The transactions of Oliver Prince

Chapter 1

Young Oliver Prince, late Midshipman in the Royal Naval Reserve, was marching very rapidly up and down one of the busiest streets in Bournsea. He wore a dark blue suit and a light cloth cap perched jauntily at the true Beatty angle. His hands were thrust deep down into his pockets, and there was a frown—rather a comical frown—on his forehead. In point of fact he was indignant and angry. A few minutes before, he had been watching a white schooner sail gracefully out of the harbour. The schooner, he knew, belonged to the Duke of Kirkaldy, who, according to the news¬ papers, was proposing to cruise slowly up the East Coast—an ideal holiday; whereas he, Oliver Prince, was fated next Monday to begin a dull commercial career in a bank.

Mr. Prince was not merely indignant and angry; he was inclined to be mutinous. The grandson of General Sir Oswald Prince, V.C., a hero whose name appeared in every modern History of England, forced to earn a paltry two pounds a week in a wretched little seaside bank! It was humiliating and—unnatural.

“Beastly,” said Mr. Prince for the twentieth time, and increased his pace.

It was all so cruelly unexpected and unfair; un¬ expected because, hitherto, things had always gone so well for him, and unfair because—well, to be handi¬ capped in this way through no fault of your own was unfair. His old messmates were not being forced to accept fifth-rate positions. Stevens and Pumphrey had obtained regular commissions in the Navy. The Honourable Lavery Doune in all probability had more money than he could possibly spend. Ashley had gone into his father’s business, and owned a fine car. Yet for himself nothing better could be found than this clerkship in a miserable bank.

He uttered a picturesque curse which he had first heard in Cape Town during a memorable cruise in H.M.S. King Henry. It really was beastly, all the beastlier because although people were constantly tak¬ ing him for twenty-two or even twenty-three, his real age was nineteen years and one month. Legally speaking, he was not his own master. Of course no¬ body dared nowadays to treat him as a kid, but-

“Damnable,” said Mr. Prince, and narrowly escaped destruction as a large automobile swept past him.

Couldn’t they understand that Nature had never intended him for any such humdrum career? Hadn’t they realized that his surprising adventures in the war, to say nothing of his ancestry, had totally unfitted him for any such work? A bank for him! For the fellow who had discovered that German spy on board, and been thanked by the Admiral? And a bank in Bournsea of all places, where nothing ever happened and dancing was considered unseemly! Yet as things were, he would be expected to go to that bank at the same hour every morning, and sit at the same desk, and fill up columns in ridiculous ledgers! Why, surely, they must understand-

They did understand, and that was the worst of it. Both his mother and old Mr. Waynflete under¬ stood, but were powerless to help. Money was wanted, and, according to them, he was really in luck to obtain any job at all. Money was so badly wanted that his mother had been forced to take a lodger into their tiny house in a side street.

A lodger, if you please! And before the war they had been living in that jolly house on the hills out¬ side Sandmouth, with a garden and a workshop and servants. Mr. Waynflete, of course, was not the ordinary lodger. He was a friend of long standing and a delightful old gentleman when you came to know him; but it ought never to have been necessary to take a lodger at all. In a decently-ordered world, they would have been able to buy a fine mansion in the country, and keep.a car: as things were, his mother could barely manage to pay the weekly bills, and there was only that forty pounds of his own in the savingsbanks.

And a black future.

Yet only a short time ago he had been dreaming of the day when a certain Admiral Sir Oliver Prince, K.C.B. (with a shadowy Lady Prince on his arm) would be escorting his mother, freed from all her financial troubles, into some such castle as that Duke with the yacht probably possessed.

Suddenly he stopped, and stared blankly ahead. He had reached the end of the narrow street, and what was generally allowed to be the dirtiest harbour in England had come into view again. In front of him two fishermen were arguing indelicately about football. Away on the horizon a yawl was crossing the line. A tug was getting up steam near to that old submarine which was waiting to be scrapped. Young Prince, however, was not noticing these things. An eager look had come into his face. A new and startling Idea had broken into his thoughts. He lifted up his head and smiled at the skies. Then with a happy chuckle he rushed on to the quay, and sat down, and allowed his legs to dangle over the edge, and gazed down at the oily waters below. . . .

At first things were vague, and the Idea seemed to be hidden behind a job lot of old memories. He found himself thinking of a lighthouse to which, years ago, he had gone with his father. He had been mightily thrilled, but spoilt an otherwise excellent day by stupidly falling down its narrow stairway. He ought to have broken his neck, but miraculously he had escaped with a few bruises. Then he seemed to be in that ghastly railway accident which had killed his father and left him unharmed. That picture, however, quickly faded, and Mr. Waynflete seemed to be telling him stories of adventure. An incident at school intervened, and he saw himself winning that final round in the boxing competition. They had told him that he possessed not the smallest chance, and of course it had been a lucky blow of his; but he had won the competition, and it had been the proudest moment of his life. Well—almost. The affair with the spy had perhaps been more thrilling. That, too, had been lucky, although the Admiral had told him that he deserved his luck. As Ashley had remarked, he had been devilish cunning. . . . Then those old memories seemed to be changing into visions of the future. Admiral Sir Oliver Prince, K.C.B., had been blotted out, but in his place there were other Oliver Princes—financial magnates or statesmen or peers. It seemed that there might be a Lord Bournsea who married a very beautiful girl (the face indistinct but surprisingly lovely), and lived in a marble house with billiard rooms and a swimming-bath and other luxurious delights. And then, as the Idea showed signs of becoming concrete, the marble house faded away to show him the King Henry after that scrap off the coast of Spain. The Captain was saying that he, Prince, had the luck of the devil. By rights he ought to have been killed, or at least badly wounded, but he had come through untouched. Well, he was one of the lucky ones, and he had only to trust to his luck to

win through in life. Which meant-

It meant mutiny. Or, rather, it meant striking out for himself. The war had taught him to depend on his own wits. He could be devilish cunning when he chose. Ashley had said so. Besides, it stood to reason that he understood himself better than did Mr. Waynflete or old Carstairs who had offered him the clerkship. Naturally his mother understood very little about these matters. Two pounds a week would help

her, of course, but if he were to go his own way-

A bank-clerk? It was ridiculous. The Idea refused definitely to have anything to do with a bank except as a place where he could put the large sums of money he was going to earn by his wits. It re¬ fused to sanction any monotonous regime. It insisted on adventure and excitement and—well, that sort of thing.

“I’ve been forgetting my luck,” he muttered. ‘Til —I’ll go up to London. To-morrow or Monday. Something ’ll turn up. It's got to!”

He looked very fierce for a moment, and then laughed out aloud. . . .

No doubt it was all most improper. Love of ad¬ venture may be the prerogative of youth, but if you are called on to support your mother, and there hap¬ pens to be a vacancy in the bank round the corner, your duty seems clear. You must go to that bank, and work hard, and take your fill of adventure in¬ expensively at the Picture Palaces. This, indeed, was the view taken by Mr. Waynflete that evening, when at a Council of Three Mr. Prince coolly an¬ nounced his intention of going to London “to have a look round” before burying himself in a bank.

“It’s sheer madness,” said the old gentleman.

But Mr. Prince had come to the Council well primed. He had spent most of the afternoon sitting by himself on the cliffs, dreaming delightfully, it is true, of the rosiest future, but at the same time busily elaborating arguments which would have weight. His friends would help. There was Lavinia, for instance, the Honourable Lavery Doune, Lord Bellchester’s eldest son. In the King Henry he had been able to do L&vinia a good turn: well, help might be forth¬ coming from that quarter. Ashley, moreover, might be of assistance, and, if need be, he would go to the Admiral himself at Whitehall. The Admiral liked him. And it wasn’t as if he were asking his mother to pay for this visit to London. He would be sup¬ porting himself, and would even be helping by his absence from Bournsea. Naturally it didn’t cost so much to feed two people as it did to feed three.

“I’ve thought it all out,” he told Mr. Waynflete. “I may not earn much at the beginning, but after¬ wards when I’ve met the right people-”

“It’s nonsense,” said the old gentleman.

Mrs. Prince, a kindly unpretentious woman, for¬ ever in a state of wonder at her handsome and brilliant and surprisingly adult son, was trying to understand. There were times in the past when Oliver had been “difficult,” although no woman could have asked for a more affectionate son. But what was she to say of this new scheme of his? Was it really as mad as Mr. Waynflete seemed to think? The boy, so far, had done exceedingly well, and he had depended upon nothing but his own personality. She, too, had looked forward to a distinguished naval career for him, but when circumstances had made that impossible and her old friend Louis Carstairs had offered to take the boy into his bank, she had thanked Providence for the chance. Now, however, Oliver seemed doubtful about the bank, and she was prepared to believe him when he said that he could do very much better in London. On the other hand Mr.

Waynflete was definitely against any such project, and there was Louis Carstairs to consider.

“I think, you know,” she remarked, “Mr. Carstairs might be offended.”

“Mr. Carstairs,” said her son loftily, as he smoothed his fair hair, “means well, but he doesn’t understand. If you’ve been in the Navy-”

“But, look here, my boy,” interrupted Mr. Wayn¬ flete, “d’you realize there’s more unemployment in London than anywhere else?”

The boy looked at him, and there was a little scorn and considerable affection in his tones as he replied. “You needn’t have a regular job to make money. If you’re lucky, things come your way. Adventure and-”

“Bless my stars, but we’re not living in the eighteenth century. You’re not proposing to become a new sort of highwayman, are you? No, no, no. You must think of the thing soberly. You can’t live on nothing in London. I’ve tried it, and know.” He smiled rather sadly, and stroked his untidy grey beard. Mr. Waynflete was a failure, and knew it. Yet once a distinguished career might have been his. As private secretary to a former Lord Oxney—the Oxneys still reigned not twenty miles from Bournsea —he had had political opportunities of which a man of ambition would have taken advantage, but John Waynflete had always been a dreamy scholar, dis¬ inclined to assert himself, a negative person. Now with an annuity just sufficient for his needs, he spent his days writing a book on heraldry which would never be finished. He was a tired old man who wore shiny black clothes, and whose fingers were stained by tobacco.

“But I shan’t have nothing to live on, Mr. Waynflete, and I mean to get on. I want to meet people and see things. I’m quite old enough to take care of myself, and as soon as I earn any money, I shall come back and give half to mother.”

“Yes, Oliver, but-”

The boy was smiling. “If you’ve been in the Navy,” said he, “you’ve learnt to take risks. And it’s my experience that if you don’t take risks, you won’t get far. I’ve been thinking it all out. It was decent of old Carstairs to offer me the job, and I thought I ought to take it because it did mean some money, but I’d hate the work, and I shouldn’t get pro¬ motion, and—well,” he added, while that comical frown surmounted a pair of very blue eyes, “I’ve definitely made up my mind. I know I shall succeed if I get to know the right people, but here-”

“But it’s suicidal to go up to London on the off chance of—of getting on.” Mr. Waynflete was trying to be angry—a very difficult matter, he gen¬ erally found, with this attractive good-looking boy. “You’ve no business experience. None.”

“No, but I’ve always been lucky.”

The old gentleman put out a hand. “Really, Oliver, you’re talking very stupidly indeed. What has luck to do with the question? Competition is far too keen these days in London for a country boy to make good. Money nowadays doesn’t come from—er, adventure;

it comes from hard solid grind. A bank, of course, isn’t thrilling, after what you’ve been through, but the war is over, and—oh, my dear boy, don’t be pig¬ headed. You’ve nothing-”

“Forty pounds,” corrected Mr. Prince, “and five suits of very good clothes.”

(Yes, he had been right to take that Lieutenant’s advice. Clothes made in Savile Row might prove a lucky investment now that he was not going to bury himself in a Bournsea bank.)

“But don’t you think, dear,” ventured his mother, “you’d better try the bank first?”

“I’ll try the bank,” promised her son, “if I fail.”

Mr. Waynflete continued to protest against so mad a scheme, but the boy had made up his mind. In the time-honoured way he was going to seek his for¬ tune in London, and if luck meant anything at all, and his old cunning had not altogether deserted him, that fortune was going to materialize somehow or other.

It was not perhaps a very dreadful mutiny, and when Mr. Carstairs was told, he did not seem as upset as Mr. Prince privately considered that he should have been. But the banker had known the youngster for years, and could not forget one or two practical jokes. Moreover he was not at all sure that the Navy in war-time was a good preparation for work in a bank. In any case, as he laughingly told Mrs. Prince, the boy was bound to get on.

“You really think so?” At this time Mrs. Prince was not attempting to conceal her anxiety.

THE TRANSACTIONS OF OLIVER PRINCE n

“Of course I do. With a face like that, what finer letter of introduction does he want?”

On the other hand Mr. Waynflete prophesied disas¬ ter, and when Mr. Prince slyly remarked that it was the old gentleman who had first given him a taste for adventure, he shut himself up in his room, and pre¬ tended to sulk.

But when the actual moment of departure arrived on the Monday morning, he seemed just as excited as the boy himself.

“And if you get into trouble,” said he with a chuckle, “just send a wire.”

Mr. Prince assumed an air of great dignity. “I’m not going to London to get into trouble,” he replied. “I’m going to make money.”

His mother was trying to smile. She was thinking of the day when Oliver had first left her to join his ship. “Write every day,” she whispered, and pressed three pound notes into his hand.

Mr. Prince felt that he had already become almost a millionaire.

Chapter II

It is recorded that an enterprising young man once hired a plainly furnished office in the City and the services of a very small boy. He caused his name to be printed in large letters on the glazed door, and— waited for something to happen. For a week he dozed peacefully enough during office-hours, and the boy devoured a larger number of gory romances than he could usually manage in the time. There were occa¬ sional visitors, but all of them were strictly uncom¬ mercial. The young man had no particular notion as to the kind of business that he wished to transact, but hoped for the best. Then one day a South American gentleman called and mistook him for an importer of Dutch bulbs. He did not immediately discover his mistake. The young man duly imported bulbs, and from that moment never looked back. He finished a blameless career in the House of Lords.

Now Mr. Prince was firmly resolved to make his fortune in London, but details of any methods which he proposed to adopt had not yet presented themselves. Money would flow into his coffers somehow or other, but just how or by what agency this agreeable phe¬ nomenon was to take place, he did not know. It was enough that he had definitely cut himself off from the bank. Things, he felt, would just happen. They al- 12 ways had happened. He was one of the lucky ones. He would just find himself embarked on some curious adventure, and then he would draw on that cunning of his, and rake in the shekels.

And as luck would have it, adventure began less than half an hour after he had left Bournsea.

As the train glided out of the station, it seemed to him incredible that he had ever agreed to work in a bank. Here he was a gentleman at large—in a thirdclass compartment, it was true, but at Oxney Junction he had every intention of changing into a first. Every¬ thing was to be of the best. And once again he could believe in his own star. He was completely his own master. . . .

Yes, there was Sandmouth, that grey speck away to the right, and in a few minutes’ time he would be hurtling through its station. Then a straight run to Oxney, where he would change into the London ex¬ press, and then-

At Oxney Junction something extraordinary happened.

To reach the London train he was obliged to cross by a subway. He was about to submit his ticket for inspection when the stationmaster happened to see him, and in defiance of all etiquette, seized hold of the small bag he was carrying, and with extreme politeness hur¬ ried him to the train.

“Just in nice time, my lord,” said he, as he opened the door of a first-class smoking compartment in which a smartly-dressed young man was sitting; “and your other luggage, my lord?”

Afterwards Mr. Prince considered that he had be¬ haved very coolly.

A porter, he explained, had his other bag. Yes, this was a most comfortable carriage. The day could not have been finer, and with reasonable luck they might hope to be at Waterloo upon time. A shilling was about to change hands when it occurred to him that a half-crown might better fit the occasion.

The stationmaster was obviously delighted, and showed no signs of departing. “And her ladyship?” he inquired. “I hope she is well, my lord?”

Mr. Prince could not help noticing that the young man opposite was showing interest. “Very well, thank you,” he replied, and silently hoped that the train would start without delay.

“You must excuse me, my lord,” the stationmaster was continuing, “but we always say here that no one could believe the Countess of Oxney was your mother.”

Mr. Prince smiled as naturally as he could. Even outside Oxney, he was thinking, there were numbers of people who would never have believed that the Countess was his mother. But it was necessary to say something. The young man, he could see, was listening. “My mother,” he admitted, “does keep sur¬ prisingly young.” He took up his Daily Pictorial, and the stationmaster perceived that he had been dismissed.

“Good morning, my lord, and thank you.”

The door was closed, a whistle was blown, and the London express started upon its hundred mile run.

Mr. Prince looked at a picture of maidens pretend¬ ing to bathe, but his thoughts were elsewhere. My lord this and my lord that, and his mother the Countess : why, it was all like a lopsided dream! How on earth had it happened? He had never before been taken for that young Earl of Oxney who only a few months ago had been celebrating his coming-of-age. But was he so like the fellow? He supposed he must be, and smiled. It was rather good fun to be taken for an earl, and his thoughts twined themselves into an absurd little phantasy of the future, when he would really be the Earl of Bournsea, travelling first-class as a matter of course, and having stationmasters to carry his luggage. And then it seemed as though he had really and miraculously been transformed, and actually was a young peer—in fact Lord Oxney himself, who was popularly supposed to have almost as much money as the Duke of Kirkaldy himself. And this young peer, of course, was going to London to speak in the House of Lords, or to visit his vast properties in Mayfair. He would stay at the Ritz or the Savoy, and drink the most expensive wines, and order as many suits of clothes as he liked, and dance every night. . . . It was really rather a pity that the carriage contained only one other passenger. But so long as somebody

was there- “My name? Oh, er, Lord Oxney.”

That was what he would say, should they get into con¬ versation. He was not likely to meet the young man again, so a little deception wouldn’t matter.

And how amused Mr. Waynflete would have been! The old boy had actually spent years of his life at Oxney Towers.

It was the greatest fun, even though there was no possible chance of the stationmaster at Waterloo mak¬ ing the same mistake.

Mr. Prince mechanically turned over the pages of his newspaper, and with a little shock realized that he was looking at a portrait of the Countess of Oxney herself. What a curious coincidence! His blood seemed to be suddenly tingling. He had not even reached London, and yet already a sort of adventure had begun! He stared at the portrait. At its side was one of “A Society Bird’s” paragraphs.

“Amongst the latest arrivals at the Ritz is the beau¬ tiful Countess of Oxney, who tells me that she is in town for a few weeks before leaving for America. Young Lord Oxney, whose coming-of-age was recently celebrated, prefers his ancestral home to London, and proposes to remain at Oxney Towers for the glorious twelfth.”

Mr. Prince re-read that paragraph half a dozen times, and smiled to himself. Then he looked out of the window, and tried to compose some exciting yarn for La very Doune or one of the others. They would want to hear what he had been doing, and a little exaggeration would do them no harm. Besides-

“Very dusty for motoring.” The young man op¬ posite had suddenly spoken.

Mr. Prince politely agreed.

“Just had a breakdown near—near your place.”

“Bad luck,” said Mr. Prince, remembering in time where his place was.

“Couldn’t help hearing your name, y’know. For¬ tunately found a decent garage. In the trade myself.” He smiled deprecatingly. “Have to do something these days, y’know. Demobbed and all the rest of it. So I opened a garage. London. Hire out cars; that sort of thing. Any old hour. Pays, too.”

“Ah!” Mr. Prince continued to show a polite interest. “So you hire out cars?”

“Here’s my card. Might come in handy, y’know. Never know your luck, do you?”

Mr. Prince smiled as he took the card. He glanced at it, and learnt that Major Gilbert Farnham guaran¬ teed a car at any hour of the day or night on the most reasonable terms. “Thank you,” said he, as he put the card into his pocket. “I often do want a car.” Then he turned his head, and looked out of the win¬ dow again. He was aware that Major Farnham wanted to continue the conversation, but there were important matters to decide. Another Idea had pre¬ sented itself; a bold Idea. In Bournsea he had made no definite plans where he should stay in London. The Ashleys might put him up, but they were often out of town, and in any case he would feel freer in a hotel. But—which? There were, he knew, very cheap hotels in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury, but —if he were to go, well, why not?—if he were to go to the Ritz, he might possibly meet this beautiful Countess, and perhaps be able to tell her of the absurd mistake that had been made, and interest her, and in some way or other to manage to-

The best people would certainy choose the Ritz in preference to Bloomsbury.

‘I’ll go,” said he to himself. “Hang the expense.”

And so it happened that about four o’clock that afternoon a taxicab drew up in Arlington Street and deposited Mr. Oliver Prince at the Ritz Hotel. He allowed a gorgeous being to take his bags, and walked into the hall. An attic, he had decided, would suit him, and there was no necessity to feed in the hotel. He would stay a few days and trust to luck. Yes, here he was in London, at the smartest of London hotels, an ex-naval officer with crisp bank-notes in his pocket. There was no need to be nervous. He was not nervous; not nervous at all. He had come up to London to seek-

“Roddy, what on earth are you doing here?”

The boy turned. A tall beautifully-dressed woman had come up to him, and was staring. Then she uttered a little cry. “Oh, I’m—I’m so sorry. I thought . . .” She seemed half-amused, half-frightened. “Do ex¬ cuse me, but I thought you were my—somebody else.”

He smiled. “I was taken for Lord Oxney a few hours ago,” he said.

“Taken for Roddy? But-” She stopped and

turned to look at a dark man who was watching them from a seat nearby. “You know,” she said with a nervous laugh, “I don’t know who you are. I’m Lady Oxney. I—it seems so . . . Who took you for Roddy?” she demanded.

“The stationmaster at Oxney Junction.” Mr.

Prince was feeling slightly uncomfortable. The attendants were obviously waiting for instructions. A man in a frock coat had come out of the reception-office, and was hovering uncertainly a yard or two away.

“Oh, but—my dear boy—I mean—are you staying in the hotel?”

“Yes, for a day or two.”

Again she was staring into his face. “Extraor¬ dinary,” she murmured, and then jerked up her head, looked at the dark man again, seemed to be in doubt what to say or do, and finally laughed out aloud. Mr. Prince grinned. He, too, was in doubt as to what he should do. Things were happening too quickly even for him. Lady Oxney, he thought, certainy did not look old enough to be his mother, particularly when she was laughing. He admired her grey dress and the way she had done her hair. And there she was, the Countess of Oxney, staring at him! He would have to say something, but—what?

“You know, I don’t—I don’t know what you must think of me, but—they’ll be wanting to take your luggage upstairs. Couldn’t you—why, of course you could!” She had brushed a hand over her hair. “Couldn’t you just wait a minute before you settle things? I’ve—I’ve had the most extraordi¬ nary idea. Yes, just wait here, will you? Do you mind? I’ll explain in a moment. It’s so odd, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” agreed Mr. Prince awkwardly. What was going to happen now?

“But I can’t-” She stared at the frock-coated

man, and waved him imperiously away. Then she ordered the gorgeous attendant to put down the bags. “Do please sit down for a moment. I want She seemed to become suddenly vague, but her fingers were pointing to a chair, and as in a dream Mr. Prince sat down. He saw her turn away and walk up to the man who had been watching. He knew they were talking about him. He thought:

“It isn’t me. It’s somebody else. I shall wake up.”

Then he lit a cigarette, and looked about him.

He had come to London to make money—money for a new house and dresses for his mother as splendid as the one which this strange Lady Oxney was wear¬ ing. “Money,” he muttered to himself, and remem¬ bered that he was devilish cunning. An adventure had begun. . . .