"Lemme see what it says on the paper."
Chitterlow handed him the fragment and turned away. "You may say what you like," he said, addressing a vast, deep laugh to the street generally.
Kipps attempted to read. "'WADDY or KIPPS. If Arthur Waddy or Arthur Kipps, the son of Margaret Euphemia Kipps, who----'"
Chitterlow's finger swept over the print. "I went down the column and every blessed name that seemed to fit my play I took. I don't believe in made-up names. As I told you. I'm all with Zola in that. Documents whenever you can. I like 'em hot and real. See? Who was Waddy?"
"Never heard his name."
"Not Waddy?"
"No!"
Kipps tried to read again and abandoned the attempt. "What does it mean?" he said. "I don't understand."
"It means," said Chitterlow, with a momentary note of lucid exposition, "so far as I can make out that you're going to strike it Rich. Never mind about the Waddy--that's a detail. What does it usually mean? You'll hear of something to your advantage--very well. I took that newspaper up to get my names by the merest chance. Directly I saw it again and read that--I knew it was you. I believe in coincidences. People say they don't happen. _I_ say they do. Everything's a coincidence. Seen properly. Here you are. Here's one! Incredible? Not a bit of it! See?
It's you! Kipps! Waddy be damned! It's a Mascot. There's luck in my play. Bif! You're there. _I'm_ there. Fair _in_ it! Snap!" And he discharged his fingers like a pistol. "Never you mind about the 'Waddy.'"
"Eh?" said Kipps, with a nervous eye on Chitterlow's fingers.
"You're all right," said Chitterlow; "you may bet the seat of your only breeches on that! Don't you worry about the Waddy--that's as clear as day. You're about as right side up as a billiard ball--whatever you do.
Don't stand there gaping, man! Read the paper if you don't believe me.
Read it!"
He shook it under Kipps' nose.
Kipps became aware of the second apprentice watching them from the shop.
His air of perplexity gave place to a more confident bearing.
"'---- who was born at East Grinstead.' I certainly was born there. I've 'eard my Aunt say----"
"I knew it," said Chitterlow, taking hold of one edge of the paper and bringing his face close alongside Kipps'.
"'----on September the first, eighteen hundred and seventy-eight----'"
"_That's_ all right," said Chitterlow. "It's all, all right, and all you have to do is write to Watson and Bean and get it----"
"Get what?"
"Whatever it is."
Kipps sought his moustache. "You'd write?" he asked.
"Ra-ther."
"But what d'you think it is?"
"That's the fun of it!" said Chitterlow, taking three steps in some as yet uninvented dance. "That's where the joke comes in. It may be anything--it may be a million. If so! Where does little Harry come in?
Eh?"
Kipps was trembling slightly. "But----" he said, and thought. "If you was me----" he began. "About that Waddy----?"
He glanced up and saw the second apprentice disappear with amazing swiftness from behind the goods in the window.
"_What?_" asked Chitterlow, but he never had an answer.
"Lor'! There's the guv'nor!" said Kipps, and made a prompt dive for the door.
He dashed in only to discover that Shalford, with the junior apprentice in attendance, had come to mark off remnants of Kipps' cotton dresses and was demanding him. "Hullo, Kipps," he said, "outside----?"
"Seein' if the window was straight, Sir," said Kipps.
"Umph!" said Shalford.
For a space Kipps was too busily employed to think at all of Chitterlow or the crumpled bit of paper in his trouser pocket. He was, however, painfully aware of a suddenly disconcerted excitement at large in the street. There came one awful moment when Chitterlow's nose loomed interrogatively over the ground glass of the department door, and his bright, little, red-brown eye sought for the reason of Kipps'
disappearance, and then it became evident that he saw the high light of Shalford's baldness and grasped the situation and went away. And then Kipps (with that advertisement in his pocket) was able to come back to the business in hand.
He became aware that Shalford had asked a question. "Yessir, nosir, rightsir. I'm sorting up zephyrs to-morrow, Sir," said Kipps.
Presently he had a moment to himself again, and, taking up a safe position behind a newly unpacked pile of summer lace curtains, he straightened out the piece of paper and reperused it. It was a little perplexing. That "Arthur Waddy or Arthur Kipps"--did that imply two persons or one? He would ask Pierce or Buggins. Only----
It had always been impressed upon him that there was something demanding secrecy about his mother.
"Don't you answer no questions about your mother," his aunt had been wont to say. "Tell them you don't know, whatever it is they ask you."
"Now this----?"
Kipps' face became portentously careful and he tugged at his moustache, such as it was, hard.
He had always represented his father as being a "gentleman farmer." "It didn't pay," he used to say with a picture in his own mind of a penny magazine aristocrat prematurely worn out by worry. "I'm a Norfan, both sides," he would explain, with the air of one who had seen trouble. He said he lived with his uncle and aunt, but he did not say that they kept a toy shop, and to tell anyone that his uncle had been a butler--_a servant!_--would have seemed the maddest of indiscretions. Almost all the assistants in the Emporium were equally reticent and vague, so great is their horror of "Lowness" of any sort. To ask about this "Waddy or Kipps" would upset all these little fictions. He was not, as a matter of fact, perfectly clear about his real status in the world (he was not, as a matter of fact, perfectly clear about anything), but he knew that there was a quality about his status that was--detrimental.
Under the circumstances----?
It occurred to him that it would save a lot of trouble to destroy the advertisement there and then.
In which case he would have to explain to Chitterlow!
"Eng!" said Mr. Kipps.
"Kipps," cried Carshot, who was shopwalking; "Kipps, Forward!"
He thrust back the crumpled paper into his pocket and sallied forth to the customers.
"I want," said the customer, looking vaguely about her through glasses, "a little bit of something to cover a little stool I have. Anything would do--a remnant or anything----"
The matter of the advertisement remained in abeyance for half an hour, and at the end the little stool was still a candidate for covering and Kipps had a thoroughly representative collection of the textile fabrics in his department to clear away. He was so angry about the little stool that the crumpled advertisement lay for a space in his pocket, absolutely forgotten.
--2