Gilbert K. Chesterton: The Club of Queer Trades (1905)
The Tremendous Adventures of Major Brown
Rabelais, or his wild illustrator Gustave Doré, must have had
something to do with the designing of the things called flats
in England and America. There is something entirely Gargantuan
in the idea of economising space by piling houses on top of
each other, front doors and all. And in the chaos and
complexity of those perpendicular streets anything may dwell or
happen, and it is in one of them, I believe, that the inquirer
may find the offices of the Club of Queer Trades. It may be
thought at the first glance that the name would attract and
startle the passer-by, but nothing attracts or startles in
these dim immense hives. The passer-by is only looking for his
own melancholy destination, the Montenegro Shipping Agency or
the London office of the Rutland Sentinel, and passes through
the twilight passages as one passes through the twilight
corridors of a dream. If the Thugs set up a Strangers'
Assassination Company in one of the great buildings in Norfolk
Street, and sent in a mild man in spectacles to answer
inquiries, no inquiries would be made. And the Club of Queer
Trades reigns in a great edifice hidden like a fossil in a
mighty cliff of fossils.
The nature of this society, such as we afterwards discovered
it to be, is soon and simply told. It is an eccentric and
Bohemian Club, of which the absolute condition of membership
lies in this, that the candidate must have invented the method
by which he earns his living. It must be an entirely new trade.
The exact definition of this requirement is given in the two
principal rules. First, it must not be a mere application or
variation of an existing trade. Thus, for instance, the Club
would not admit an insurance agent simply because instead of
insuring men's furniture against being burnt in a fire, he
insured, let us say, their trousers against being torn by a mad
dog. The principle (as Sir Bradcock Burnaby-Bradcock, in the
extraordinarily eloquent and soaring speech to the club on the
occasion of the question being raised in the Stormby Smith
affair, said wittily and keenly) is the same. Secondly, the
trade must be a genuine commercial source of income, the
support of its inventor. Thus the Club would not receive a man
simply because he chose to pass his days collecting broken
sardine tins, unless he could drive a roaring trade in them.
Professor Chick made that quite clear. And when one remembers
what Professor Chick's own new trade was, one doesn't know
whether to laugh or cry.
The discovery of this strange society was a curiously
refreshing thing; to realize that there were ten new trades in
the world was like looking at the first ship or the first
plough. It made a man feel what he should feel, that he was
still in the childhood of the world. That I should have come at
last upon so singular a body was, I may say without vanity, not
altogether singular, for I have a mania for belonging to as
many societies as possible: I may be said to collect clubs, and
I have accumulated a vast and fantastic variety of specimens
ever since, in my audacious youth, I collected the Athenaeum.
At some future day, perhaps, I may tell tales of some of the
other bodies to which I have belonged. I will recount the
doings of the Dead Man's Shoes Society (that superficially
immoral, but darkly justifiable communion); I will explain the
curious origin of the Cat and Christian, the name of which has
been so shamefully misinterpreted; and the world shall know at
last why the Institute of Typewriters coalesced with the Red
Tulip League. Of the Ten Teacups, of course I dare not say a
word. The first of my revelations, at any rate, shall be
concerned with the Club of Queer Trades, which, as I have said,
was one of this class, one which I was almost bound to come
across sooner or later, because of my singular hobby. The wild
youth of the metropolis call me facetiously `The King of
Clubs'. They also call me `The Cherub', in allusion to the
roseate and youthful appearance I have presented in my
declining years. I only hope the spirits in the better world
have as good dinners as I have. But the finding of the Club of
Queer Trades has one very curious thing about it. The most
curious thing about it is that it was not discovered by me; it
was discovered by my friend Basil Grant, a star-gazer, a
mystic, and a man who scarcely stirred out of his attic.
Very few people knew anything of Basil; not because he was in
the least unsociable, for if a man out of the street had walked
into his rooms he would have kept him talking till morning. Few
people knew him, because, like all poets, he could do without
them; he welcomed a human face as he might welcome a sudden
blend of colour in a sunset; but he no more felt the need of
going out to parties than he felt the need of altering the
sunset clouds. He lived in a queer and comfortable garret in
the roofs of Lambeth. He was surrounded by a chaos of things
that were in odd contrast to the slums around him; old
fantastic books, swords, armour---the whole dust-hole of
romanticism. But his face, amid all these quixotic relics,
appeared curiously keen and modern---a powerful, legal face.
And no one but I knew who he was.
Long ago as it is, everyone remembers the terrible and
grotesque scene that occurred in---, when one of the most acute
and forcible of the English judges suddenly went mad on the
bench. I had my own view of that occurrence; but about the
facts themselves there is no question at all. For some months,
indeed for some years, people had detected something curious in
the judge's conduct. He seemed to have lost interest in the
law, in which he had been beyond expression brilliant and
terrible as a K.C., and to be occupied in giving personal and
moral advice to the people concerned. He talked more like a
priest or a doctor, and a very outspoken one at that. The first
thrill was probably given when he said to a man who had
attempted a crime of passion: `I sentence you to three years'
imprisonment, under the firm, and solemn, and God-given
conviction, that what you require is three months at the
seaside.' He accused criminals from the bench, not so much of
their obvious legal crimes, but of things that had never been
heard of in a court of justice, monstrous egoism, lack of
humour, and morbidity deliberately encouraged. Things came to a
head in that celebrated diamond case in which the Prime
Minister himself, that brilliant patrician, had to come
forward, gracefully and reluctantly, to give evidence against
his valet. After the detailed life of the household had been
thoroughly exhibited, the judge requested the Premier again to
step forward, which he did with quiet dignity. The judge then
said, in a sudden, grating voice: `Get a new soul. That thing's
not fit for a dog. Get a new soul.' All this, of course, in the
eyes of the sagacious, was premonitory of that melancholy and
farcical day when his wits actually deserted him in open court.
It was a libel case between two very eminent and powerful
financiers, against both of whom charges of considerable
defalcation were brought. The case was long and complex; the
advocates were long and eloquent; but at last, after weeks of
work and rhetoric, the time came for the great judge to give a
summing-up; and one of his celebrated masterpieces of lucidity
and pulverizing logic was eagerly looked for. He had spoken
very little during the prolonged affair, and he looked sad and
lowering at the end of it. He was silent for a few moments, and
then burst into a stentorian song. His remarks (as reported)
were as follows:
`O Rowty-owty tiddly-owty
He then retired from public life and took the garret in Lambeth.
I was sitting there one evening, about six o'clock, over a
glass of that gorgeous Burgundy which he kept behind a pile of
black-letter folios; he was striding about the room, fingering,
after a habit of his, one of the great swords in his
collection; the red glare of the strong fire struck his square
features and his fierce grey hair; his blue eyes were even
unusually full of dreams, and he had opened his mouth to speak
dreamily, when the door was flung open, and a pale, fiery man,
with red hair and a huge furred overcoat, swung himself panting
into the room.
`Sorry to bother you, Basil,' he gasped. `I took a liberty---made an
appointment here with a man---a client---in five minutes---I beg your
pardon, sir,' and he gave me a bow of apology.
Basil smiled at me. `You didn't know,' he said, `that I had a
practical brother. This is Rupert Grant, Esquire, who can and
does all there is to be done. Just as I was a failure at one
thing, he is a success at everything. I remember him as a
journalist, a house-agent, a naturalist, an inventor, a
publisher, a schoolmaster, a---what are you now, Rupert?'
`I am and have been for some time,' said Rupert, with some
dignity, `a private detective, and there's my client.'
A loud rap at the door had cut him short, and, on permission
being given, the door was thrown sharply open and a stout,
dapper man walked swiftly into the room, set his silk hat with
a clap on the table, and said, `Good evening, gentlemen,' with
a stress on the last syllable that somehow marked him out as a
martinet, military, literary and social. He had a large head
streaked with black and grey, and an abrupt black moustache,
which gave him a look of fierceness which was contradicted by
his sad sea-blue eyes.
Basil immediately said to me, `Let us come into the next room,
Gully,' and was moving towards the door, but the stranger said:
`Not at all. Friends remain. Assistance possibly.'
The moment I heard him speak I remembered who he was, a certain
Major Brown I had met years before in Basil's society. I had
forgotten altogether the black dandified figure and the large
solemn head, but I remembered the peculiar speech, which
consisted of only saying about a quarter of each sentence, and
that sharply, like the crack of a gun. I do not know, it may
have come from giving orders to troops.
Major Brown was a V.C., and an able and distinguished soldier,
but he was anything but a warlike person. Like many among the
iron men who recovered British India, he was a man with the
natural beliefs and tastes of an old maid. In his dress he was
dapper and yet demure; in his habits he was precise to the
point of the exact adjustment of a tea-cup. One enthusiasm he
had, which was of the nature of a religion---the cultivation of
pansies. And when he talked about his collection, his blue eyes
glittered like a child's at a new toy, the eyes that had
remained untroubled when the troops were roaring victory round
Roberts at Candahar.
`Well, Major,' said Rupert Grant, with a lordly heartiness,
flinging himself into a chair, `what is the matter with you?'
`Yellow pansies. Coal-cellar. P. G. Northover,' said the Major,
with righteous indignation.
We glanced at each other with inquisitiveness. Basil, who had
his eyes shut in his abstracted way, said simply:
`I beg your pardon.'
`Fact is. Street, you know, man, pansies. On wall. Death to me.
We shook our heads gently. Bit by bit, and mainly by the
seemingly sleepy assistance of Basil Grant, we pieced together
the Major's fragmentary, but excited narration. It would be
infamous to submit the reader to what we endured; therefore I
will tell the story of Major Brown in my own words. But the
reader must imagine the scene. The eyes of Basil closed as in a
trance, after his habit, and the eyes of Rupert and myself
getting rounder and rounder as we listened to one of the most
astounding stories in the world, from the lips of the little
man in black, sitting bolt upright in his chair and talking
like a telegram.
Major Brown was, I have said, a successful soldier, but by no
means an enthusiastic one. So far from regretting his
retirement on half-pay, it was with delight that he took a
small neat villa, very like a doll's house, and devoted the
rest of his life to pansies and weak tea. The thought that
battles were over when he had once hung up his sword in the
little front hall (along with two patent stew-pots and a bad
water-colour), and betaken himself instead to wielding the rake
in his little sunlit garden, was to him like having come into a
harbour in heaven. He was Dutch-like and precise in his taste
in gardening, and had, perhaps, some tendency to drill his
flowers like soldiers. He was one of those men who are capable
of putting four umbrellas in the stand rather than three, so
that two may lean one way and two another; he saw life like a
pattern in a freehand drawing-book. And assuredly he would not
have believed, or even understood, any one who had told him
that within a few yards of his brick paradise he was destined
to be caught in a whirlpool of incredible adventure, such as he
had never seen or dreamed of in the horrible jungle, or the
heat of battle.
One certain bright and windy afternoon, the Major, attired in
his usual faultless manner, had set out for his usual
constitutional. In crossing from one great residential
thoroughfare to another, he happened to pass along one of those
aimless-looking lanes which lie along the back-garden walls of
a row of mansions, and which in their empty and discoloured
appearance give one an odd sensation as of being behind the
scenes of a theatre. But mean and sulky as the scene might be
in the eyes of most of us, it was not altogether so in the
Major's, for along the coarse gravel footway was coming a thing
which was to him what the passing of a religious procession is
to a devout person. A large, heavy man, with fish-blue eyes and
a ring of irradiating red beard, was pushing before him a
barrow, which was ablaze with incomparable flowers. There were
splendid specimens of almost every order, but the Major's own
favourite pansies predominated. The Major stopped and fell into
conversation, and then into bargaining. He treated the man
after the manner of collectors and other mad men, that is to
say, he carefully and with a sort of anguish selected the best
roots from the less excellent, praised some, disparaged others,
made a subtle scale ranging from a thrilling worth and rarity
to a degraded insignificance, and then bought them all. The man
was just pushing off his barrow when he stopped and came close
to the Major.
`I'll tell you what, sir,' he said. `If you're interested in
them things, you just get on to that wall.'
`On the wall!' cried the scandalised Major, whose conventional
soul quailed within him at the thought of such fantastic
`Finest show of yellow pansies in England in that there garden,
sir,' hissed the tempter. `I'll help you up, sir.'
How it happened no one will ever know but that positive
enthusiasm of the Major's life triumphed over all its negative
traditions, and with an easy leap and swing that showed that he
was in no need of physical assistance, he stood on the wall at
the end of the strange garden. The second after, the flapping
of the frock-coat at his knees made him feel inexpressibly a
fool. But the next instant all such trifling sentiments were
swallowed up by the most appalling shock of surprise the old
soldier had ever felt in all his bold and wandering existence.
His eyes fell upon the garden, and there across a large bed in
the centre of the lawn was a vast pattern of pansies; they were
splendid flowers, but for once it was not their horticultural
aspects that Major Brown beheld, for the pansies were arranged
in gigantic capital letters so as to form the sentence:
DEATH TO MAJOR BROWN
A kindly looking old man, with white whiskers, was watering
them. Brown looked sharply back at the road behind him; the man
with the barrow had suddenly vanished. Then he looked again at
the lawn with its incredible inscription. Another man might
have thought he had gone mad, but Brown did not. When romantic
ladies gushed over his V.C. and his military exploits, he
sometimes felt himself to be a painfully prosaic person, but by
the same token he knew he was incurably sane. Another man,
again, might have thought himself a victim of a passing
practical joke, but Brown could not easily believe this. He
knew from his own quaint learning that the garden arrangement
was an elaborate and expensive one; he thought it extravagantly
improbable that any one would pour out money like water for a
joke against him. Having no explanation whatever to offer, he
admitted the fact to himself, like a clear-headed man, and
waited as he would have done in the presence of a man with six
At this moment the stout old man with white whiskers looked up,
and the watering can fell from his hand, shooting a swirl of
water down the gravel path.
`Who on earth are you?' he gasped, trembling violently.
`I am Major Brown,' said that individual, who was always cool in
the hour of action.
The old man gaped helplessly like some monstrous fish. At last he
stammered wildly, `Come down---come down here!'
`At your service,' said the Major, and alighted at a bound on
the grass beside him, without disarranging his silk hat.
The old man turned his broad back and set off at a sort of
waddling run towards the house, followed with swift steps by
the Major. His guide led him through the back passages of a
gloomy, but gorgeously appointed house, until they reached the
door of the front room. Then the old man turned with a face of
apoplectic terror dimly showing in the twilight.
`For heaven's sake,' he said, `don't mention jackals.'
Then he threw open the door, releasing a burst of red
lamplight, and ran downstairs with a clatter.
The Major stepped into a rich, glowing room, full of red
copper, and peacock and purple hangings, hat in hand. He had
the finest manners in the world, and, though mystified, was not
in the least embarrassed to see that the only occupant was a
lady, sitting by the window, looking out.
`Madam,' he said, bowing simply, `I am Major Brown.'
`Sit down,' said the lady; but she did not turn her head.
She was a graceful, green-clad figure, with fiery red hair and
a flavour of Bedford Park. `You have come, I suppose,' she said
mournfully, `to tax me about the hateful title-deeds.'
`I have come, madam,' he said, `to know what is the matter. To
know why my name is written across your garden. Not amicably
He spoke grimly, for the thing had hit him. It is impossible to
describe the effect produced on the mind by that quiet and
sunny garden scene, the frame for a stunning and brutal
personality. The evening air was still, and the grass was
golden in the place where the little flowers he studied cried
to heaven for his blood.
`You know I must not turn round,' said the lady; `every
afternoon till the stroke of six I must keep my face turned to
Some queer and unusual inspiration made the prosaic soldier
resolute to accept these outrageous riddles without surprise.
`It is almost six,' he said; and even as he spoke the barbaric copper
clock upon the wall clanged the first stroke of the hour. At the sixth
the lady sprang up and turned on the Major one of the queerest and
yet most attractive faces he had ever seen in his life; open, and yet
tantalising, the face of an elf.
`That makes the third year I have waited,' she cried. `This is
an anniversary. The waiting almost makes one wish the frightful
thing would happen once and for all.'
And even as she spoke, a sudden rending cry broke the
stillness. From low down on the pavement of the dim street (it
was already twilight) a voice cried out with a raucous and
`Major Brown, Major Brown, where does the jackal dwell?'
Brown was decisive and silent in action. He strode to the front
door and looked out. There was no sign of life in the blue
gloaming of the street, where one or two lamps were beginning
to light their lemon sparks. On returning, he found the lady in
`It is the end,' she cried, with shaking lips; `it may be death for
both of us. Whenever---'
But even as she spoke her speech was cloven by another hoarse
proclamation from the dark street, again horribly articulate.
`Major Brown, Major Brown, how did the jackal die?'
Brown dashed out of the door and down the steps, but again he
was frustrated; there was no figure in sight, and the street
was far too long and empty for the shouter to have run away.
Even the rational Major was a little shaken as he returned in a
certain time to the drawing-room. Scarcely had he done so than
the terrific voice came:
`Major Brown, Major Brown, where did---'
Brown was in the street almost at a bound, and he was in
time---in time to see something which at first glance froze the
blood. The cries appeared to come from a decapitated head
resting on the pavement.
The next moment the pale Major understood. It was the head of a
man thrust through the coal-hole in the street. The next
moment, again, it had vanished, and Major Brown turned to the
lady. `Where's your coal-cellar?' he said, and stepped out into
She looked at him with wild grey eyes. `You will not go down,'
she cried, `alone, into the dark hole, with that beast?'
`Is this the way?' replied Brown, and descended the kitchen
stairs three at a time. He flung open the door of a black
cavity and stepped in, feeling in his pocket for matches. As
his right hand was thus occupied, a pair of great slimy hands
came out of the darkness, hands clearly belonging to a man of
gigantic stature, and seized him by the back of the head. They
forced him down, down in the suffocating darkness, a brutal
image of destiny. But the Major's head, though upside down, was
perfectly clear and intellectual. He gave quietly under the
pressure until he had slid down almost to his hands and knees.
Then finding the knees of the invisible monster within a foot
of him, he simply put out one of his long, bony, and skilful
hands, and gripping the leg by a muscle pulled it off the
ground and laid the huge living man, with a crash, along the
floor. He strove to rise, but Brown was on top like a cat. They
rolled over and over. Big as the man was, he had evidently now
no desire but to escape; he made sprawls hither and thither to
get past the Major to the door, but that tenacious person had
him hard by the coat collar and hung with the other hand to a
beam. At length there came a strain in holding back this human
bull, a strain under which Brown expected his hand to rend and
part from the arm. But something else rent and parted; and the
dim fat figure of the giant vanished out of the cellar, leaving
the torn coat in the Major's hand; the only fruit of his
adventure and the only clue to the mystery. For when he went up
and out at the front door, the lady, the rich hangings, and the
whole equipment of the house had disappeared. It had only bare
boards and whitewashed walls.
`The lady was in the conspiracy, of course,' said Rupert,
nodding. Major Brown turned brick red. `I beg your pardon,' he
said, `I think not.'
Rupert raised his eyebrows and looked at him for a moment, but
said nothing. When next he spoke he asked:
`Was there anything in the pockets of the coat?'
`There was sevenpence halfpenny in coppers and a
threepenny-bit,' said the Major carefully; `there was a
cigarette-holder, a piece of string, and this letter,' and he
laid it on the table. It ran as follows:
Dear Mr Plover,
I am annoyed to hear that some delay has occurred in
the arrangements re Major Brown. Please see that he is
attacked as per arrangement tomorrow The coal-cellar, of
P. G. Northover.
Rupert Grant was leaning forward listening with hawk-like eyes.
He cut in:
`Is it dated from anywhere?'
`No---oh, yes!' replied Brown, glancing upon the paper; `14
Tanner's Court, North---'
Rupert sprang up and struck his hands together.
`Then why are we hanging here? Let's get along. Basil, lend me
Basil was staring into the embers like a man in a trance; and
it was some time before he answered:
`I don't think you'll need it.'
`Perhaps not,' said Rupert, getting into his fur coat. `One
never knows. But going down a dark court to see criminals---'
`Do you think they are criminals?' asked his brother.
Rupert laughed stoutly. `Giving orders to a subordinate to strangle
a harmless stranger in a coal-cellar may strike you as a very
blameless experiment, but---'
`Do you think they wanted to strangle the Major?' asked Basil,
in the same distant and monotonous voice.
`My dear fellow, you've been asleep. Look at the letter.'
`I am looking at the letter,' said the mad judge calmly;
though, as a matter of fact, he was looking at the fire. 'I
don`t think it's the sort of letter one criminal would write to
`My dear boy, you are glorious,' cried Rupert, turning round,
with laughter in his blue bright eyes. `Your methods amaze me.
Why, there is the letter. It is written, and it does give
orders for a crime. You might as well say that the Nelson
Column was not at all the sort of thing that was likely to be
set up in Trafalgar Square.'
Basil Grant shook all over with a sort of silent laughter, but
did not otherwise move.
`That's rather good,' he said; `but, of course, logic like
that's not what is really wanted. It's a question of spiritual
atmosphere. It's not a criminal letter.'
`It is. It's a matter of fact,' cried the other in an agony of
`Facts,' murmured Basil, like one mentioning some strange,
far-off animals, `how facts obscure the truth. I may be
silly---in fact, I'm off my head---but I never could believe in
that man---what's his name, in those capital
stories?---Sherlock Holmes. Every detail points to something,
certainly; but generally to the wrong thing. Facts point in all
directions, it seems to me, like the thousands of twigs on a
tree. It's only the life of the tree that has unity and goes
up---only the green blood that springs, like a fountain, at the
`But what the deuce else can the letter be but criminal?'
`We have eternity to stretch our legs in,' replied the mystic.
`It can be an infinity of things. I haven't seen any of
them---I've only seen the letter. I look at that, and say it's
`Then what's the origin of it?'
`I haven't the vaguest idea.'
`Then why don't you accept the ordinary explanation?'
Basil continued for a little to glare at the coals, and seemed
collecting his thoughts in a humble and even painful way. Then
`Suppose you went out into the moonlight. Suppose you passed
through silent, silvery streets and squares until you came into
an open and deserted space, set with a few monuments, and you
beheld one dressed as a ballet girl dancing in the argent
glimmer. And suppose you looked, and saw it was a man
disguised. And suppose you looked again, and saw it was Lord
Kitchener. What would you think?'
He paused a moment, and went on:
`You could not adopt the ordinary explanation. The ordinary
explanation of putting on singular clothes is that you look
nice in them; you would not think that Lord Kitchener dressed
up like a ballet girl out of ordinary personal vanity. You
would think it much more likely that he inherited a dancing
madness from a great grandmother; or had been hypnotised at a
séance; or threatened by a secret society with death if he
refused the ordeal. With Baden-Powell, say, it might be a
bet---but not with Kitchener. I should know all that, because
in my public days I knew him quite well. So I know that letter
quite well, and criminals quite well. It's not a criminal's
letter. It's all atmospheres.' And he closed his eyes and
passed his hand over his forehead.
Rupert and the Major were regarding him with a mixture of
respect and pity. The former said
`Well, I'm going, anyhow, and shall continue to think---until
your spiritual mystery turns up---that a man who sends a note
recommending a crime, that is, actually a crime that is
actually carried out, at least tentatively, is, in all
probability, a little casual in his moral tastes. Can I have
`Certainly,' said Basil, getting up. `But I am coming with
you.' And he flung an old cape or cloak round him, and took a
sword-stick from the corner.
`You!' said Rupert, with some surprise, `you scarcely ever
leave your hole to look at anything on the face of the earth.'
Basil fitted on a formidable old white hat.
`I scarcely ever,' he said, with an unconscious and colossal
arrogance, `hear of anything on the face of the earth that I do
not understand at once, without going to see it.'
And he led the way out into the purple night.
We four swung along the flaring Lambeth streets, across
Westminster Bridge, and along the Embankment in the direction
of that part of Fleet Street which contained Tanner's Court.
The erect, black figure of Major Brown, seen from behind, was a
quaint contrast to the hound-like stoop and flapping mantle of
young Rupert Grant, who adopted, with childlike delight, all
the dramatic poses of the detective of fiction. The finest
among his many fine qualities was his boyish appetite for the
colour and poetry of London. Basil, who walked behind, with his
face turned blindly to the stars, had the look of a
Rupert paused at the corner of Tanner's Court, with a quiver of
delight at danger, and gripped Basil's revolver in his
`Shall we go in now?' he asked.
`Not get police?' asked Major Brown, glancing sharply up and
down the street.
`I am not sure,' answered Rupert, knitting his brows. `Of
course, it's quite clear, the thing's all crooked. But there
are three of us, and---'
`I shouldn't get the police,' said Basil in a queer voice.
Rupert glanced at him and stared hard.
`Basil,' he cried, `you're trembling. What's the matter---are
`Cold, perhaps,' said the Major, eyeing him. There was no doubt
that he was shaking.
At last, after a few moments' scrutiny, Rupert broke into a
`You're laughing,' he cried. `I know that confounded, silent,
shaky laugh of yours. What the deuce is the amusement, Basil?
Here we are, all three of us, within a yard of a den of
`But I shouldn't call the police,' said Basil. `We four heroes
are quite equal to a host,' and he continued to quake with his
Rupert turned with impatience and strode swiftly down the
court, the rest of us following. When he reached the door of
No. 14 he turned abruptly, the revolver glittering in his hand.
`Stand close,' he said in the voice of a commander. `The
scoundrel may be attempting an escape at this moment. We must
fling open the door and rush in.'
The four of us cowered instantly under the archway, rigid,
except for the old judge and his convulsion of merriment.
`Now,' hissed Rupert Grant, turning his pale face and burning
eyes suddenly over his shoulder, `when I say ``Four'', follow
me with a rush. If I say ``Hold him'', pin the fellows down,
whoever they are. If I say ``Stop'', stop. I shall say that if
there are more than three. If they attack us I shall empty my
revolver on them. Basil, have your sword-stick ready.
Now---one, two three, four!'
With the sound of the word the door burst open, and we fell
into the room like an invasion, only to stop dead.
The room, which was an ordinary and neatly appointed office,
appeared, at the first glance, to be empty. But on a second and
more careful glance, we saw seated behind a very large desk
with pigeonholes and drawers of bewildering multiplicity, a
small man with a black waxed moustache, and the air of a very
average clerk, writing hard. He looked up as we came to a
`Did you knock?' he asked pleasantly. `I am sorry if I did not
hear. What can I do for you?'
There was a doubtful pause, and then, by general consent, the
Major himself, the victim of the outrage, stepped forward.
The letter was in his hand, and he looked unusually grim.
`Is your name P. G. Northover?' he asked.
`That is my name,' replied the other, smiling.
`I think,' said Major Brown, with an increase in the dark glow of his
face, `that this letter was written by you.' And with a loud clap he
struck open the letter on the desk with his clenched fist. The man
called Northover looked at it with unaffected interest and merely
`Well, sir,' said the Major, breathing hard, `what about that?'
`What about it, precisely,' said the man with the moustache.
`I am Major Brown,' said that gentleman sternly.
Northover bowed. `Pleased to meet you, sir. What have you to
say to me?'
`Say!' cried the Major, loosing a sudden tempest; `why, I want
this confounded thing settled. I want---'
`Certainly, sir,' said Northover, jumping up with a slight
elevation of the eyebrows. `Will you take a chair for a
moment.' And he pressed an electric bell just above him, which
thrilled and tinkled in a room beyond. The Major put his hand
on the back of the chair offered him, but stood chafing and
beating the floor with his polished boot.
The next moment an inner glass door was opened, and a fair,
weedy, young man, in a frock-coat, entered from within.
`Mr Hopson,' said Northover, `this is Major Brown. Will you
please finish that thing for him I gave you this morning and
bring it in?'
`Yes, sir,' said Mr Hopson, and vanished like lightning.
`You will excuse me, gentlemen,' said the egregious Northover,
with his radiant smile, `if I continue to work until Mr Hopson
is ready. I have some books that must be cleared up before I
get away on my holiday tomorrow. And we all like a whiff of the
country, don't we? Ha! ha!'
The criminal took up his pen with a childlike laugh, and a
silence ensued; a placid and busy silence on the part of Mr P.
G. Northover; a raging silence on the part of everybody else.
At length the scratching of Northover's pen in the stillness
was mingled with a knock at the door, almost simultaneous with
the turning of the handle, and Mr Hopson came in again with the
same silent rapidity, placed a paper before his principal, and
The man at the desk pulled and twisted his spiky moustache for
a few moments as he ran his eye up and down the paper presented
to him. He took up his pen, with a slight, instantaneous frown,
and altered something, muttering---`Careless.' Then he read it
again with the same impenetrable reflectiveness, and finally
handed it to the frantic Brown, whose hand was beating the
devil's tattoo on the back of the chair.
`I think you will find that all right, Major,' he said briefly.
The Major looked at it; whether he found it all right or not
will appear later, but he found it like this:
|Major Brown to P. G. Northover.|
|January 1, to account rendered ||5||6||0|
|May 9, to potting and embedding of zoo pansies ||2||0||0|
|To cost of trolley with flowers ||0||15||0|
|To hiring of man with trolley ||0||5||0|
|To hire of house and garden for one day ||1||0||0|
|To furnishing of room in peacock curtains, copper ornaments, etc. ||3||0||0|
|To salary of Miss Jameson ||1||0||0|
|To salary of Mr Plover ||1||0||0|
|A Remittance will oblige.|
`What,' said Brown, after a dead pause, and with eyes that
seemed slowly rising out of his head, `What in heaven's name is
`What is it?' repeated Northover, cocking his eyebrow with
amusement. `It's your account, of course.'
`My account!' The Major's ideas appeared to be in a vague
stampede. `My account! And what have I got to do with it?'
`Well,' said Northover, laughing outright, `naturally I prefer
you to pay it.'
The Major's hand was still resting on the back of the chair as
the words came. He scarcely stirred otherwise, but he lifted
the chair bodily into the air with one hand and hurled it at
The legs crashed against the desk, so that Northover only got a
blow on the elbow as he sprang up with clenched fists, only to
be seized by the united rush of the rest of us. The chair had
fallen clattering on the empty floor.
`Let me go, you scamps,' he shouted. `Let me---'
`Stand still,' cried Rupert authoritatively. `Major Brown's
action is excusable. The abominable crime you have
`A customer has a perfect right,' said Northover hotly, `to
question an alleged overcharge, but, confound it all, not to
`What, in God's name, do you mean by your customers and
overcharges?' shrieked Major Brown, whose keen feminine nature,
steady in pain or danger, became almost hysterical in the
presence of a long and exasperating mystery. `Who are you? I've
never seen you or your insolent tomfool bills. I know one of
your cursed brutes tried to choke me---'
`Mad,' said Northover, gazing blankly round; `all of them mad.
I didn't know they travelled in quartettes.'
`Enough of this prevarication,' said Rupert; `your crimes are
discovered. A policeman is stationed at the corner of the
court. Though only a private detective myself, I will take the
responsibility of telling you that anything you say---'
`Mad,' repeated Northover, with a weary air.
And at this moment, for the first time, there struck in among
them the strange, sleepy voice of Basil Grant.
`Major Brown,' he said, `may I ask you a question?'
The Major turned his head with an increased bewilderment.
`You?' he cried; `certainly, Mr Grant.'
`Can you tell me,' said the mystic, with sunken head and
lowering brow, as he traced a pattern in the dust with his
sword-stick, `can you tell me what was the name of the man who
lived in your house before you?'
The unhappy Major was only faintly more disturbed by this last
and futile irrelevancy, and he answered vaguely:
`Yes, I think so; a man named Gurney something---a name with a
hyphen---Gurney-Brown; that was it.'
`And when did the house change hands?' said Basil, looking up
sharply. His strange eyes were burning brilliantly.
`I came in last month,' said the Major.
And at the mere word the criminal Northover suddenly fell into
his great office chair and shouted with a volleying laughter.
`Oh! it's too perfect---it's too exquisite,' he gasped, beating
the arms with his fists. He was laughing deafeningly; Basil
Grant was laughing voicelessly; and the rest of us only felt
that our heads were like weathercocks in a whirlwind.
`Confound it, Basil,' said Rupert, stamping. `If you don't want
me to go mad and blow your metaphysical brains out, tell me
what all this means.'
`Permit me, sir, to explain,' he said. `And, first of all,
permit me to apologize to you, Major Brown, for a most
abominable and unpardonable blunder, which has caused you
menace and inconvenience, in which, if you will allow me to say
so, you have behaved with astonishing courage and dignity. Of
course you need not trouble about the bill. We will stand the
loss.' And, tearing the paper across, he flung the halves into
the waste-paper basket and bowed.
Poor Brown's face was still a picture of distraction. `But I
don't even begin to understand,' he cried. `What bill? what
blunder? what loss?'
Mr P. G. Northover advanced in the centre of the room,
thoughtfully, and with a great deal of unconscious dignity. On
closer consideration, there were apparent about him other
things beside a screwed moustache, especially a lean, sallow
face, hawk-like, and not without a careworn intelligence. Then
he looked up abruptly.
`Do you know where you are, Major?' he said.
`God knows I don't,' said the warrior, with fervour.
`You are standing,' replied Northover, `in the office of the
Adventure and Romance Agency, Limited.'
`And what's that?' blankly inquired Brown.
The man of business leaned over the back of the chair, and
fixed his dark eyes on the other's face.
`Major,' said he, 'did you ever, as you walked along the empty
street upon some idle afternoon, feel the utter hunger for
something to happen---something, in the splendid words of Walt
Whitman: ``Something pernicious and dread; something far
removed from a puny and pious life; something unproved;
something in a trance; something loosed from its anchorage, and
driving free.'' Did you ever feel that?'
`Certainly not,' said the Major shortly.
`Then I must explain with more elaboration,' said Mr Northover,
with a sigh. `The Adventure and Romance Agency has been started
to meet a great modern desire. On every side, in conversation
and in literature, we hear of the desire for a larger theatre
of events for something to waylay us and lead us splendidly
astray. Now the man who feels this desire for a varied life
pays a yearly or a quarterly sum to the Adventure and Romance
Agency; in return, the Adventure and Romance Agency undertakes
to surround him with startling and weird events. As a man is
leaving his front door, an excited sweep approaches him and
assures him of a plot against his life; he gets into a cab, and
is driven to an opium den; he receives a mysterious telegram or
a dramatic visit, and is immediately in a vortex of incidents.
A very picturesque and moving story is first written by one of
the staff of distinguished novelists who are at present hard at
work in the adjoining room. Yours, Major Brown (designed by our
Mr Grigsby), I consider peculiarly forcible and pointed; it is
almost a pity you did not see the end of it. I need scarcely
explain further the monstrous mistake. Your predecessor in your
present house, Mr Gurney-Brown, was a subscriber to our agency,
and our foolish clerks, ignoring alike the dignity of the
hyphen and the glory of military rank, positively imagined that
Major Brown and Mr Gurney-Brown were the same person. Thus you
were suddenly hurled into the middle of another man's story.'
`How on earth does the thing work?' asked Rupert Grant, with
bright and fascinated eyes.
`We believe that we are doing a noble work,' said Northover
warmly. `It has continually struck us that there is no element
in modern life that is more lamentable than the fact that the
modern man has to seek all artistic existence in a sedentary
state. If he wishes to float into fairyland, he reads a book;
if he wishes to dash into the thick of battle, he reads a book;
if he wishes to soar into heaven, he reads a book; if he wishes
to slide down the banisters, he reads a book. We give him these
visions, but we give him exercise at the same time, the
necessity of leaping from wall to wall, of fighting strange
gentlemen, of running down long streets from pursuers---all
healthy and pleasant exercises. We give him a glimpse of that
great morning world of Robin Hood or the Knights Errant, when
one great game was played under the splendid sky. We give him
back his childhood, that godlike time when we can act stories,
be our own heroes, and at the same instant dance and dream.'
Basil gazed at him curiously. The most singular psychological
discovery had been reserved to the end, for as the little
business man ceased speaking he had the blazing eyes of a
Major Brown received the explanation with complete simplicity
and good humour.
`Of course; awfully dense, sir,' he said. `No doubt at all, the
scheme excellent. But I don't think---' He paused a moment, and
looked dreamily out of the window. `I don't think you will find
me in it. Somehow, when one's seen--- seen the thing itself,
you know---blood and men screaming, one feels about having a
little house and a little hobby; in the Bible, you know,
``There remaineth a rest''.'
Northover bowed. Then after a pause he said:
`Gentlemen, may I offer you my card. If any of the rest of you
desire, at any time, to communicate with me, despite Major
Brown's view of the matter---'
`I should be obliged for your card, sir,' said the Major, in
his abrupt but courteous voice. `Pay for chair.'
The agent of Romance and Adventure handed his card, laughing.
It ran, `P. G. Northover, B.A., C.Q.T., Adventure and Romance
Agency, 14 Tanner's Court, Fleet Street.'
`What on earth is "C.QT."?' asked Rupert Grant, looking over
the Major's shoulder.
`Don't you know?' returned Northover. `Haven't you ever heard
of the Club of Queer Trades?'
`There seems to be a confounded lot of funny things we haven't
heard of,' said the little Major reflectively. `What's this
`The Club of Queer Trades is a society consisting exclusively
of people who have invented some new and curious way of making
money. I was one of the earliest members.'
`You deserve to be,' said Basil, taking up his great white hat,
with a smile, and speaking for the last time that evening.
When they had passed out the Adventure and Romance agent wore a
queer smile, as he trod down the fire and locked up his desk.
`A fine chap, that Major; when one hasn't a touch of the poet
one stands some chance of being a poem. But to think of such a
clockwork little creature of all people getting into the nets
of one of Grigsby's tales,' and he laughed out aloud in the
Just as the laugh echoed away, there came a sharp knock at the
door. An owlish head, with dark moustaches, was thrust in, with
deprecating and somewhat absurd inquiry.
`What! back again, Major?' cried Northover in surprise. `What
can I do for you?'
The Major shuffled feverishly into the room.
`It's horribly absurd,' he said. `Something must have got
started in me that I never knew before. But upon my soul I feel
the most desperate desire to know the end of it all.'
`The end of it all?'
`Yes,' said the Major. ` ``Jackals'', and the title-deeds, and
``Death to Major Brown''.'
The agent's face grew grave, but his eyes were amused.
`I am terribly sorry, Major,' said he, `but what you ask is
impossible. I don't know any one I would sooner oblige than
you; but the rules of the agency are strict. The Adventures are
confidential; you are an outsider; I am not allowed to let you
know an inch more than I can help. I do hope you understand---'
`There is no one,' said Brown, `who understands discipline better
than I do. Thank you very much. Good night.'
And the little man withdrew for the last time.
He married Miss Jameson, the lady with the red hair and the
green garments. She was an actress, employed (with many others)
by the Romance Agency; and her marriage with the prim old
veteran caused some stir in her languid and intellectualized
set. She always replied very quietly that she had met scores of
men who acted splendidly in the charades provided for them by
Northover, but that she had only met one man who went down into
a coal-cellar when he really thought it contained a murderer.
The Major and she are living as happily as birds, in an absurd
villa, and the former has taken to smoking. Otherwise he is
unchanged---except, perhaps, there are moments when, alert and
full of feminine unselfishness as the Major is by nature, he
falls into a trance of abstraction. Then his wife recognizes
with a concealed smile, by the blind look in his blue eyes,
that he is wondering what were the title-deeds, and why he was
not allowed to mention jackals. But, like so many old soldiers,
Brown is religious, and believes that he will realize the rest
of those purple adventures in a better world.