Kipps, H. G. Wells [best books for 7th graders txt] 📗

‘old of everything,’ said Ann. ‘You can’t say a word—’

‘Dadda got a cheque,’ this marvellous child repeated.

‘Yes, o’ man, I got a cheque. And it’s got to go into a bank for you, against when you got to go to school. See? So’s you’ll grow up knowing your way about a bit.’

‘Dadda’s got a cheque,’ said the wonder son, and then gave his mind to making mighty splashes with his foot. Every time he splashed, laughter overcame him, and he had to be held up for fear he should tumble out of the tub in his merriment. Finally he was towelled to his toe-tips, wrapped up in warm flannel and kissed and carried off to bed by Ann’s cousin and lady help, Emma. And then after Ann had carried away the bath into the scullery, she returned to find her husband with his pipe extinct and the cheque still in his hand.

‘Two fousand pounds,’ he said. ‘It’s dashed rum. Wot ‘ave I done to get two fousand pounds, Ann?’

‘What ‘aven’t you—not to?’ said Ann.

He reflected upon this view of the case.

‘I shan’t never give up this shop,’ he said at last.

‘We’re very ‘appy ‘ere,’ said Ann.

‘Not if I ‘ad fifty fousand pounds.’

‘No fear,’ said Ann.

‘You got a shop,’ said Kipps, ‘and you come along in a year’s time and there it is. But money—look ‘ow it comes and goes! There’s no sense in money. You may kill yourself trying to get it, and then it comes when you aren’t looking. There’s my ‘riginal money! Where is it now? Gone! And it’s took young Walshingham with it, and ‘e’s gone, too. It’s like playing skittles. ‘Long comes the ball, right and left you fly, and there it is rolling away and not changed a bit. No sense in it. ‘E’s gone, and she’s gone— gone off with that chap Revel, that sat with me at dinner. Merried man! And Chit’low rich! Lor!—what a fine place that Gerrik Club is to be sure! where I ‘ad lunch wiv’ ‘im! Better’n any ‘otel. Footmen in powder they got—not waiters, Ann—footmen! ‘E’s rich and me rich—in a sort of way… Don’t seem much sense in it, Ann—‘owever you look at it.’ He shook his head.

‘I know one thing.’ said Kipps.

‘What?’

‘I’m going to put it in jest as many different banks as I can. See? Fifty ‘ere, fifty there. ‘Posit. I’m not going to ‘nvest it— no fear.’

‘It’s only frowing money away,’ said Ann.

‘I’m arf a mind to bury some of it under the shop. Only I expect one ‘ud always be coming down at nights to make sure it was there… I don’t seem to trust any one—not with money.’ He put the cheque on the table corner and smiled and tapped his pipe on the grate, with his eyes on that wonderful document. ‘S’pose old Bean started orf,’ he reflected… ‘One thing—‘e is a bit lame.’

”E wouldn’t,’ said Ann; ‘not ‘im.’

‘I was only joking like.’ He stood up, put his pipe among the candlesticks on the mantel, took up the cheque and began folding it carefully to put it back in his pocket-book.

A little bell jangled.

‘Shop!’ said Kipps. ‘That’s right. Keep a shop and the shop’ll keep you. That’s ‘ow I look at it, Ann.’

He drove his pocket-book securely into his breast-pocket before he opened the living-room door…

But whether, indeed, it is the bookshop that keeps Kipps or whether it is Kipps who keeps the bookshop, is just one of those commercial mysteries people of my unarithmetical temperament are never able to solve. They do very well, the dears, anyhow, thank Heaven!

The bookshop of Kipps is on the left-hand side of the Hythe High Street coming from Folkestone, between the yard of the livery stable and the shop window full of old silver and suchlike things—it is quite easy to find—and there you may see him for yourself, and speak to him and buy this book of him if you like. He has it in stock, I know. Very delicately I’ve seen to that. His name is not Kipps, of course, you must understand that; but everything else is exactly as I have told you. You can talk to him about books, about politics, about going to Boulogne, about life, and the ups and downs of life. Perhaps he will quote you Buggins—from whom, by the bye, one can now buy everything a gentleman’s wardrobe should contain at the little shop in Rendezvous Street, Folkestone. If you are fortunate to find Kipps in a good mood, he may even let you know how he inherited a fortune ‘once.’ ‘Run froo it,’ he’ll say with a not unhappy smile. ‘Got another afterwards—speckylating in plays. Needn’t keep this shop if I didn’t like. But it’s something to do…’

Or he may be even more intimate. ‘I seen some things,’ he said to me once. ‘Raver! Life! Why, once I—I loped! I did— reely!’

(Of course, you will not tell Kipps that he is ‘Kipps,’ or that I have put him in this book. He hasn’t the remotest suspicion of that. And, you know, you never can tell how people are going to take sort of thing. I am an old and trusted customer now, and for many amiable reasons I should prefer that things remained exactly on their present footing.)

8

One early-closing evening in July they left the baby to the servant cousin, and Kipps took Ann for a row on the Hythe canal. The sun set in a mighty blaze, and left a world warm, and very still. The twilight came. And there was the water, shinning bright, and the sky a deepening blue, and the great trees that dipped their boughs towards the water, exactly as it had been when he paddled home with Helen, when her eyes had seemed to him like dusky stars. He had ceased from rowing and rested on his oars, and suddenly he was touched by the wonder of life—the strangeness that is a presence stood again by his side.

Out of the darkness beneath the shallow, weedy stream of his being rose a question, a question that looked up dimly and never reached the surface. It was the question of the wonder of the beauty, the purposeless, inconsecutive beauty, that falls so strangely among the happenings and memories of life. It never reached the surface of his mind, it never took to itself substance or form; it looked up merely as the phantom of a face might look, out of deep waters, and sank again into nothingness.

‘Artie,’ said Ann.

He woke up and pulled a stroke. ‘What?’ he said.

‘Penny for your thoughts, Artie.’

He considered.

‘I reely don’t think I was thinking of anything,’ he said at last, with a smile. ‘No.’

He still rested on his oars.

‘I expect,’ he said, ‘I was thinking jest what a Rum Go everything is. I expect it was something like that.’

‘Queer old Artie!’

‘Ain’t I? I don’t suppose there ever was a chap quite like me before.’

He reflected for just another minute.

‘Oo!—I dunno,’ he said at last, and roused himself to pull.