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Astonishing History of Troy Town

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<h3>CHAPTER XVI.</h3> <h3>OF STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS; AND THAT THE NOMINALISTS ERR WHO HOLD A THING TO BE WHAT IT IS CALLED.</h3> At two o'clock next morning Mr. Moggridge closed the door of his lodgings behind him, and stepping out into the street stood for some moments to ponder. A smile sat upon his lips, witness to pleasure that underlies poetic pains. The Collector of Customs was in humour this morning, and had written thirty lines of Act IV. of Love's Dilemma: a Comedy, before breakfast, for it was his custom to rise early and drink regularly of the waters of Helicon before seeking his office. It is curious that the Civil Service should so often divide its claims with the Service of the Muse. I remember that the Honourable Frederic once drew my attention to this, and supplied me with several instances:—"There was What's-his-name, you know, and t'other Johnny up in the Lakes, and a heap I can't remember at the moment—fancy it must come from the stamps—licked off with the gum, perhaps." Be that as it may, Mr. Moggridge had written thirty lines this morning, and was even now, as he stood in the street and stared at the opposite house, repeating to himself a song he had just composed for his hero. It is worth quoting, for, with slight alteration, I know no better clue to the poet's mood at the time. The play has since been destroyed, for reasons of which some hint may be found in the next few chapters; but the unfinished song is still preserved among the author's notes, where it is headed— <blockquote><blockquote> A HYMN OF LOVE. "Toiling lover, loose your pack, All your sighs and tears unbind;  Care's a ware may break a back, May not bend a maiden's mind. "Loose, and follow to a land Where the tyrant's only fee  Is the kissing of a hand And the bending of a knee. "In that State a man shall need Neither priest nor lawgiver:  Those same slips that are his creed Shall confess their worshipper. "All the laws he must obey, Now in force and now repealed,  Shift in eyes that shift as they— </blockquote></blockquote> "'Shift as they,' 'shift as they,'" mused Mr. Moggridge. "Let me see—" <blockquote><blockquote>  'Till alike with kisses sealed.' </blockquote></blockquote> "That was it. With another verse, and a little polishing, I will take it to Geraldine and ask her—" At this point the poet glanced down the street, and, to his surprise, beheld Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys advancing towards him. "Good-morning," she nodded with a charming smile, "I was coming to look for you. I have a favour to ask." "A favour? Is it the—?" "Well, it's rather prosaic for the—" she laughed. "In fact, it's tea." "Tea?" "Yes. It's rather a long story; but it comes to this. You see, Fred is very particular about the tea he drinks." "Indeed?" "It's a fact, I assure you. Well, when we were travelling in the states, Fred happened to come across some tea he liked particularly, at Chicago. And the funny thing about this tea is that it is compressed. It is called 'Wapshotts' Patent Compressed Tea;' now I daresay," added Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys demurely, "that you wouldn't think it possible for compressed tea to be good." "To tell you the truth," said Mr. Moggridge, "I have never given the subject a thought." "No, of course; being a poet, you wouldn't. But it's very good, all the same: you buy it in cakes, and have to be very particular that 'Wapshott and Sons' is written on each cake: of course it isn't really written—" "Of course not; but you'll excuse me if I don't yet see—" "To be sure you don't until I have explained. Well, you see, men are so particular about what they eat and drink, and are always thinking about it—I don't mean poets, of course. I suppose you, for instance, only think about gossamer and things." "I don't know that I think much about gossamer," said Mr. Moggridge. "Well, moonbeams, then. But Fred is different. Ever since he left Chicago he has been talking about that tea. I wonder you never heard him." "I have not, to my knowledge." "No? Well, at last, finding it couldn't be bought in England, he sent across for a chest. We had the invoice a few days ago, and here it is." Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys produced a scrap of paper, and went on— "You see, it's coming in a ship called the Maryland, and ought to be here about this time. Well, Fred was looking through his telescope before breakfast this morning—he's always looking through a telescope now, and knows, I believe, every rig of every vessel in the world—when he calls out, 'Hullo! American barque!' in his short way. Of course, I didn't know at first what he meant, and mixed it up with that stuff—Peruvian bark, isn't it?—that you give to your child, if you have one, and do not let it untimely die, or something of the sort. But afterwards he shouted, 'I shouldn't wonder if she's the Maryland;' and then I understood, and it struck me that it would be so nice to come to you and pay the 'duty,' or whatever you call it, on the tea, and at the same time, if you were very good, you would take me over the ship with you, and show me how you did your work. It's very complicated, I daresay: but I'll be quiet as a mouse, and won't interrupt you at all." She paused for breath. The Collector smiled, and handed back the invoice. "It seems all right," he said. "Let us hurry to the Custom House. An hour in your company, Geraldine, will transfigure even the dull round of duty." Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys smiled back divinely. She thought it extremely probable. A few minutes later the poet sat by Geraldine's side—sweet proximity!—in the stern of one of Her Majesty's boats, while two "minions," as he was wont in verse to term his subordinates, rowed them towards a shapely barque that had just dropped anchor not far from the Bower Slip. She flew a yellow flag in sign that she hailed from a foreign port, and as the Customs' boat dropped under her quarter Mr. Moggridge shouted— "Maryland, ahoy!" "Ahoy!" answered a gruff voice, and a red face looked over the side. "Captain?" inquired Mr. Moggridge. "That's me—Uriah T. Potter, Cap'n. Customs, I guess," said the red-faced man, with a slow look at Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys. "Clean bill of health?" "Waal, two fo'c's'le hands down with whoopin'-cough: take it you won't keep us in quarantine for that." The Collector helped Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys up the ship's side. As she alighted on deck a swift glance passed between her and the red-faced man. Quite casually she laid two fingers on her chin. Uriah T. Potter did the same; but Mr. Moggridge was giving some instructions to his minions at the moment, and did not notice it. "Anything to declare?" he asked. "Mainly corn aboard, an' tinned fruits for Port o' London. Reas'nable deal o' tea an' 'baccy, though, for you to seal—shipped for same place. By the way, chest o' tea for party living hereabouts—Goodwyn-Sandys, friend of owner—guess that's the reason for putting in at this one-hoss place," wound up Uriah T. Potter, with a depreciatory glance at the beauties of Troy. "This is Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys," said the Collector. "Proud to make your 'cquaintance, marm." The Captain held out his hand to the lady, who shook it affably. "Let's see the cargo," said Mr. Moggridge. The Captain led the way and they descended; Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys full of pretty wonder at the arrangements of the ship, and slipping her fingers timidly into the Collector's hand on the dark companion stairs. He seized and raised them to his lips. "Oh, you poets!" expostulated she. <blockquote><blockquote> "Where the tyrant's only fee," murmured Mr. Moggridge. "Is the kissing of a hand." </blockquote></blockquote> "What, more verses? You shall repeat them to me." I am afraid that in the obscurity below, Mr. Moggridge inspected the weighing of ship's stores and sealing of excisable goods in a very perfunctory manner. There were so many dim corners and passages where Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys needed guidance; and, after all, the minions were sufficient for the work. They rummaged here and there among casks and chests, weighing, counting, and sealing, whilst the red-faced Uriah stood over them and occasionally looked from the Collector to the lady with a slow grin of growing intelligence. They were seated together on a cask, and Mr. Moggridge had possessed himself, for the twentieth time, of his companion's hand. "You think the verses obscure?" he was whispering. "Ah! Geraldine, if I could only speak out from the heart! As it is, 'Euphelia serves to grace my measure!'" "Who's she?" asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, whose slight acquaintance with other poets was, perhaps, the reason why she rated her companion's verse so highly. <blockquote><blockquote> "'The merchant, to conceal his treasure, Conveys it in a borrowed name,'" </blockquote></blockquote> Mr. Moggridge began to quote.—"Why, Geraldine, what is the matter? Are you faint?" "No; it is nothing." "I thought you seemed pale. As I was saying—" <blockquote><blockquote> 'The merchant, to conceal his treasure—' </blockquote></blockquote> "Yes, yes, I know," said she, rising abruptly. "It is very hot and close down here." "Then you were faint?" "Here's your chest, marm," called the voice of Uriah T. Potter. She turned and walked towards it. It was a large, square packing-case, and bore the legends— <center> "WAPSHOTT AND SONS', CHICAGO, PATENT COMPRESSED TEA, TEN PRIZE MEDALS"— </center> stamped here and there about it. "I suppose," she said, turning to Mr. Moggridge, "I can have it weighed here, and pay you the duty, and then Captain Potter can send it straight to 'The Bower'?" "Certainly," said Mr. Moggridge; "we won't be long opening it, and then—" "Opening it!" "Why, yes; as a matter of form, you know. It won't take a minute." "But how foolish," said Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, "when you know very well by the invoice that it's tea!" "Oh, of course it's foolish: only it's the rule, you understand, before allowing goods to be landed." "But I don't understand. It is tea, and I am ready to pay the duty. I never thought you would be so unreasonable." "Geraldine!" At the utterance of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys' Christian name the two minions turned aside to conceal their smiles. The red-faced man's appreciation even led him to dive behind the packing-case. The Collector pulled himself up and looked confused. "It was so small a thing I asked," said she, almost to herself, and with a heart-rending break in her voice, "so small a test!" And with a sigh she half-turned to go. The Collector's hand arrested her. "Do you mean—?" She looked at him with reproach in her eyes. "Let me pass," said she, and seeing the conflict between love and duty on his face, "So small a test!" "Damn the tea!" said Mr. Moggridge. "I am feeling so faint," said Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys. "Let me lead you up to the fresh air." "No; go and open the tea." "I am not going to open it." "Do!" "I won't. Here, Sam," he called to one of the minions, "put down that chisel and weigh the chest at once. You needn't open it. Come, don't stand staring, but look alive. I know what's inside. Are you satisfied?" he added, bending over her. "It frightened me so," she answered, looking up with swimming eyes. "And I thought—I was planning it so nicely. Take me up on deck, please." "Come, be careful o' that chest," said Captain Uriah T. Potter to the minions, as they moved it up to be weighed. "Heaviest tea that iver I handled," groaned the first minion. "All the more duty for you sharks. O' course it's heavy, being compressed: an' strong, too. Guess you don't oft'n get tea o' this strength in your country, anyway. Give a man two pinches o' Wapshott's best, properly cooked, an' I reckon it'll last him. You won't find him coming to complain." "No?" "No. But I ain't sayin' nuthin'," added Captain Potter, "about his widder." And his smile, as he regarded his hearers, was both engaging and expansive.   <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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