# Episodes Before Thirty/Chapter 6

CHAPTER VI
The pictures that have occupied two chapters, flashed and vanished, lasting a few moments only. It was Kay's voice that interrupted them:
"This is my partner, Mr. Blackwood," he was saying, as he came from the dining-room door, accompanied by an undersized little man with sharp, beady eyes set in a face like a rat's, with deep lines upon a skin as white as paper. I shook hands with Billy Bingham, proprietor of the Hub, the man whose disreputable character had made it a disgrace to the City of Churches.
Of the conversation that followed, though I heard every word of it, only a blurred memory remained when we left the building half an hour later. I was in two worlds—innocent Kent and up-to-date Toronto—while Kay and Bingham talked. Mysterious phrases chased pregnant business terms in quick succession: Goodwill, stock in hand, buying liquor at thirty days, cash value of the licence, and heaven knows what else besides. Kay was marvellous, I thought. The sporting goods business had apparently taught him everything. Two hundred per cent. profit, rapid turn over, sell out at top price, were other vivid sentences I caught in part, while I stared and listened, feigning no doubt a comprehension that was not mine. The glow of immense success to come, at any rate, shone somehow about the nasty face of that cunning little Billy Bingham, as he painted our future in radiant colours. Kay was beaming.
"A short period of horror," I remember thinking, for the sanguine fires lit me too, "and we shall be independent men! It's probably worth it. Canada's a free country. What's impossible at home is possible here. Opportunities must be seized . . . !"
Then Bingham's white face retreated, his beady eyes became twin points of glittering light, and another picture ​slid noiselessly before them. Euston Station a few short months ago, myself tightly wedged in a crowded third-class carriage, the train to Liverpool slowly moving out, and my father's tall figure standing on the platform--this picture hid the Hub and Bingham and John Kay. The serious blue eyes, fixed on mine with love and tenderness, could not conceal the deep anxiety they betrayed for my future. Behind them, though actually at the Manor House, Crayford, fixed on a page of the Bible, or perhaps closed in earnest prayer, the eyes of my mother rose up too.... The train moved faster, the upright figure and the grave, sad face, though lit by a momentary smile of encouragement, were hidden slowly by the edge of the carriage window. I was too shy to wave my hand, and far too sensitive of what the carriage-full of men would think if I moved to the window and spoke, or worse, gave the good-bye kiss I burned to give. So the straight line of that implacable wooden sash slid across both face and figure, cutting our stare cruelly in the middle.
It was the last time I saw my father; a year later he was dead; and ten years were to pass before I saw my mother again. Before this--to look ahead for a second--some enterprising Toronto friend, with evangelical tact, wrote to my father ... "your son is keeping a tavern," and my father, calling my brother into his study where he laid all problems before his God with prayer, told him in a broken voice and with tears in his eyes: "He is lost; his soul is lost. Algie has gone to--Hell!"...
My vision faded. My broad-shouldered friend and his little rat-faced companion stood with their elbows on the bar. I saw six small glasses and a big dark bottle. Three of the former were filled to the brim with neat rye whisky, the other three, "the chasers" as they were called, held soda-water.
"Drink hearty," rasped Bingham's grating voice, as he tossed down his liquor at a gulp, Kay doing the same, then swallowing the soda-water.
I moved to the swing-doors. I had never touched spirits, and loathed the mere smell of them. I cannot ​pretend that any principle was involved; it was simply that the mere idea of swallowing raw whisky gave me nausea. I saw Kay give me a quick look. "He'll be offended if you don't take something," it said plainly. I was, besides, familiar with the customs of the country, at any rate in theory.
"Have something else," invited Bingham, "if you don't like it straight."
I shook my head, mumbling something about it's being too early in the day, and I shall never forget the look that came into that cunning little face. But he was not offended. He put his hand on Kay's arm. "Now, see here," he said with seriousness, "that's dead right. That's good business every time. Never drink yourselves, and you'll make it a success. Your partner's got the right idea, and I tell you straight: never touch a drop of liquor till after closing hours. You'll be asked to drink all day long. Everybody will want to drink with the new management. Every customer that walks in will say 'What's yours?' before you even know his name. Now, see here, boys, listen to me—you can't do it! You'll be blind to the world before eleven o'clock. I tell you, and I know!"
"How are you to refuse?" asked Kay.
"I'll give you a tip: drink tea!"
"Tea!"
"Have your bottle of tea. Tell your bar-tenders. It's the same colour as rye whisky. No one'll ever know. The boss can always have his own private bottle. Well, yours is tea. See?" And he winked with a leer like some intelligent reptile.
We shook hands, as he saw us into the street.
"You'll take a cheque, I suppose?" I heard Kay say just before we moved off.
"A marked cheque, yes," was the reply. The phrase meant that the bank marked the cheque as good for the amount.
"It's all fixed then," returned Kay.
"All fixed," said Bingham, and the swing-doors closed upon his unpleasant face as we went out into the street.