There had been a christening that afternoon at St Peter's, Neville Square, and Albert
Edward Foreman still wore his verger's gown. He kept his new one, its folds as full and
stiff as though it were made not of alpaca but of perennial bronze, for funerals and
weddings (St Peter's, Neville Square, was a church much favoured by the fashionable
for these ceremonies) and now he wore only his second-best. He wore it with
complacence, for it was the dignified symbol of his office, and without it (when he took
it off to go home) he had the disconcerting sensation of being somewhat insufficiently
clad. He took pains with it; he pressed it and ironed it himself. During the sixteen years
he had been verger of this church he had had a succession of such gowns, but he had
never been able to throw them away when they were worn out and the complete series,
neatly wrapped up in brown paper, lay in the bottom drawers of the wardrobe in his
bedroom.
The verger busied himself quietly, replacing the painted wooden cover on the marble
font, taking away a chair that had been brought for an infirm old lady, and waited for
the vicar to have finished in the vestry so that he could tidy up in there and go home.
Presently he saw him walk across the chancel, genuflect in front of the high altar, and
come down the aisle; but he still wore his cassock.
`What's he 'anging about for?' the verger said to himself. `Don't'e know I want my tea?
The vicar had been but recently appointed, a red-faced energetic man in the early
forties, and Albert Edward still regretted his predecessor, a clergyman of the old school
who preached leisurely sermons in a silvery voice and dined out a great deal with his
more aristocratic parishioners. He liked things in church to be just so, but he never
fussed; he was not like this new man who wanted to have his finger in every pie. But
Albert Edward was tolerant. St Peter's was in a very good neighbourhood and the
parishioners were a very nice class of people. The new vicar had come from the East
End and he couldn't be expected to fall in all at once with the discreet ways of his
fashionable congregation.
`All this 'ustle; said Albert Edward. `But give 'im time, he'll learn.'
When the vicar had walked down the aisle so far that he could address the verger
without raising his voice more than was becoming in a place of worship he stopped.
`Foreman, will you come into the vestry for a minute. I have something to say to you.'
'Very good, sir:
The vicar waited for him to come up and they walked up the church together.
`A very nice christening, I thought, sir. Funny 'ow the baby stopped cryin' the moment
you took him.'
`I've noticed they very often do,' said the vicar, with a little smile. ‘After all I've had a
good deal of practice with them.'
It was a source of subdued pride to him that he could nearly always quiet a whimpering
infant by the manner in which he held it and he was not unconscious of the amused
admiration with which mothers and nurses watched him settle the baby in the crook of
his surpliced arm. The verger knew that it pleased him to be complimented on his talent.
The vicar preceded Albert Edward into the vestry. Albert Edward was a trifle surprised
to find the two churchwardens there. He had not seen them come in. They gave him
pleasant nods.
`Good afternoon, my lord. Good afternoon, sir,' he said to one after the other.
They were elderly men, both of them, and they had been churchwardens almost as long
as Albert Edward had been verger. They were sitting now at a handsome refectory table
that the old vicar had brought many years before from Italy and the vicar sat down in
the vacant chair between them. Albert Edward faced them, the table between him and
them, and wondered with slight uneasiness what was the matter. He remembered still
the occasion on which the organist had got into trouble and the bother they had all had
to hush things up. In a church like St Peter's, Neville Square, they couldn't afford a
scandal. On the vicar's red face was a look of resolute benignity, but the others bore an
expression that was slightly troubled.
`He's been naggin' them, he 'as,' said the verger to himself. `He's jockeyed them into
doin' something, but they don't 'alf like it. That's what it is, you mark my words.'
But his thoughts did not appear on Albert Edward's clean-cut and distinguished features.
He stood in a respectful but not obsequious attitude. He had been in service before he
was appointed to his ecclesiastical office, but only in very good houses, and his
deportment was irreproachable. Starting as a page-boy in the household of a merchant
prince, he had risen by due degrees from the position of fourth to first footman, for a
year he had been single-handed butler to a widowed peeress, and, till the vacancy
occurred at St Peter's, butler with two men under him in the house of a retired
ambassador. He was tall, spare, grave, and dignified. He looked, if not like a duke, at
least like an actor of the old school who specialized in dukes' parts. He had tact,
firmness,-and self-assurance. His character was unimpeachable.
The vicar began briskly.
`Foreman, we've got something rather unpleasant to say to you. You've been here a
great many years and I think his lordship and the general agree with me that you've
fulfilled the duties of your office to the satisfaction of everybody concerned.'
The two churchwardens nodded.
`But a most extraordinary circumstance came to my knowledge the other day and I felt
it my duty to impart it to the churchwardens. I discovered to my astonishment that you
could neither read nor write.'
The verger's face betrayed no sign of embarrassment.
`The last vicar knew that, sir,' he replied. 'He said it didn't make no difference. He
always said there was a great deal too much education in the world for ‘is taste.'
`It's the most amazing thing I ever heard,' cried the general. `Do you mean to say
that you've been verger of this church for sixteen years and never learned to read or
write.’
`I went into service when I was twelve, sir. The cook in the first place tried to teach me
once, but I didn't seem to 'ave the knack for it, and then what with one thing and another
I never seemed to'ave the time. I've never really found the want of it. I think a lot of
these young fellows waste a rare lot of time readin' when they might be doin' something
useful.'
'But don't you want to know the news? said the other churchwarden. ‘Don’t you ever
want to write a letter?'
'No, me lord, I seem to manage very well without. And of late years now they've all
these pictures in the papers I get to know what's goin' on pretty well. Me wife's quite a
scholar and if I want to write a letter she writes it for me. It's not as if I was a bettin'
man: The two churchwardens gave the vicar a troubled glance and then looked down at
the table.
'Well, Foreman, I've talked the matter over with these gentlemen and they quite agree
with me that the situation is impossible. At a church like St Peter's, Neville Square, we
cannot have a verger who can neither read nor write.'
Albert Edward's thin, sallow face reddened and he moved uneasily on his feet, but he
made no reply.
'Understand me, Foreman, I have no complaint to make against you. You do your work
quite satisfactorily; I have the highest opinion both of your character and of your
capacity; but we haven't the right to take the risk of some accident that might happen
owing to your lamentable ignorance. It's a matter of prudence as well as of principle.'
'But couldn't you learn, Foreman? asked the general.
`No, sir, I'm afraid I couldn't, not now. You see, I'm not as young as I was and if I
couldn't seem able to get the letters in me 'ead when I was a nipper I don't think there's
much chance of it now.'
'We don't want to be harsh with you, Foreman,' said the vicar. `But the churchwardens
and I have quite made up our minds. We'll give you three months and if at the end of
that time you cannot read and write I'm afraid you'll have to go.'
Albert Edward had never liked the new vicar. He'd said from the beginning that they'd
made a mistake when they gave him St Peter's. He wasn't the type of man they wanted
with a classy congregation like that. And now he straightened himself a little. He knew
his value and he wasn't going to allow himself to be put upon. `I'm very sorry, sir, I'm
afraid it's no good. I'm too old a dog to learn new tricks. I've lived a good many years
without knowin' 'ow to read and write, and without wishin' to praise myself, self praise
is no recommendation, I don't mind sayin' I've done my duty in that state of life in
which it 'as pleased a merciful providence to place me, and if I could learn now I don't
know as I'd want to.'
'In that case, Foreman, I'm afraid you must go.'
`Yes, sir, I quite understand. I shall be 'appy to 'and in my resignation as soon as you've
found somebody to take my place.'
But when Albert Edward with his usual politeness had closed the church door behind
the vicar and the two churchwardens he could not sustain the air of unruffled dignity
with which he had borne the blow inflicted upon him and his lips quivered. He walked
slowly back to the vestry and hung up on its proper peg his verger's gown. He sighed as
he thought of all the grand funerals and smart weddings it had seen. He tidied
everything up, put on his coat, and hat in hand walked down the aisle. He locked the
church door behind him. He strolled across the square, but deep in his sad thoughts he
did not take the street that led him home, where a nice strong cup of tea awaited him; he
took the wrong turning. He walked slowly along. His heart was heavy. He did not know
what he should do with himself. He did not fancy the notion of going back to domestic
service; after being his own master for so many years, for the vicar and churchwardens
could say what they liked, it was he that had run St Peter's, Neville Square, he could
scarcely demean himself by accepting a situation. He had saved a tidy sum, but not
enough to live on without doing something, and life seemed to cost more every year. He
had never thought to be troubled with such questions. The vergers of St Peter's, like the
popes of Rome, were there for life. He had often thought of the pleasant reference the
vicar would make in his sermon at evensong the first Sunday after his death to the long
and faithful service, and the exemplary character of their late verger, Albert Edward
Foreman. He sighed deeply. Albert Edward was a non-smoker and a total abstainer, but
with a certain latitude; that is to say he liked a glass of beer with his dinner and when he
was tired he enjoyed a cigarette. It occurred to him now that one would comfort him and
since he did not carry them he looked about him for a shop where he could buy a packet
of Gold Flake. He did not at once see one and walked on a little. It was a long street,
with all sorts of shops in it, but there was not a single one where you could buy
cigarettes.
'That's strange,' said Albert Edward.
To make sure he walked right up the street again. No, there was no doubt about it.
He stopped and looked reflectively up and down.
`I can't be the only man as walks along this street and wants a fag,' he said. `I shouldn't
wonder but what a fellow might do very well with a little shop here. Tobacco and
sweets, you know.'
He gave a sudden start.
`That's an idea,' he said. `Strange 'ow things come to you when you least expect it.'
He turned, walked home, and had his tea.
`You're very silent this afternoon, Albert,' his wife remarked.
`I'm thinkin',' he said.
He considered the matter from every point of view and next day he went along the street
and by good luck found a little shop to let that looked as though it would exactly suit
him. Twenty-four hours later he had taken it, and when a month after that he left St
Peter's, Neville Square, for ever, Albert Edward Foreman set up in business as a
tobacconist and newsagent. His wife said it was a dreadful come-down after being
verger of St Peter's, but he answered that you had to move with the times, the church
wasn't what it was, and 'enceforward he was going to render unto Caesar what was
Caesar's. Albert Edward did very well. He did so well that in a year or so it struck him
that he might take a second shop and put a manager in. He looked for another long
street that hadn't got a tobacconist in it and when he found it, and a shop to let, took it
and stocked it. This was a success too. Then it occurred to him that if he could run two
he could run half a dozen, so he began walking about London, and whenever he found a
long street that had no tobacconist and a shop to let he took it. In the course of ten years
he had acquired no less than ten shops and he was making money hand over fist. He
went round to all of them himself every Monday, collected the week's takings, and took
them to the bank.
One morning when he was there paying in a bundle of notes and a heavy bag of silver
the cashier told him that the manager would like to see him. He was shown into an
office and the manager shook hands with him.
'Mr Foreman, I wanted to have a talk to you about the money you've got on deposit with
us. D'you know exactly how much it is?'
'Not within a pound or two, sir; but I've got a pretty rough idea.'
`Apart from what you paid in this morning it's a little over thirty thousand pounds.
That's a very large sum to have on deposit and I should have thought you'd do better to
invest it.'
'I wouldn't want to take no risk, sir. I know it's safe in the bank.'
'You needn't have the least anxiety. We'll make you out a list of absolutely giltedged
securities. They'll bring you in a better rate of interest than we can possibly afford to
give you.'
A troubled look settled on Mr Foreman's distinguished face. 'I've never 'ad anything to
do with stocks and shares and I'd 'ave to leave it all in your ‘ands,' he said.
The manager smiled. 'We'll do everything. All you'll have to do next time you come
in is just to sign the transfers:
'I could do that all right,' said Albert uncertainly. 'But 'ow should I know what I was
signin'?
`I suppose you can read,' said the manager a trifle sharply.
Mr Foreman gave him a disarming smile.
'Well, sir, that's just it. I can't. I know it sounds funny-like, but there it is, I can't read or
write, only me name, an' I only learnt to do that when I went into business.'
The manager was so surprised that he jumped up from his chair.
'That's the most extraordinary thing I ever heard.'
'You see, it's like this, sir, I never 'ad the opportunity until it was too late and then
some'ow I wouldn't. I got obstinate-like.'
The manager stared at him as though he were a prehistoric monster.
'And do you mean to say that you've built up this important business and amassed a
fortune of thirty thousand pounds without being able to read or write? Good God, man,
what would you be now if you had been able to?'
'I can tell you that, sir,' said Mr Foreman, a little smile on his still aristocratic features.
'I'd be verger of St Peter's, Neville Square.'