasonable, and law-abiding character, I objects to youthful millionaires on principle, Mr. Stevens, on principle!”

  “Ditto!” nodded Mr. Stevens, his glance wandering uneasily to the door again, “ditto with all my ‘eart, sir. If it’s all the same to you, I think p’r’aps I’d better be hopping—you know—”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about Young Har; ‘e won’t bother us to-night; ‘e’s off Long Island way to try his newest ‘igh-power racing car—’e’s driving in the Vanderbilt Cup Race next month. To-night ‘e expects to do eighty miles or so, and ‘opes to sleep at one of ‘is clubs. I say ‘e ‘opes an’ expects so to do!”

  “Yes,” nodded Mr. Stevens, “certainly, but what do you mean?”

  “Sir,” sighed Mr. Brimberly, “if you’d been forced by stern dooty to sit be’ind Young Har in a fast automobile as I ‘ave, you’d know what I mean. Reckless? Speed? Well, there!” and Mr. Brimberly lifted hands and eyes and shook his head until his whiskers vibrated with horror.

  “Then you’re pretty sure,” said Mr. Stevens, settling luxurious boots upon a cushioned chair, “you’re pretty sure he won’t come bobbing up when least expected?”

  “Pretty sure!” nodded Mr. Brimberly. “You see, this nooest car is the very latest thing in racing cars—cost a fortune, consequently it’s bound to break down—these here expensive cars always do, believe me!”

  “Why, then,” said Mr. Stevens, helping himself to one of Mr. Brimberly’s master’s cigars, “I say let joy and ‘armony be unconfined! How about Jenkins and ‘is banjer?”

  “I’ll call ‘im up immediate!” nodded Mr. Brimberly, rising. “Mr. Jenkins is a true hartist, equally facetious and soulful, sir!”

  So saying, Mr. Brimberly arose and crossed toward the telephone. But scarcely had he taken three steps when he paused suddenly and stood rigid and motionless, his staring gaze fixed upon the nearest window; for from the shadowy world beyond came a sound, faint as yet and far away, but a sound there was no mistaking—the dismal tooting of an automobile horn.

  “‘Eavens an’ earth!” exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, and crossing to the window he peered out. Once again the horn was heard, but very much nearer now, and louder, whereupon Mr. Brimberly turned, almost hastily, and his visitor rose hurriedly.

  “It’s very annoying, Mr. Stevens,” said he, “but can I trouble you to—to step—er—down—stairs—_with_ the glasses? It’s ‘ighly mortifying, but may I ask you to—er—step a little lively, Mr. Stevens?”

  Without a word, Mr. Stevens caught up the tray from the piano and glided away on his toe-points; whereupon Mr. Brimberly (being alone) became astonishingly agile and nimble all at once, diving down to straighten a rug here and there, rearranging chairs and tables; he even opened the window and hurled two half-smoked cigars far out into the night; and his eye was as calm, his brow as placid, his cheek as rosy as ever, only his whiskers—those snowy, telltale whiskers, quivered spasmodically, very mu
ch as though endeavouring to do the manifestly impossible and flutter away with Mr. Brimberly altogether; yes, it was all in his whiskers.

  Thus did Mr. Brimberly bustle softly to and fro until he paused, all at once, arrested by the sound of a slow, firm step near by. Then Mr. Brimberly coughed, smoothed his winglike whiskers, and—pulled down his waistcoat for the third time. And lo! even as he did so, the door opened, and the hero of this history stood upon the threshold.

  CHAPTER II

  OF A MOURNFUL MILLIONAIRE WHO LACKED AN OBJECT

  Geoffrey Ravenslee was tall and pale and very languid, so languid indeed that the automobile coat he bore across his arm slipped to the floor ere Mr. Brimberly could take it, after which he shed his cap and goggles and dropped them, drew off his gauntlets and dropped them and, crossing to his favourite lounge chair, dropped himself into it, and lay there staring into the fire.

  “Ah, Brimberly,” he sighed gently, “making a night of it?”

  “Why, sir,” bowed his butler, “indeed, sir—to tell the truth, sir—”

  “You needn’t, Brimberly. Excellent cigars you smoke—judging from the smell. May I have one?”

  “Sir,” said Brimberly, his whiskers slightly agitated, “cigars, sir?”

  “In the cabinet, I think,” and Mr. Ravenslee motioned feebly with one white hand towards the tall, carved cabinet in an adjacent corner.

  Mr. Brimberly coughed softly behind plump fingers.

  “The—the key, sir?” he suggested.

  “Oh, not at all necessary, Brimberly; the lock is faulty, you know.”

  “Sir?” said Brimberly, soothing a twitching whisker.

  “If you are familiar with the life of the Fourteenth Louis, Brimberly, you will remember that the Grand Monarch hated to be kept waiting—so do I. A cigar—in the cabinet yonder.”

  With his whiskers in a high state of agitation, Mr. Brimberly laid by the garments he held clutched in one arm and coming to the cabinet, opened it, and taking thence a box of cigars, very much at random, came back, carrying it rather as though it were a box of highly dangerous explosives, and setting it at his master’s elbow, struck a match.