The Revolver
When friends observed his occasional limp, Alderman Keats would say,with an air of false casualness, "Oh, a touch of the gout."And after a year or two, the limp having increased in frequency andbecome almost lameness, he would say, "My gout!"He also acquired the use of the word "twinge." A scowl of torture wouldpass across his face, and then he would murmur, "Twinge."He was proud of having the gout, "the rich man's disease." AldermanKeats had begun life in Hanbridge as a grocer's assistant, a very simpleperson indeed. At forty-eight he was wealthy, and an alderman. It issomething to be alderman of a town of sixty thousand inhabitants. It wasat the age of forty-five that he had first consulted his doctor as tocertain capricious pains, which the doctor had diagnosed as gout. Thediagnosis had enchanted him, though he tried to hide his pleasure,pretending to be angry and depressed. It seemed to Alderman Keats a markof distinction to be afflicted with the gout. Quite against the doctor'sorders he purchased a stock of port, and began to drink it steadily. Hewas determined that there should be no mistake about his gout; he wasdetermined to have the gout properly and fully. Indulgence in port madehim somewhat rubicund and "portly,"--he who had once been a pale littlecounter-jumper; and by means of shooting-coats, tight gaiters, and theright shape of hat he turned himself into a passable imitation of thefine old English gentleman. His tone altered, too, and instead of beinguniformly diplomatic, it varied abruptly between a sort of Cheeryblephilanthropy and a sort of Wellingtonian ferocity. During an attack ofgout he was terrible in the house, and the oaths that he "rapped out" inthe drawing-room could be heard in the kitchen and further. Nobodyminded, however, for everyone shared in the glory of his gout, andcheerfully understood that a furious temper was inseparable from gout.Alderman Keats succeeded once in being genuinely laid up with gout. Hethen invited acquaintances to come and solace him in misfortune, and hisacquaintances discovered him with one swathed leg horizontal on a chairin front of his arm-chair, and twinging and swearing like anything, inthe very manner of an eighteenth-century squire. And even in that plighthe would insist on a glass of port, "to cheat the doctor."He had two boys, aged sixteen and twelve, and he would allow both ofthem to drink wine in the evening, saying they must learn to "carrytheir liquor like gentlemen." When the lad of twelve calmly ordered thenew parlour-maid to bring him the maraschino, Alderman Keats thoughtthat that was a great joke.Quickly he developed into the acknowledged champion of all ancientEnglish characteristics, customs, prejudices and ideals.It was this habit of mind that led to the revolver.He saw the revolver prominent in the window of Stetton's, thepawnbroker in Crown Square, and the notion suddenly occurred to him thata fine old English gentleman could not be considered complete without arevolver. He bought the weapon, which Stetton guaranteed to befirst-rate and fatal, and which was, in fact, pretty good. It seemed tothe alderman bright, complex and heavy. He had imagined a revolver to besmaller and lighter; but then he had never handled an instrument moredangerous than a razor. He hesitated about going to his cousin's, JoeKeats, the ironmonger; Joe Keats always laughed at him as if he were afarce; Joe would not be ceremonious, and could not be corrected becausehe was a relative and of equal age with the alderman. But he was obligedto go to Joe Keats, as Joe made a speciality of cartridges. InHanbridge, people who wanted cartridges went as a matter of course toJoe's. So Alderman Keats strolled with grand casualness into Joe's, andsaid:"I say, Joe, I want some cartridges.""What for?" the thin Joe asked."A barker," the alderman replied, pleased with this word, and producingthe revolver."Well," said Joe, "you don't mean to say you're going about with thatthing in your pocket, you?""Why not?""Oh! No reason why not! But you ought to be preceded by a chap with ared flag, you know, same as a steam-roller."And the alderman, ignoring this, remarked with curt haughtiness:"Every man ought to have a revolver."Then he went to his tailor and had a right-hand hip-pocket put into allhis breeches.Soon afterwards, walking down Slippery Lane, near the Big Pits,notoriously a haunt of mischief, he had an encounter with a collier whowas drunk enough to be insulting and sober enough to be dangerous. Inrelating the affair afterwards Alderman Keats said:"Fortunately I had my revolver. And I soon whipped it out, I can tellyou.""And are you really never without your revolver?" he was asked."Never!""And it's always loaded?""Always! What's the good of a revolver if it isn't loaded?"Thus he became known as the man who never went out without a loadedrevolver in his pocket. The revolver indubitably impressed people; itseemed to match the gout. People grew to understand that evil-doers hadbetter look out for themselves if they meant to disturb Alderman Keats,with his gout, and his revolver all ready to be whipped out.One day Brindley, the architect from Bursley, who knew more about musicthan revolvers, called to advise the alderman concerning some projectedalterations to his stabling--alterations not necessitated by thepurchase of a motor-car, for motor-cars were not old English. Andsomehow, while they were in the stable-yard, the revolver got into theconversation, and Brindley said: "I should like to see you hitsomething. You'll scarcely believe me, but I've never seen a revolverfired--not with shot in it, I mean."Alderman Keats smiled bluffly."I've been told it's difficult enough to hit even a door with arevolver," said Brindley."You see that keyhole," said the alderman, startlingly, pointing to aworn rusty keyhole in the middle of the vast double-doors of thecarriage-house.Brindley admitted that he did see it.The next moment there was an explosion, and the alderman glanced at thesmoking revolver, blew on it suspiciously, and put it back into hiscelebrated hip-pocket.Brindley, whom the explosion had intimidated, examined the double-doors,and found no mark."Where did you hit?" he inquired."Through the keyhole," said the alderman, after a pause. He opened thedoors, and showed half a load of straw in the dusk behind them."The bullet's imbedded in there," said he."Well," said Brindley, "that's not so bad, that isn't.""There aren't five men in the Five Towns who could do that," thealderman said.And as he said it he looked, with his legs spread apart, and hisshort-tailed coat, and his general bluff sturdiness, almost as oldEnglish as he could have desired to look. Except that his face had paledsomewhat. Mr Brindley thought that that transient pallor had been causedby legitimate pride in high-class revolver-shooting. But he was wrong.It had been caused by simple fear. The facts of the matter were thatAlderman Keats had never before dared to fire the revolver, and that theinfernal noise and the jar on his hand (which had held the weapon tooloosely) had given him what is known in the Five Towns as a fearfulstart. He had offered to shoot on the spur of the moment, without duereflection, and he had fired as a woman might have fired. It was a pieceof the most heavenly good fortune that he had put the bullet through thekeyhole. Indeed, at first he was inclined to believe that marksmanshipmust be less difficult than it was reported to be, for his aim had beenentirely casual. In saying to Brindley, "You see that keyhole," he hadmerely been boasting in a jocular style. However, when Brindley left,Brindley carried with him the alderman's reputation as a perfect WildWest shot.The alderman had it in mind to practise revolver-shooting seriously,until the Keats coachman made a discovery later in the day. The coachmanslept over the carriage-house, and on going up the ladder to put on hiscelluloid collar he perceived a hole in his ceiling and some plaster onhis bit of carpet. The window had been open all day. The alderman hadnot only failed to get the keyhole, he had not only failed to get thedouble-doors, he had failed to hit any part whatever of the groundfloor!And this unsettled the alderman. This proved to the alderman that theactive use of a revolver incurred serious perils. It proved to him thatnearly anything might happen with a revolver. He might aim at alamp-post and hit the town hall clock; he might mark down a burglar anddestroy the wife of his affections. There were no limits to what couldoccur. And so he resolved never to shoot any more. He would still carrythe revolver; but for his old English gentlemanliness he would rely lesson that than on the gout.But the whole town (by which I mean the councillors and the leadingmanufacturers and tradesmen and their sons) had now an interest in therevolver, for Brindley, the architect, had spoken of that which he hadseen with his own eyes. Some people accepted the alderman without demuras a great and terrible shot; but others talked about a fluke; and avery small minority mentioned that there was such a thing as blankcartridge. It was the monstrous slander of this minority that inducedthe alderman to stand up morally for his revolver and to continuetalking about it. He suppressed the truth about the damaged ceiling; hedeliberately allowed the public to go on believing, with Brindley, thathe had aimed at the keyhole and really gone through it, and hisconscience was not at all disturbed. But that wicked traducers shouldhint that he had been using blank cartridge made him furiouslyindignant, and also exacerbated his gout. And he called on his cousinJoe to prove that he had never spent a penny on blank cartridge.It was a pity that he dragged the sardonic Joe back into the affair. Joeobserved to him that for a man in regular revolver practice he wasbuying precious few cartridges; and so he had to lay in a stock. Now hedared not employ these cartridges; and yet he wished to make a noisewith his revolver in order to convince the neighbourhood that he was insteady practice. Nor dare he buy blank cartridges from Joe. It was notsafe to buy blank cartridges anywhere in the Five Towns, so easily doesnews travel there, and so easily are reputations blown. Hence ithappened that Alderman Keats went as far as Crewe specially to buy blankcartridge, and he drowned the ball cartridge secretly in the BirchesPond. To such lengths may a timid man be driven in order to preserve andfoster the renown of being a dog of the old sort. All kinds of personsused to hear the barking of the alderman's revolver in his stable-yard,and the cumulative effect of these noises wore down calumny andincredulity. And, of course, having once begun to practise, the aldermancould not decently cease. The absurd situation endured. And a coral reefof ball cartridges might have appeared on the surface of Birches Pondhad it not been for the visit (at enormous expense) of Hagentodt's tentigers to the Hanbridge Empire.This visit, epoch-making in the history of music-hall enterprise in theFive Towns, coincided with the annual venison feast of a society knownas Ye Ancient Corporation of Hanbridge, which society had no connectionwhatever with the real rate-levying corporation, but was a piece ofelaborate machinery for dinner-eating. Alderman Keats, naturally, wasprominent in the affair of the venison feast. Nobody was better fittedthan he to be in the chair at such a solemnity, and in the chair he was,and therein did wonderful things. In putting the loyal toasts he spokefor half an hour concerning the King's diplomacy, with a reference toroyal gout; which was at least unusual. And then, when the feast was faradvanced, he uprose, ignoring the toast list, and called upon theassembled company to drink to Old England and Old Port for ever, and afig for gout! And after this, amid a genial informality, theconversation of a knot of cronies at the Chair end of the table deviatedto the noble art of self-defence, and so to revolvers. And the alderman,jolly but still aldermanic, produced his revolver, proving that it wenteven with his dress-suit."Look here," said one. "Is it loaded?""Of course," said the alderman."Ball cartridge?""Of course," said the alderman."Well, would you mind putting it back in your pocket--with all this wineand whisky about--"The alderman complied, proud.He was limping goutily home with the Vice, at something after midnight,when, as they passed the stage-door of the Empire, both men were awareof fearsome sounds within the building. And the stage-door was ajar.Being personages of great importance, they entered into the interiorgloom and collided with the watchman, who was rushing out."Is that you, Alderman Keats?" exclaimed the watchman. "Thank Heaven!"The alderman then learnt that two of Hagentodt's Bengal tigers werehaving an altercation about a lady, and that it looked like a duel tothe death. (Yet one would have supposed that after two performances, ateight-thirty and ten-thirty respectively, those tigers would have beentoo tired and bored to quarrel about anything whatever.) The watchmanhad already fetched Hagentodt from his hotel, but Hagentodt's revolverwas missing--could not be found anywhere, and the rivals were in such astate of fury that even the unique Hagentodt would not enter their cagewithout a revolver. Meanwhile invaluable tigers were being mutuallydestructive, and the watchman was just off to the police-station toborrow a revolver.The roaring grew terrific."Have you got your revolver, Alderman Keats?" asked the watchman."No," said the alderman, "I haven't.""Oh!" said the Vice. "I thought I saw you showing it to your cousin andsome others."At the same moment Joe and some others, equally attracted by theroaring, strolled in.The alderman hesitated."Yes, of course; I was forgetting.""If you'll lend it to the professor a minute or so?" said the watchman.The alderman pulled it out of his pocket, and hesitatingly handed it tothe watchman, and the watchman was turning hurriedly away with it whenthe alderman said nervously:"I'm not sure if it's loaded.""Well, you're a nice chap!" Joe Keats put in."I forget," muttered the alderman."We'll soon see," said the watchman, who was accustomed to revolvers.And he opened it. "Yes," glancing into it, "it's loaded right enough."And turned away again towards the sound of the awful roaring."I say," the alderman cried, "I'm afraid it's only blank cartridge."He might have saved his reputation by allowing the unique Hagentodt torisk his life with a useless revolver. But he had a conscience. A clearconscience was his sole compensation as he faced the sardonic laughterwhich Joe led and which finished off his reputation as a dog of the oldsort. The annoying thing was that his noble self-sacrifice was useless,for immediately afterwards the roaring ceased, Hagentodt havingseparated the combatants by means of a burning newspaper at the end of astick. And the curious thing was that Alderman Keats never againmentioned his gout.
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