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Page 37
Jarvis, the bootmaker, belonged to a rapidly disappearing class
of British tradesmen. He buckled to no one, but took an artistic
pride in his own handiwork, criticism from a layman merely
provoking a scornful anger which had lost Jarvis many good
customers.
He was engaged, at the moment of the page's entrance, in a little
fitting room at the back of his cramped premises, but through the
doorway the boy could see the red, bespectacled face with its
fringe of bristling white beard, in which he detected all the
tokens of brewing storm. He whistled softly in self-sympathy.
"Yes, sir," Jarvis was saying to an invisible patron, "it's a
welcome sight to see a real Englishman walk into my shop
nowadays. London isn't London, sir, since the war, and the Strand
will never be the Strand again." He turned to his assistant, who
stood beside him, bootjack in hand. "If he sends them back
again," he directed, "tell him to go to one of the French firms
in Regent Street who cater to dainty ladies." He positively
snorted with indignation, while the page, listening, whistled
again and looked down at the parcel which he carried.
"An unwelcome customer, Jarvis?" inquired the voice of the man in
the fitting room.
"Quite unwelcome," said Jarvis. "I don't want him. I have more
work than I know how to turn out. I wish he would go elsewhere. I
wish--"
He paused. He had seen the page boy. The latter, having undone
his parcel, was holding out a pair of elegant, fawn-coloured
shoes.
"Great Moses!" breathed Jarvis. "He's had the cheek to send them
back again!"
"His excellency--" began the page, when Jarvis snatched the shoes
from his hand and hurled them to the other end of the shop. His
white beard positively bristled.
"Tell his excellency," he shouted, "to go to the devil, with my
compliments!"
So positively ferocious was his aspect that the boy, with
upraised arm, backed hastily out into the street. Safety won:
"Blimey!" exclaimed the youth. "He's the warm goods, he is!"
He paused for several moments, staring in a kind of stupefied
admiration at the closed door of Mr. Jarvis's establishment. He
whistled again, softly, and then began to run--for the formidable
Mr. Jarvis suddenly opened the door. "Hi, boy!" he called to the
page. The page hesitated, glancing back doubtfully. "Tell his
excellency that I will send round in about half an hour to
remeasure his foot."
"D'you mean it?" inquired the boy, impudently--"or is there a
catch in it?"
"I'll tan your hide, my lad!" cried the bootmaker--"and I mean
that! Take my message and keep your mouth shut."
The boy departed, grinning, and little more than half an hour
later a respectable-looking man presented himself at Savoy Court,
inquiring of the attendant near the elevator for the apartments
of "his excellency," followed by an unintelligible word which
presumably represented "Ormuz Khan." The visitor wore a
well-brushed but threadbare tweed suit, although his soft collar
was by no means clean. He had a short, reddish-brown beard, and
very thick, curling hair of the same hue protruded from beneath a
bowler hat which had seen long service.
Like Mr. Jarvis, he was bespectacled, and his teeth were much
discoloured and apparently broken in front, as is usual with
cobblers. His hands, too, were toil-stained and his nails very
black. He carried a cardboard box. He seemed to be extremely
nervous, and this nervousness palpably increased when the
impudent page, who was standing in the lobby, giggled on hearing
his inquiry.
"He's second floor," said the youth. "Are you from Hot-Stuff
Jarvis?"
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