John Heminges

“ A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it.
“See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I’m a nature-writer.”
A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett.
“Beautiful lady,” said Bill. “Going to kidnap us.”
“Hullo!” Brett said. “Hullo!”
“This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley.”
Brett smiled at Bill. “I say I’m just back. Haven’t bathed even. Michael comes in to-night.”
“Good. Come on and eat with us, and we’ll all go to meet him.” ”

“ From O'Rourke, Hemming learned to do things for himself—little things like rolling a blanket, frying bacon, and pitching a tent. In the past there had always been a Mr. Thomas Atkins to look after such trifles. Also he learned that no knowledge comes amiss to a roving newspaper man, from the science of navigation to the art of sewing on patches, and the low occupation of grooming a mule. He realized how much more comfortable his life in the army, and his travelling in Greece and Turkey would have been, had he been able to turn his own hand to the things other people had left undone. ”

“ Hemming turned his monocle upon his friend in mild and curious regard.
"I doubt if there is another chap alive," he said, "who can write such wisdom and talk such rot as you."
"Oh, go easy," expostulated O'Rourke, "you've only read one article of mine—the twenty-page result of five weeks' sugar-cane and observation."
"It was remarkable stuff," mused Hemming.
The younger man had the grace to bow. "You don't look like the kind of chap who is lavish with his praise," he said.
Lighting a potent local cigar, he leaned back in his rickety chair, and shouted something in Spanish. ”

“ Hemming bowed gravely, a smile lifting his upturned, pale moustache. The baby came close, on all fours, and examined his yellow riding-boots and straight spurs. Hemming patted the small one's limp black hair.
"This is a kindly world," he said in English, then to the woman: "Let thy son wear this ring,—see, it fits his thumb. Should any man ask the name of his friend, say it is Hemming, an Englishman."
He pushed the child gently toward its mother, and, swinging to his saddle, rode down toward the city. ”

“ He is a big man, full of wisdom, smoking eternally a yellow cigar not of this country."
Hemming dismounted, the better to rest his horse. Although he had ridden all that day and the day before, he felt no fatigue himself. The tropical sun, the narrow water-cut paths, and the clambering vines held in the heated air and luring him with strange flowers, brought him no terror. But he polished his monocle and sighed uneasily, for his store of milreis had dwindled since leaving Pernambuco a week before to a sum equalling about eleven pounds in English money.
"Has this man an army?" ”

“ The cut-off barrels of the shotgun made a slight bulge under the waist of his too tight-fitting overcoat. He straightened his coat with his gloved hands.
“So long, bright boy,” he said to George. “You got a lot of luck.”
“That’s the truth,” Max said. “You ought to play the races, bright boy.”
The two of them went out the door. George watched them, through the window, pass under the arc-light and cross the street. In their tight overcoats and derby hats they looked like a vaudeville team. George went back through the swinging-door into the kitchen and untied Nick and the cook. ”

“ He gestured with the bottle. It was a wonderful day. "Marsala, you like marsala, Signorina? A little marsala?"
The wife stood sullenly. "You'll have to play up to this," she said. "I can't understand a word he says. He's drunk, isn't he?"
The young gentleman appeared not to hear Peduzzi. He was thinking, what in hell makes him say marsala? That's what Max Beerbohm drinks.
"Geld," Peduzzi said finally, taking hold of the young gentleman's sleeve. "Lire." He smiled, reluctant to press the subject but needing to bring the young gentleman into action. ”

“ John said. “It goes too fast for me.”
“That peasant,” the innkeeper said, “to-day he brought his wife in to be buried. She died last November.”
“December,” said the sexton.
“That makes nothing. She died last December then, and he notified the commune.”
“December eighteenth,” said the sexton.
“Anyway, he couldn’t bring her over to be buried until the snow was gone.”
“He lives on the other side of the Paznaun,” said the sexton. “But he belongs to this parish.”
“He couldn’t bring her out at all?” I asked.
“No. He can only come, from where he lives, on skis until the snow melts. ”

“ Hicks was growing fat and self-complacent. Marion was growing commonplace under the burden of formalities. Even the old man was undergoing a change—had already been weaned from his yellow cigar and taught to wear a four-in-hand necktie until dinner-time. As for Mrs. Tetson, kindly soul, why, she now spent most of her days in contented slumber, and sometimes drove in the park of an afternoon.
Hemming sometimes went to dinner at the Hudsons' with O'Rourke. Mrs. Hudson was dead, and Helen and her father made up the family. Hemming found these evenings quite worth while. ”

“ Mike said. “Just us three. We’re going to festa the bloody English. I hope you’re not English? I’m Scotch. I hate the English. I’m going to festa them. Come on, Bill.”
Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the café. Rockets were going up in the square.
“I’m going to sit here,” Brett said.
“I’ll stay with you,” Cohn said.
“Oh, don’t!” Brett said. “For God’s sake, go off somewhere. Can’t you see Jake and I want to talk?”
“I didn’t,” Cohn said. “I thought I’d sit here because I felt a little tight.”
“What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. ”

“ Hemming spent two weeks in Greece. He wrote a few descriptive stories for his syndicate, and then crossed into Turkey, where he was offered a commission. He wired that fighting was certain. The syndicate thought otherwise, and called him across the world to see or make trouble in South America. He cursed their stupidity and started, spending only a few hours in England, and taking ship in Liverpool for New York. Arriving in that city, he and his possessions (and he carried a full outfit) journeyed in a cab to an old and respectable hotel on Broadway. The fare he had to pay opened his eyes. ”

“ For heavily enow was his wrath fallen on some who rashly flaunted in his face their light disports, presuming to hunt in such fields while their lord went still a-fasting.
After a while Heming, who sat next to Gro, began to say to him in a whisper, "This is an ill banquet."
"Meseems rather 'tis a very good banquet," said Gro.
"Would I saw some other issue thereof," said Heming, "than that he purposeth. Or how thinkest thou?"
"I scarce can blame him," answered Gro. "'Tis a most lovesome lady."
"Is not the man a most horrible open swine? ”

“ She did not finish the remark, and the secretary, after a painful scrutiny of the silent banjo in her lap, went away to the stables and ordered his horse. But a man is a fool to ride hard along the bank of a Brazilian river in the heat of the afternoon.
From one of the windows of his cool room, Hemming watched the departure of the President's private secretary. He remembered what Tetson had said of the boy,—"too young to associate with men."
But youth is a thing easily mended, thought Hemming. Somehow—perhaps only in size—Hicks recalled O'Rourke to his mind ”

“ Inside the kitchen he saw Al, his derby hat tipped back, sitting on a stool beside the wicket with the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun resting on the ledge. Nick and the cook were back to back in the corner, a towel tied in each of their mouths. George had cooked the sandwich, wrapped it up in oiled paper, put it in a bag, brought it in, and the man had paid for it and gone out.
“Bright boy can do everything,” Max said. “He can cook and everything. You’d make some girl a nice wife, bright boy.”
“Yes?” George said. “Your friend, Ole Andreson, isn’t going to come.” ”

“ He often spoke bitterly and lightly of those things which most men love and respect. In the sick-room, be it in the rich man's villa or in the mud hut of the plantation labourer, he spoke softly, and his hands were gentle as a woman's.
Hemming had been working with his little army all day, and, after dining at the mess, he changed and relieved Miss Tetson and the doctor. ”

“ Hernandez came over from speaking with his own manager.
“You got a good hand, kid,” Manuel complimented him.
“They like me,” Hernandez said happily.
“How did the paseo go?” Manuel asked Retana’s man.
“Like a wedding,” said the handler. “Fine. You came out like Joselito and Belmonte.”
Zurito rode by, a bulky equestrian statue. He wheeled his horse and faced him toward the toril on the far side of the ring where the bull would come out. It was strange under the arc-light. He pic-ed in the hot afternoon sun for big money. He didn’t like this arc-light business. He wished they would get started. ”

“ He did not know whether we knew Brett had been with him at San Sebastian, and it made him rather awkward.
“Well,” I said, “Brett and Mike ought to get in to-night.”
“I’m not sure they’ll come,” Cohn said.
“Why not?” Bill said. “Of course they’ll come.”
“They’re always late,” I said.
“I rather think they’re not coming,” Robert Cohn said.
He said it with an air of superior knowledge that irritated both of us.
“I’ll bet you fifty pesetas they’re here to-night,” Bill said. He always bets when he is angered, and so he usually bets foolishly.
“I’ll take it,” Cohn said. “Good. You remember it, Jake. ”

“ During a performance of Henry VIII, on 29 June 1613, the Globe was burnt to the ground. Some contemporary verses mention Burbadge, Heminges, and Condell as present on this occasion. A levy was called for from the housekeepers to meet the cost of rebuilding, and owing to the inability of the representatives of Augustine Phillips to meet the call upon them, Heminges was enabled to recover one of the alienated interests, which he divided with Condell.
The company was at Oxford before November in 1613, and also visited Shrewsbury, Stafford, and Folkestone during 1612–13. ”

“ Manuel shouted to the gypsy. The bull had smelled the blood of the dead horse and ripped into the canvas-cover with his horns. He charged Fuentes’s cape, with the canvas hanging from his splintered horn, and the crowd laughed. Out in the ring, he tossed his head to rid himself of the canvas. Hernandez, running up from behind him, grabbed the end of the canvas and neatly lifted it off the horn.
The bull followed it in a half-charge and stopped still. He was on the defensive again. Manuel was walking toward him with the sword and muleta. Manuel swung the muleta before him. ”

“ Or, if he did come to the King’s men in 1609, he almost immediately returned to the Queen’s Revels at Whitefriars, joining the King’s again about 1616. [620]
About 8 May 1610 some superfluous apparel of the company was sold by Heminges on their behalf to the Duke of York’s [216] men (q.v.) . On 31 May Burbadge and Rice were employed by the City to make speeches on fish-back at the civic pageant of welcome to Prince Henry. [621] The autumn travelling took the company to Dover between 6 July and 4 August 1610, to Oxford in August, and to Shrewsbury and Stafford in 1609–10. ”

“ All the time there was music in the street. The drums kept on pounding and the pipes were going. Inside the cafés men with their hands gripping the table, or on each other’s shoulders, were singing the hard-voiced singing.
“Here comes Brett,” Bill said.
I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in the square, walking, her head up, as though the fiesta were being staged in her honor, and she found it pleasant and amusing.
“Hello, you chaps!” she said. “I say, I have a thirst.”
“Get another big beer,” Bill said to the waiter.
“Shrimps?”
“Is Cohn gone?” Brett asked.
“Yes,” Bill said. ”

“ He had a wonderful life and all he thinks about now is Africa and his drunken father and his press cuttings. His clippings. Has he ever shown you his clippings, Heiress?"
"No, Catherine," Marita said.
"He will," Catherine said. "He tried to show them to me once at le Grau du Roi but I put a stop to that. There were hundreds of them and every one, almost, had his picture and they were all the same pictures. It's worse than carrying around obscene post cards really. I think he reads them by himself and is unfaithful to me with them. In a wastebasket probably. He always has a wastebasket. ”

“ Fearing that his servants might be corrupted by his enemies, Heming looked after his lights himself at midnight, and again at four or five o'clock in the morning, and became in consequence seriously ill. ”

“ He leaned forward. “I say, Jake, do you mind if I drink that bottle of yours? She’ll bring you another one.”
“Please,” I said. “I wasn’t drinking it, anyway.”
Mike started to open the bottle. “Would you mind opening it?” I pressed up the wire fastener and poured it for him.
“You know,” Mike went on, “Brett was rather good. She’s always rather good. I gave her a fearful hiding about Jews and bull-fighters, and all those sort of people, and do you know what she said: ‘Yes. I’ve had such a hell of a happy life with the British aristocracy!’ ”
He took a drink. ”

“ Then Cohn leaned down to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. No hard feelings, you know. All for forgiveness. And the bull-fighter chap hit him in the face again."
"That's quite a kid," Bill said.
"He ruined Cohn," Mike said. "You know I don't think Cohn will ever want to knock people about again."
"When did you see Brett?"
"This morning. She came in to get some things. She's looking after this Romero lad."
He poured out another bottle of beer.
"Brett's rather cut up. But she loves looking after people. That's how we came to go off together. She was looking after me." ”