Mixed Grill/Price of James McWinter

came separately, and rather stealthily, to the restaurant in Little Compton Street, giving a cautious look up and down the street before entering. Many folk in Soho wear the brims of soft hats flattened down over eyes, carry hands deep in overcoat pockets, and walk close to shop windows, hesitating slightly before turning a corner. The restaurant patrons did not belong to this type. Some of the early-comers spoke to a constable, and said, exhibiting an envelope, because they mistrusted their French accent:

“Which do you reckon now is my best way to get to this address?”

The policeman, pointing a gloved hand to the large window that had muslin curtains of the previous summer, replied:

“If you ain't careful, sir, it'll bite you.”

The constable, after the first inquiries, was able to recognise the type and, interrupting the question, indicated the doorway silently with a nod of his helmet without interrupting the task of slapping his shoulder; he mentioned to an anxious younger colleague who came up and put an inquiry that they were not in his opinion so much Anarchists as country gents out on the spree. Inside the Restaurant Chicot the head waiter had also gained experience, and, as the visitors arrived, he said, “Mr. Aumairst, yes?” and with a bow led the way to a long table, that had originally been three, at the end of the large room. Chairs leaned forward in the attitude of saying grace, and these were pulled back by the head waiter, whilst a short page-boy stood on tiptoe to assist the guests in removing overcoats, mufflers, and hats. Guarded salutations—“Hullo, Burnham, old man! What sort of an east wind blew you in here?”—and newcomers examined the menu card with a puzzled air, giving it all up after a cursory examination excepting the plum-pudding item, and joined the rest in taking a seat and in looking over the shoulder.

“I'd no notion we were to be all of us invited. What's the idea?”

“H. A.” was the reply, in confident tones. “H. A. knows what he's up to.”

“I quite feel that about him. Apart from liking to show off, and not being able to afford to do it, old Amherst is no fool. But whilst I know that he knows what he's up to, I can't say that I always know what he knows about knowing See what I mean, don't you? Is this him, in the Russian-bear costume?”

Mr. Amherst, in a brand-new fur-lined overcoat, was scarcely the man to deprive the public of a full view of it, and he resisted the page-boy's attempt to take possession at the door. Diners at other tables glanced up. Two matronly ladies at the corner said something in a foreign language and suspended the rule which orders that one should not laugh at one's own jokes. Men gave their closer attention to the trim young figure in a small sealskin cap and warm costume who followed so soon as Mr. Amherst's whirling arms made it safe to do so.

“Gentlemen,” he said, advancing to the long table, with the air of making a speech, “I have to apologise for being somewhat late on the Rialto, so to speak, but You've met my daughter. Waiter, another chair!” They rose, and she nodded pleasantly, giving to one her muff, another her cloak, a third her gloves. “I particularly wanted her to come along, and it occupied some little time to induce her to obey my request. She's all I've got now, you see.” He sat down heavily at the top of the table. “Now then, my lad,” to the attendant, in a pained manner, “we all seem to be waiting, except you. How much longer before the soup comes?”

Miss Amherst, at the other end of the table, explained to neighbours that her father's account was inexact in certain particulars. What had really happened was that she found he intended her to stop at the hotel and dine alone.

“He generally gets his own way,” remarked one.

“Not if it happens to differ from mine,” she said.

“Did he tell you, by any chance,” lowering voices, and speaking confidentially, “what the motive was for asking us all here this evening?”

“I understood it was that you should eat a dinner.” They shook their heads to convey that the information was not complete, and followed her lead in the management of the whitebait.

Near Mr. Amherst, the talk, managed and directed by him, was devoted to the political situation. The host submitted a practical method of solving the difficulty of which he spoke as one owning the patent rights; put more briefly than he explained it, it was to convey the principal members of the party with which he was not in agreement to Newgate on a convenient Monday morning, and hang them, one after the other. Near Miss Amherst conversation was on a less remote subject, and her admirable acquaintance with details enabled them to speak freely. Once she disputed a question concerning the Tottenham Hotspurs, and, obtaining silence by rapping a spoon, submitted it for decision to her father.

“My dear,” he answered deferentially, “we don't want to talk shop. Not just yet awhile, at any rate.”

His guests glanced meaningly at each other.

“Good gracious!” he cried, to a good-looking waiter with a large black moustache and a head of hair like a clothes brush, “what are you standing there gazing at me in such a melancholy way for?”

“Ver' sorry,” said the young waiter.

“You look it!”

His nearest guests applauded the wit and readiness of the retort. Other tables cleared; folk hurried off to theatres. The head waiter ordered the moustached youth to turn off some of the lights.

“Now, gentlemen!” Mr. Amherst, leaning elbows on the table as coffee and liqueurs were served, cleared his throat, and sent a commanding glance up and down. “My dear”—to his daughter, who was looking at the waiter—“have I your attention?”

“Not yet, father.”

“The presence of a lady,” he said to the others, “need not interfere with the flow of conversation. I want you to make yourselves thoroughly at home, and do just as you please. We can wish each other a happy New Year later on in the evening. But first of all there's one small matter I wish to bring before your notice.” They put hands to ears, in the attitude of men anxious to gain every word. He leaned back in his chair and came forward once more; his chin went out and he fired a name down the table. They twisted chairs promptly in his direction.

“Yes,” gratified by their astonishment, “big game, I admit, but it's what I'm after. Other clubs may be on the same track, and therefore what we want first of all is absolute secrecy. If you're prepared to back me up I'll promise to see it through, but there must be no cackle, no chatterboxing, no talking to wives, or what not. Not a single word uttered away from this table.”

“They won't let him go.”

“Who said that?” The others, much in the manner of schoolboys, indicated Burnham.

“I believe,” said Mr. Amherst—“set me right if I'm wrong—but I believe I'm Chairman. Unless I'm woefully mistaken, I was made Chairman about four years ago, at a time when the club was right out on the rocks. It had got a past, but no present. If my memory serves me right, I made it a small present. I bought shares when no one else was prepared to do so. And since that time, what has the club done?” He put out the fingers of one hand and prepared to recite the successes. His daughter coughed.

“I was only going to run through the list, my dear.”

“You can save yourself the trouble,” she said.

“Now, having arrived at this point,” addressing the table, “I ask myself the question, where are we weak? Where are we deficient? Where are we”

He was so much annoyed at their impatience in anticipating him by giving the answer, that he found himself obliged to apply a match to his cigar, which was still alight.

“Very well, then,” reluctantly. “Discovering this, I look around and I endeavour to find out the best man available.”

“Mr. Pangbourne,” said Burnham, taking heart, “would no more think”

Mr. Amherst snapped finger and thumb.

“That for Master Willie Pangbourne,” he shouted. “No, no,” irritably, to the moustached waiter, “I didn't call you. Go away and catch flies. I think, gentlemen,” turning to the others, “that when I tell you I've known young Pangbourne since he was so high, and that not long ago I had to order him out of my house”

“Did he go?” asked the quiet voice at the other end.

“In point of fact he didn't go, Mary, my dear; but I distinctly ordered him to go. I don't mind a young man differing from me about politics, but there's a way of doing it. What I want to say is that Pangbourne isn't everybody. I can bring influence to bear on his directors. I've been accustomed to opposition all my life, and I'm not afraid of it. The only question is,”—he took a pear from the glass dish and shook it threateningly—“how to raise the money.”

The guests glanced at each other and became intent upon cigars. One or two wetted fingers and adjusted an unbroken leaf, thus escaping the inquiring look sent by Mr. Amherst.

“Tell you what,” he cried, “I'll put down a trifle to make a start.” He called to the waiter and said in a loud, distinct voice, “Onker.”  The other seemed puzzled, and the girl translated. The waiter brought ink, and on it being pointed out, somewhat bitterly, that this, by itself, was of little use, found pen and paper.

“There you are,” said Mr. Amherst jovially. “Now pass it down this side and up the other. This is a tiled meeting, remember.” He sat back and gazed at some cupids painted high up on the walls; the models apparently engaged after they had dined at the restaurant. A nudge presently at his elbow told him the list had returned. He put on his pince-nez and inspected it. “Henry Amherst, £50,” was the first item; the only other entry was in pencil, “Mary Amherst, threepence.”

“And this,” he said bitterly, “is, I suppose, what you call backing up the Chairman. Well, you're the best judges of your own actions. I never dictate to other people.”

A murmur indicated doubt.

“Idea seems to be, sir,” mentioned Burnham, “that we ought to leave well alone.” A few shy “Hear hears.”  “We're very much obliged to you, Mr. Amherst, for your kind hospitality, and we've enjoyed meeting at your festive board—if I may be allowed to use such an expression at this time of the year—but you must understand we've none of us got money to throw away. We're devoted to footer, same as you are, and we've planked down as much as we could afford. We're pretty safe to cut a very fair figure this year, and”

“Burnham,” interrupted Mr. Amherst, “you'll excuse me, but perhaps you don't mind if I just say one syllable.” He appeared to be under the impression that his voice had not hitherto been heard. “I've a great respect for you. You've got a shop in the borough that you've worked up from small beginnings, and, so far as I know, you've always paid your way.”

“Come on,” said Burnham desperately. “Let's hear what you are going to say on the other side.”

“What I'm going to say on the other side is simply this. That, with all your estimable qualities, I've never, for a single, solitary moment, looked on you as anything but a fool.”

“Father,” reminded the girl, “these gentlemen are your guests.”

“If you are so jolly keen on it,” said Burnham, with spirit, “and if you particularly want to strengthen our team next season, why don't you put all the money down, and buy James McWinter for us?”

Mr. Amherst struck the table with the side of his large fist.

“Just,” he declared emphatically, “just exactly what I intend to do.”

The waiter came forward in the character of a hat-stand, and Mr. Amherst, grabbing at the nearest, found his irritation in no way lessened on discovering that it was headgear of insufficient size. Mary Amherst, turning to the waiter who stood now arms filled with overcoats, remarked pleasantly that a night like this must surely make him think of the clear blue skies and the dazzling sunshine of his native country; the waiter appeared to have acquired some of the useful idioms of the country, for he said in appealing undertones, “Half-time, half-time!” The head waiter came with the bill, which Mr. Amherst, in his annoyance, had forgotten. Miss Amherst was called upon to check the addition, and it became her duty to point out that the head waiter had by an excusable oversight in making a total reckoned the date at the top. This remedied, with profuse apologies, the party was conducted to the doorway.

“Also I don't mind telling you,” said her father, speaking outside as though no interval had occurred since his last decisive remark, “exactly how much I'm prepared to go up to.” He named a figure. “Not a farthing more,” he declared resolutely. “What's that, my dear?”

“Only saying, father, that I was quite sure you couldn't afford it.”

“That is my business, Mary.”

“It was the business I was thinking about.”

Mr. Amherst, never one to allow pasture land to flourish extensively under his boots, wrote a letter that night, posted it at the corner of Trafalgar Square, and walked three times around the pedestal of the Nelson Statue, partly because he had a great belief in the value of exercise, partly to enjoy the thought that he had, in sending the note, started the ball a-rolling. Coming into the hotel he was told by the porter that Miss Amherst had retired to rest, and he went upstairs humming cheerfully. The porter, it would seem, had been misinformed, for later the girl was leaning over the low balcony chatting with a youth who carried a kit bag. You would have said he was the young waiter at the Soho Restaurant, only that he wore no moustache and she called him Willie, which, as one knows, is rarely counted an Italian name.

“It's all right, dear girl,” he said. “Now that I know his limit, I can easily arrange.”

“I don't want him to waste his money,” she explained.

“Leave everything to me,” he begged. “Don't forget the match to-morrow. By the by, just go in and borrow a lucifer for me. My box is empty.”

She returned with a supply taken from the smoking-room, and leaning over the balcony struck one and just managed to reach his cigar. No one was about, excepting the driver of a four-wheeler on the rank opposite; the cabman remarked confidentially to his horse: “Romeo and Juliet. Played nightly all over the blooming world.” The horse waggled his nose-bag to show that he, too, was acquainted with standard literature.

Mr. Amherst had announced the intention of taking his daughter home by the eight-thirty the following morning, and she was to knock at the wall not later than half-past seven; Miss Amherst was able at nine o'clock breakfast to exhibit her watch and blame it for her omission. She read from a morning paper the fixtures of the day, repeating the announcement concerning the match, whereupon her father announced that he was as ready to be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, and gave her permission to catch the ten-five, and to travel alone. Miss Amherst agreed, but finding in another part of the journal an account of a deplorable case of a communication cord refusing to act, became suddenly terrified and begged her father to accompany her. He said “No!” There was reason in all things. Devoted as he was to his daughter, and ready as he might be to make sacrifices, this was asking too much. He had decided to see James McWinter play once more, before advancing a further stage in the negotiations, and the opportunity was one not to be missed.

“But I tell you what, Mary,” he said firmly; “you do some shopping, buy presents for relatives, and we can both go back together this evening.”

“The best places in London close on Saturday afternoons.”

“Then come to the match with me.”

“I suppose I'd better,” she said.

In London you see no such spectacle as can be witnessed in Midland and Northern towns, with the entire male population walking solidly in one direction, returning later in less regular order, and excited or depressed according to the fate of the home team. All the same, the compartments of the suburban train were well filled, and Mr. Amherst, fearful of being delayed, shouted on the crowded platform an instruction to his daughter.

“Look after yourself!”

An instruction she complied with the more readily because a hand waved to her from a carriage next to the engine. Half a dozen young men sprang up and offered places; she thanked them, and, apparently anxious not to be accused of favouritism, decided to hold by the rack and talk to young Pangbourne. As the train took a curve he had to hold her by the arm, but this she did not seem to mind. Pangbourne's directors were, of course, to be present at the game. A hurried conference had taken place that morning in the waiting-room of a London terminal station, and the price of James McWinter, on Mr. Pangbourne's urgent suggestion, had been fixed at a price that far exceeded the limit mentioned by Miss Amherst's father.

“That's capital!” she declared gratefully—“capital in more senses than one. You see, Willie, I can remember the time when we were hard up at home, and I recollect how my mother had to scheme and contrive. I don't want to find myself going back. And the sum represents such an awful lot of money. Football's a good sport, but there are other games.”

“Marriage, for instance?”

“We can talk of that,” she said composedly, “later on. Let's settle one matter first. We mustn't be seen talking to each other, mind.”

Mr. Amherst apologised to his daughter, as they made their way to the entrance to the ground, for his apparent neglect, and she accepted his excuses so readily that he felt bound to point out that, in a general way, he did look after her very carefully, adding that there was no one else to do this. Everything, said Mr. Amherst, with a touch of importance and a hint at real affection, devolved upon him, and he was not the man to flinch responsibilities. She inquired, deferentially, whether he considered it wise to pay out such a large sum of money for James McWinter. He replied that James was worth the figure mentioned the previous night, but not a penny, not a halfpenny more. If the other club began to haggle and bargain and huckster, he, Mr. Amherst, would instantly withdraw.

“And what I say,” he declared, “as you very well know, is what I stick to. My first word is my last word. Is that so, my dear, or isn't it?”

“You're an extraordinary man, father.” He appeared content with this vague admission.

Quite a good number had taken advantage of the hospitable offer to ladies, and Mr. Amherst, in spite of his recent declaration, showed relief on encountering the wife of another director, willing and ready to take charge of his daughter. Silk hat at back of head, he hurried off. “Highly important business!” he explained. Mrs. Burnham, a matronly person, confessed that she knew nothing and cared nothing for the game, but had to affect an interest in order to make opportunity of keeping an eye on her husband. Husbands required a lot of watching. Husbands were kittle cattle, if the truth was known. Husbands being what they were, the wonder was that any married lady remained in possession of her senses; she herself foresaw clearly the time when she would be taken away to the County Asylum. Having said all this, and having mentioned that she counted herself among the few who could respect and keep a secret, Mrs. Burnham lowered her voice that folk around might not hear, and urged it was high time Miss Amherst thought of getting married. Mrs. Burnham's advice was that Miss Amherst should pick out some desirable young gentleman of good birth and excellent prospects.

“And then go for him,” recommended the matronly lady, with earnestness. “Go for him, for all you know. Takes a bit of doing, of course, but it's worth while.”

The commencement of the game did not interrupt Mrs. Burnham's counsel, but it interfered with the girl's power of giving attention. Standing on a chair she watched eagerly, describing the progress in brief ejaculatory sentences to her chaperon; joined in the appeals of a few members of the crowd addressed to the visiting team; refrained from giving assistance to the majority in cheering and encouraging the home side. Privately, she criticised James McWinter, who, a large young man, appeared to be doing as little as possible, the while the rest scurried about on the slightly frosted turfed ground, doing everything in a strenuous manner with no result. What a football crowd likes is the scoring of goals, and when at half-time it proved that not one had been recorded on either side, the two teams, exhausted and limp (with the exception of James McWinter) were followed by regretful looks; men described what they themselves would have done, if they were but a few years younger or older, and less occupied with other affairs. Mr. Amherst bustled around, fanning himself with his silk hat, and looking greatly perturbed. He mentioned to his daughter that they (meaning Pangbourne's directors) had the cheek to ask so much—quoting the large figure—that he would see them further before planking down that amount; he went so far as to hint at the well-warmed direction they could select.

The teams took up their new positions. The whistle sounded. Before Miss Amherst had disengaged herself from her companion's inquiries and counsel, the outside left, amidst erroneous cries of “Off-side!” centred across to the inside right, who centred again, and James McWinter trapped the ball, dodged the two backs and shot hard; the goalkeeper fumbled it, and even supporters of the home side could scarce restrain a cheer. The other team prepared for a change of tactics, and in exactly four minutes precisely the same thing happened, and the goalkeeper dealt with the ball in almost the same manner; tears stood in his eyes; he glanced with reproach at his gloves, and bowed his head penitently to the observations of colleagues. Miss Amherst had to apologise more than once when crying “Shoot!” for kicking the back of a stout gentleman standing just in front of her. When at the end of the ninety minutes' traffic the visiting side had scored five to none, and four of these goals were to be credited to James McWinter, she turned to her companion. Her father was in a kind of scrum not far off; she recognised the light in his eyes of one to whom money was of no consequence, and into her eyes came the light of one resolved to act promptly. Under cover of the cheering, she made an enthusiastic and apparently genuine declaration.

“Oh, but, my dear,” cried Mrs. Burnham alarmedly, “you mustn't talk like this. This is dreadful. When I said what I did just now, I never meant you should go and throw yourself away on a great clumsy hulk like that, earning not more than £4 a week. Besides, his people are meat salesmen.”

“I'm not a vegetarian.”

Mr. Amherst, scarlet, almost blue with eagerness, was hurrying by.

“Not a word, please,” begged the girl, with extravagant signs of distress, “not a syllable to my father. Promise me you won't tell him. My mind's made up; but I don't want him to know.”

Mrs. Burnham put out the hooked handle of her umbrella and caught Mr. Amherst neatly.

“Very sorry,” he panted, “can't spare a moment.”

“You just come here first,” ordered the lady resolutely. “There's something you've got to know, and I mean to tell it to you before I go and look after my husband. I'm not going to be blamed afterwards, and have you say it was my fault.”

“Do hurry up,” begged Mr. Amherst piteously. “If you knew how urgent it all was, you wouldn't chatter on like this. I'm going to give them whatever they ask for him. He's a bachelor, and he won't mind where he lives.”

“Your daughter,” said Mrs. Burnham, speaking with tragic emphasis, “tells me—that she's fallen in love—at first sight—with that six foot three—called James McSomething—who's been kicking the ball—like a young demon—between the two posts. And my advice to you is—keep 'em well apart—keep 'em hundreds of miles apart from each other!”

Mr. Pangbourne's club, with the aid of James and the rest, made its way later into the Second League, and he himself secured three well-paid official appointments from the Corporation and other bodies, who were probably actuated by feelings of gratitude; the entire town joined in giving him and Miss Amherst a notable wedding present. Mr. Amherst, now honorary secretary of the Bowling Club, has married a lady of forty-five, hitherto interested only in deep-sea fishermen. And all intend to live more or less happily ever afterwards.