The Green Overcoat . Hilaire Belloc

Kirby looked more chirpy than ever.

      "I didn't say your ideas were right; I don't think they are. I said that if you had those ideas it was nonsense to send him to Cambridge. Why shouldn't he drink? Why shouldn't he gamble? What 's the harm?"

      "What 's the——?" began John Brassington, with a flash in his eyes.

      "Well, well," said Kirby soothingly, "I don't say it 's the best thing in the world. What I mean is you emphasise too much. You know you do. Anyhow, John, it doesn't much matter; it 'll all come right."

      He stared at the fire, then added—

      "Now, why can't I get coals to burn like that? Nothing but pure white ash!"

      He leant forward with a grunt, stirred the fire deliberately, and watched the ash with admiration as it fell.

      "Kirby," said John Brassington, "it will break my heart!"

      "No it won't!" said Mr. Kirby cheerfully.

      "I tell you it will!" replied the other with irritation, as though the breaking of the heart were an exasperating matter. "And one thing I am determined on—determined——" The merchant hesitated, and then broke out abruptly in a loud voice, "Do you know that I have paid his gambling debts four times regularly? Regularly with every summer term?"

      "It does you honour, John," said Mr. Kirby.

      "Ah, then," said Mr. Brassington, with a sudden curious mixture of cunning and firmness in his voice, "I haven't paid the last, though!"

      "Oh, you haven't?" said Mr. Kirby, looking up. He smelt complications.

      "No, I haven't …! I gave him fair warning," said the elderly merchant, setting his mouth as squarely as possible, but almost sobbing in his heart. "Besides which it 's ruinous."

      "I wonder if he gave the young bloods fair warning?" mused Mr. Kirby. "Last Grand National——"

      "Oh, Lord, Charles!" burst out Mr. Brassington, uncontrollable. "D'ye know what, what that cub shot me for? Curse it all, Kirby, two thousand pounds!"

      "The devil!" said Charles Kirby.

      "It is the Devil," said John Brassington emphatically.

      And it was, though he little knew it, for it was in that very moment that the Enemy of Mankind was at work outside in the hall upon the easy material of Professor Higginson. It was in that very moment that the Green Overcoat was enclosing the body of the Philosopher, and was setting out on its adventures from Sir John Perkin's roof. Even as Mr, Brassington spoke these words the outer door slammed. Kirby, looking up, suddenly said—

      "I say, they 're going! What about your train?"

      "There 's plenty of time," said Brassington wearily, "it 's only twelve. Do listen to what I am saying."

      "I 'm listening," said Kirby respectfully.

      "Well," went on Mr. Brassington, "there 's the long and the short of it, I won't pay."

      Mr. Kirby poked the fire.

      "The thing to do," he said at last in a meditative sort of tone, "is to go down and give the young cubs Hell!"

      "I don't understand you, Charles," said Mr. Brassington quietly; "I simply don't understand you. I was written to and I hope I replied with dignity. I was written to again, and I answered in a final manner. I will not pay."

      "I have no doubt you did," said Mr. Kirby. "It 's a curious thing how eagerly a young man will take to expectations!"

      "You simply don't know what you 're saying, Charles," answered Mr. Brassington; "and if I didn't know you as well as I do, I 'd walk out of the room."

      "I know what I am saying exactly," riposted Mr. Kirby with as much heat as his quizzical countenance would allow. "I was going to follow it up if you hadn't interrupted me. I say it 's a curious thing how a young man will be moved by expectations. That 's why they gamble. Thank God, I never married! They like to see something and work for it. That 's why they gamble. You won't understand me, John," he said, putting up a hand to save an interruption; "but that 's why when I was a boy my father put me into the office and said that if I worked hard something or other would happen, something general and vague—esteem, good conscience, or some footling thing called success."

      "I wish you wouldn't say 'footling,'" interjected John Brassington gravely.

      "I didn't," answered Mr. Kirby without changing a muscle, "it 's a horrible word. Anyhow, if my dad had said to me, 'Charles, my boy, there 's £100 for you in March if you keep hours, but if you 're late once not a farthing,' by God, John, I 'd have worked like a nigger!"

      Mr. Brassington looked at the fire and thought, without much result.

      "I can't pay it, Charles, and I won't," he said at last. "I 've said I wouldn't, and that 's enough. I have written and said I wouldn't, and that 's more. But even if I had said nothing and had written nothing, I wouldn't pay. He must learn his lesson."

      "Oh, he 'll learn that all right!" said Mr. Kirby carelessly. "He 's learning it now like the devil. It 's an abominable shame, mind you, and I don't mind telling you so. I 've a good mind to send him the money myself."

      "If you do, Charles," said John Brassington, with one of his fierce looks, "I 'll, I 'll——"

      "Yes, that's what I was afraid of," said Mr. Kirby thoughtfully. "You 're an exceedingly difficult man to deal with. … I shouldn't have charged him more than five per cent. You 'll lose your train, John."

      John Brassington looked at his watch again.

      "You haven't been much use to me, Charles," he said, sighing as he rose.

      "Yes, I have, John," said Mr. Kirby, rising in his turn. "What do you do with your evening clothes when you run up to town by the night train like this?"

      "I change at my rooms in town when I get in, Charles," said Mr. Brassington severely, "you know that as well as I do—and I wear my coat up to town."

      "They say you wear it in bed," was Mr. Kirby's genial answer. "I 'll come out and help you on with it, and we 'll start."

      The two men came out from the smoking-room into the hall. They found a number of guests crowding for their cloaks and hats. They heard the noise of wheels upon the drive outside.

      "I told you how it would be, John," said Mr. Kirby. "You won't be able to get through that crush. You won't get your coat in time, and you 'll miss the train."

      "That's where you 're wrong, Charles," said Mr. Brassington, with a look of infinite organising power. "I always leave my coat in the same one place in every house I know."

      He made directly for the door, where a large and sleepy servant was mounting guard, stumbled to a peg that stood in the entry, and discovered that the coat was gone.

      There followed a very curious scene.

      The entry was somewhat dark. It was only lit from the hall beyond. Mr. Kirby, looking at his friend as that friend turned round from noting his loss, was astonished to see his face white—so white that it seemed too clearly visible in the dark corner, and it was filled with a mixture of sudden fear and sudden anger. From that face came a low cry rather than a phrase—

      "It's gone, Charles!"

      The louty servant started. Luckily none of the guests heard. Mr. Kirby moved up quickly and put his hand on Brassington's arm.

      "Now, do manage yourself, John," he said. "What 's gone?"

      "My Green Overcoat!" gasped Mr. Brassington in the same low tone passionately.

      "Well?"

      "Well! You say 'well'—you don't understand!"

      "Yes, I do, John," said Mr. Kirby, with a sort of tenderness in his voice. "I understand perfectly. Come back here with me. Be sensible."

      "I