The Bromley Gibberts Story Page #3

"The Bromley Gibberts Story" by Robert Barr is a fictional narrative that intertwines humor and social commentary, exploring the lives of the quirky Gibberts family in the suburban town of Bromley. Through a series of engaging and comedic events, the book delves into themes of family dynamics, community interactions, and the absurdities of everyday life. Barr's witty prose and imaginative storytelling invite readers to reflect on the idiosyncrasies of modern living, making it a delightful read for fans of lighthearted literary humor.

• Short story

								

friend should look after him. I believe he will commit suicide yet."

These sayings troubled Shorely as he walked back to his office. He sat
down to write a note, asking Gibberts to call. As he was writing,
McCabe, the business manager of the Sponge, came in.

"What's the matter with the old sheet this week?" he asked.

"Matter? I don't understand you."

"Well, I have just sent an order to the printer to run off an extra ten
thousand, and here comes a demand from Smith's for the whole lot. The
extra ten thousand were to go to different newsagents all over the
country who have sent repeat orders, so I have told the printer now to
run off at least twenty-five thousand, and to keep the plates on the
press. I never read the Sponge myself, so I thought I would drop
in and ask you what the attraction was. This rush is unnatural.

"Better read the paper and find out," said Shorely.

"I would, if there wasn't so much of your stuff in it," retorted
McCabe.

Next day McCabe reported an almost bewildering increase in orders. He
had a jubilant "we've-done-it-at-last" air that exasperated Shorely,
who felt that he alone should have the credit. There had come no answer
to the note he had sent Gibberts, so he went to the Club, in the hope
of meeting him. He found Johnson, whom he asked if Gibberts were there.

"He's not been here to-day," said Johnson; "but I saw him yesterday,
and what do you think he was doing? He was in a gun-shop in the Strand,
buying cartridges for that villainous-looking seven-shooter of his. I
asked him what he was going to do with a revolver in London, and he
told me, shortly, that it was none of my business, which struck me as
so accurate a summing-up of the situation, that I came away without
making further remark. If you want any more stories by Gibberts, you
should look after him."

Shorely found himself rapidly verging into a state of nervousness
regarding Gibberts. He was actually beginning to believe the novelist
meditated some wild action, which might involve others in a
disagreeable complication. Shorely had no desire to be accessory either
before or after the fact. He hurried back to the office, and there
found Gibberts' belated reply to his note. He hastily tore it open, and
the reading of it completely banished what little self-control he had
left.

"Dear Shorely,--I know why you want to see me, but I have so many
affairs to settle, that it is impossible for me to call upon you.
However, have no fears; I shall stand to my bargain, without any
goading from you. Only a few days have elapsed since the publication of
the story, and I did not promise the tragedy before the week was out. I
leave for Channor Chase this afternoon. You shall have your pound of
flesh, and more.--Yours,

                            "BROMLEY GIBBERTS."

Shorely was somewhat pale about the lips when he had finished this
scrawl. He flung on his coat, and rushed into the street. Calling a
hansom, he said--

"Drive to Kidner's Inn as quickly as you can. No. 15."

Once there, he sprang up the steps two at a time, and knocked at
Gibberts' door. The novelist allowed himself the luxury of a "man," and
it was the "man" who answered Shorely's imperious knock.

"Where's Gibberts?"

"He's just gone, sir."

"Gone where?"

"To Euston Station, I believe, sir; and he took a hansom. He's going
into the country for a week, sir, and I wasn't to forward his letters,
so I haven't his address."

"Have you an 'ABC'?"

"Yes, sir; step inside, sir. Mr. Gibberts was just looking up trains in
it, sir, before he left."

Shorely saw it was open at C, and, looking down the column to Channor,
he found that a train left in about twenty minutes. Without a word, he
dashed down the stairs again. The "man" did not seem astonished. Queer
fish sometimes came to see his master.

"Can you get me to Euston Station in twenty minutes?"

The cabman shook his head, as he said--

"I'll do my best, sir, but we ought to have a good half-hour."

The driver did his best, and landed Shorely on the departure platform
two minutes after the train had gone.

"When is the next train to Channor?" demanded Shorely of a porter.

"Just left, sir."

"The next train hasn't just left, you fool. Answer my question."

"Two hours and twenty minutes, sir," replied the porter, in a huff.

Shorely thought of engaging a special, but realised he hadn't money
enough. Perhaps he could telegraph and warn the people of Channor
Chase, but he did not know to whom to telegraph. Or, again, he thought
he might have Gibberts arrested on some charge or other at Channor
Station. That, he concluded, was the way out--dangerous, but feasible.

By this time, however, the porter had recovered his equanimity. Porters
cannot afford to cherish resentment, and this particular porter saw
half a crown in the air.

"Did you wish to reach Channor before the train that's just gone, sir?"

"Yes. Can it be done?"

"It might be done, sir," said the porter, hesitatingly, as if he were
on the verge of divulging a State secret which would cost him his
situation. He wanted the half-crown to become visible before he
committed himself further.

"Here's half a sovereign, if you tell me how it can be done, short of
hiring a special."

"Well, sir, you could take the express that leaves at the half-hour. It
will carry you fifteen miles beyond Channor, to Buley Junction, then in
seventeen minutes you can get a local back to Channor, which is due
three minutes before the down train reaches there--if the local is in
time," he added, when the gold piece was safe stowed in his pocket.

While waiting for the express, Shorely bought a copy of the
Sponge, and once more he read Gibberts' story on the way down.
The third reading appalled him. He was amazed he had not noticed before
the deadly earnestness of its tone. We are apt to underrate or overrate
the work of a man with whom we are personally familiar.

Now, for the first time, Shorely seemed to get the proper perspective.
The reading left him in a state of nervous collapse. He tried to
remember whether or not he had burned Gibberts' letter. If he had left
it on his table, anything might happen. It was incriminating evidence.

The local was five minutes late at the Junction, and it crawled over
the fifteen miles back to Channor in the most exasperating way, losing
time with every mile. At Channor he found the London train had come and
gone.

"Did a man in a long ulster get off, and----"

"For Channor Chase, sir?"

"Yes. Has he gone?"

"Oh yes, sir! The dog-cart from the Chase was here to meet him, sir."

"How far is it?"

"About five miles by road, if you mean the Chase, sir."
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