The History of Mr. Polly

Platt came to Polly, who was sorting up collar boxes.  “O’ Man’s doing his Blooming Window.”

“What window?”

“What he said.”

Polly remembered.

He went on with his collar boxes with his eye on his senior, Mansfield.  Mansfield was presently called away to the counting house, and instantly Polly shot out by the street door, and made a rapid transit along the street front past the Manchester window, and so into the silkroom door.  He could not linger long, but he gathered joy, a swift and fearful joy, from his brief inspection of Parsons’ unconscious back.  Parsons had his tail coat off and was working with vigour; his habit of pulling his waistcoat straps to the utmost brought out all the agreeable promise of corpulence in his youthful frame.  He was blowing excitedly and running his fingers through his hair, and then moving with all the swift eagerness of a man inspired.  All about his feet and knees were scarlet blankets, not folded, not formally unfolded, but—­the only phrase is—­shied about.  And a great bar sinister of roller towelling stretched across the front of the window on which was a ticket, and the ticket said in bold black letters:  “LOOK!”

So soon as Mr. Polly got into the silk department and met Platt he knew he had not lingered nearly long enough outside.  “Did you see the boards at the back?” said Platt.

He hadn’t.  “The High Egrugious is fairly On,” he said, and dived down to return by devious subterranean routes to the outfitting department.

Presently the street door opened and Platt, with an air of intense devotion to business assumed to cover his adoption of that unusual route, came in and made for the staircase down to the warehouse.  He rolled up his eyes at Polly.  “Oh Lor!” he said and vanished.

Irresistible curiosity seized Polly.  Should he go through the shop to the Manchester department, or risk a second transit outside?

He was impelled to make a dive at the street door.

“Where are you going?” asked Mansfield.

“Lill Dog,” said Polly with an air of lucid explanation, and left him to get any meaning he could from it.

Parsons was worth the subsequent trouble.  Parsons really was extremely rich.  This time Polly stopped to take it in.

Parsons had made a huge symmetrical pile of thick white and red blankets twisted and rolled to accentuate their woolly richness, heaped up in a warm disorder, with large window tickets inscribed in blazing red letters:  “Cosy Comfort at Cut Prices,” and “Curl up and Cuddle below Cost.”  Regardless of the daylight he had turned up the electric light on that side of the window to reflect a warm glow upon the heap, and behind, in pursuit of contrasted bleakness, he was now hanging long strips of grey silesia and chilly coloured linen dusterings.

It was wonderful, but—­

Mr. Polly decided that it was time he went in.  He found Platt in the silk department, apparently on the verge of another plunge into the exterior world.  “Cosy Comfort at Cut Prices,” said Polly.  “Allittritions Artful Aid.”

He did not dare go into the street for the third time, and he was hovering feverishly near the window when he saw the governor, Mr. Garvace, that is to say, the managing director of the Bazaar, walking along the pavement after his manner to assure himself all was well with the establishment he guided.

Mr. Garvace was a short stout man, with that air of modest pride that so often goes with corpulence, choleric and decisive in manner, and with hands that looked like bunches of fingers.  He was red-haired and ruddy, and after the custom of such complexions, hairs sprang from the tip of his nose.  When he wished to bring the power of the human eye to bear upon an assistant, he projected his chest, knitted one brow and partially closed the left eyelid.

An expression of speculative wonder overspread the countenance of Mr. Polly.  He felt he must see.  Yes, whatever happened he must see.

“Want to speak to Parsons, Sir,” he said to Mr. Mansfield, and deserted his post hastily, dashed through the intervening departments and was in position behind a pile of Bolton sheeting as the governor came in out of the street.

“What on Earth do you think you are doing with that window, Parsons?” began Mr. Garvace.

Only the legs of Parsons and the lower part of his waistcoat and an intervening inch of shirt were visible.  He was standing inside the window on the steps, hanging up the last strip of his background from the brass rail along the ceiling.  Within, the Manchester shop window was cut off by a partition rather like the partition of an old-fashioned church pew from the general space of the shop.  There was a panelled barrier, that is to say, with a little door like a pew door in it.  Parsons’ face appeared, staring with round eyes at his employer.

Mr. Garvace had to repeat his question.

“Dressing it, Sir—­on new lines.”

“Come out of it,” said Mr. Garvace.

Parsons stared, and Mr. Garvace had to repeat his command.

Parsons, with a dazed expression, began to descend the steps slowly.

Mr. Garvace turned about.  “Where’s Morrison?  Morrison!”

Morrison appeared.

“Take this window over,” said Mr. Garvace pointing his bunch of fingers at Parsons.  “Take all this muddle out and dress it properly.”

Morrison advanced and hesitated.

“I beg your pardon, Sir,” said Parsons with an immense politeness, “but this is my window.”

“Take it all out,” said Mr. Garvace, turning away.

Morrison advanced.  Parsons shut the door with a click that arrested Mr. Garvace.

“Come out of that window,” he said.  “You can’t dress it.  If you want to play the fool with a window——­”

“This window’s All Right,” said the genius in window dressing, and there was a little pause.

“Open the door and go right in,” said Mr. Garvace to Morrison.

“You leave that door alone, Morrison,” said Parsons.

Polly was no longer even trying to hide behind the stack of Bolton sheetings.  He realised he was in the presence of forces too stupendous to heed him.

“Get him out,” said Mr. Garvace.

Morrison seemed to be thinking out the ethics of his position.  The idea of loyalty to his employer prevailed with him.  He laid his hand on the door to open it; Parsons tried to disengage his hand.  Mr. Garvace joined his effort to Morrison’s.  Then the heart of Polly leapt and the world blazed up to wonder and splendour.  Parsons disappeared behind the partition for a moment and reappeared instantly, gripping a thin cylinder of rolled huckaback.  With this he smote at Morrison’s head.  Morrison’s head ducked under the resounding impact, but he clung on and so did Mr. Garvace.  The door came open, and then Mr. Garvace was staggering back, hand to head; his autocratic, his sacred baldness, smitten.  Parsons was beyond all control—­a strangeness, a marvel.  Heaven knows how the artistic struggle had strained that richly endowed temperament.  “Say I can’t dress a window, you thundering old Humbug,” he said, and hurled the huckaback at his master.  He followed this up by hurling first a blanket, then an armful of silesia, then a window support out of the window into the shop.  It leapt into Polly’s mind that Parsons hated his own effort and was glad to demolish it.  For a crowded second Polly’s mind was concentrated upon Parsons, infuriated, active, like a figure of earthquake with its coat off, shying things headlong.

Then he perceived the back of Mr. Garvace and heard his gubernatorial voice crying to no one in particular and everybody in general:  “Get him out of the window.  He’s mad.  He’s dangerous.  Get him out of the window.”

Then a crimson blanket was for a moment over the head of Mr. Garvace, and his voice, muffled for an instant, broke out into unwonted expletive.

Then people had arrived from all parts of the Bazaar.  Luck, the ledger clerk, blundered against Polly and said, “Help him!” Somerville from the silks vaulted the counter, and seized a chair by the back.  Polly lost his head.  He clawed at the Bolton sheeting before him, and if he could have detached a piece he would certainly have hit somebody with it.  As it was he simply upset the pile.  It fell away from Polly, and he had an impression of somebody squeaking as it went down.  It was the sort of impression one disregards.  The collapse of the pile of goods just sufficed to end his subconscious efforts to get something to hit somebody with, and his whole attention focussed itself upon the struggle in the window.  For a splendid instant Parsons towered up over the active backs that clustered about the shop window door, an active whirl of gesture, tearing things down and throwing them, and then he went under.  There was an instant’s furious struggle, a crash, a second crash and the crack of broken plate glass.  Then a stillness and heavy breathing.

Parsons was overpowered….

Polly, stepping over scattered pieces of Bolton sheeting, saw his transfigured friend with a dark cut, that was not at present bleeding, on the forehead, one arm held by Somerville and the other by Morrison.

“You—­you—­you—­you annoyed me,” said Parsons, sobbing for breath.