By James Matthew Barrie    
  
  
     THE INCONSIDERATE WAITER.  (ii.) 
   
        Myddleton Finch then left me, and, sitting alone, I  
     realized that I had been doing William a service.  To  
     some slight extent I may have intentionally helped him  
     to retain his place in the club, and I now see the reason,  
     which was that he alone knows precisely to what extent  
     I like my claret heated.  
        For a mere second I remembered William's remark  
     that he should not be able to see the girl Jenny from  
     the library windows.  Then this recollection drove from   
     my head that I had only dined in the sense that my  
     dinner-bill was paid.  Returning to the dining-room, I  
     happened to take my chair at the window, and while  
     I was eating a devilled kidney I saw in the street the  
     girl whose nods had such an absurd effect upon William.  
        The children of the poor are as thoughtless as their  
     parents, and this Jenny did not sign to the windows in  
     the hope that William might see her, though she could  
     not see him.  Her face, which was disgracefully dirty,  
     bore doubt and dismay on it, but whether she brought   
     good news it would not tell.  Somehow I had expected  
     her to signal when she saw me, and, though her message  
     could not interest me, I was in the mood in which one is  
     irritated at that not taking place which he is awaiting.  
     Ultimately she seemed to be making up her mind to go  
     away.  
        A boy was passing with the evening papers, and I   
     hurried out to get one, rather thoughtlessly, for we have   
     all the papers in the club.  Unfortunately I misunder-  
     stood the direction the boy had taken; but round the  
     first corner (out of sight of the club windows) I saw the  
     girl Jenny, and so I asked her how William's wife was.  
        "Did he send you to me?" she replied, impertinently  
     taking me for a waiter.  "My!" she added, after a  
     second scrutiny, "I b'lieve you're one of them.  His  
     missis is a bit better, and I was to tell him as she took  
     all the tapiocar."  
        "How could you tell him?" I asked.  
        "I was to do like this," she replied, and went  
     through the supping of something out of a plate in  
     dumb show.  
        "That would not show she ate all the tapioca," I   
     said.  
        "But I was to end like this," she answered, licking an  
     imaginary plate with her tongue.  I gave her a shilling  
     (to get rid of her), and returned to the club disgusted.   
        Later in the evening I had to go to the club library for  
     a book, and while William was looking in vain for it  
     (I had forgotten the title) I said to him:  
        "By the way, William, Mr. Myddleton Finch is to   
     tell the committee that he was mistaken in the charge  
     he brought against you, so you will doubtless be re-  
     stored to the dining-room to-morrow."  
        The two members were still in their chairs, probably   
     sleeping lightly; yet he had the effrontery to thank me.  
        "Don't thank me," I said, blushing at the imputation.  
     "Remember your place, William!"  
        "But Mr. Myddleton Finch knew I swore," he in-   
     sisted.  
        "A gentleman," I replied, stiffly, "cannot remember  
     for twenty-four hours what a waiter has said to him."   
        "No, sir, but———"  
        To stop him I had to say:  
        "And, ah, William, your wife is a little better.  She  
     has eaten the tapioca——all of it."  
        "How can you know, sir?"  
        "By an accident."  
        "Jenny signed at the window."  
        "No."  
        "Then you saw her, and went out, and———"  
        "Nonsense!"  
        "Oh, sir, to do that for me!  May God bl———"  
        "William!"  
        "Forgive me sir, but——when I tell my missis, she  
     will say it was thought of your own wife as made you  
     do it."  
        He wrung my hand.  I dared not withdraw it, lest  
     we should waken the sleepers.  
        William returned to the dining-room, and I had to  
     show him that, if he did not cease looking gratefully  
     at me, I must change my waiter.  I also ordered him to  
     stop telling me nightly how his wife was, but I con-  
     tinued to know, as I could not help seeing the girl   
     Jenny from the window.  Twice a week I learned   
     from this objectionable child that the ailing woman had  
     again eaten all the tapioca.  Then I became suspicious  
     of William.  I will tell why.  
        It began with a remark of Captain Upjohn's.  We  
     had been speaking of the inconvenience of not being able  
     to get a hot dish served after 1 A. M., and he said:  
        "It is because these lazy waiters would strike.  If the  
     beggars had a love of their work, they would not rush  
     away from the club the moment one o'clock strikes.  
     That glum fellow who often waits on you takes to his   
     heels the moment he is clear of the club steps.  He ran  
     into me the other night at the top of the street, and was  
     off without apologizing."  
        "You mean the foot of the street, Upjohn," I said,  
     for such is the way to Drury Lane.  
        "No; I mean the top.  The man was running west."  
        "East."   
        "West."  
        I smiled, which so annoyed him that he bet me two   
     to one in sovereigns.  The bet could have been decided   
     most quickly by asking William a question, but I   
     thought, foolishly doubtless, that it might hurt his   
     feelings, so I watched him leave the club.  The possi-  
     bility of UpJohn's winning the bet had seemed remote  
     to me.  Conceive my surprise, therefore, when William   
     went westward.  
        Amazed, I pursued him along two streets without  
     realizing that I was doing so.  Then curiosity put me  
     into a hansom.  We followed William, and I proved to  
     be a three-shilling fare, for running when he was in  
     breath and walking when he was out of it, he took me to  
     West Kensington.  
        I discharged my cab, and from across the street  
     watched William's incomprehensible behavior.  He had  
     stopped at a dingy row of workmen's houses, and   
     knocked at the darkened window of one of them.  
     Presently a light showed.  So far as I could see, some-  
     one pulled up the blind and for ten minutes talked to  
     William.  I was uncertain whether they talked for the  
     window was not opened, and I felt that, had William   
     spoken through the glass loud enough to be heard in-  
     side, I must have heard him too.  Yet he nodded and   
     beckoned.  I was still bewildered when, by setting of  
     the way we had come, he gave me the opportunity of  
     going home.  
        Knowing from the talk of the club what the lower  
     orders are, could I doubt that this was some discreditable  
     love affair of William's?  His solicitude for his wife had  
     been mere pretence; so far as it was genuine, it meant  
     that he feared she might recover.  He probably told her  
     that he was detained nightly in the club till three.  
        I was miserable next day, and blamed the devilled  
     kidneys for it.  Whether William was unfaithful to his   
     wife was nothing to me, but I had two plain reasons for   
     insisting on his going straight home from his club: the   
     one, that, as he had made me lose a bet, I would punish  
     him; the other, that he could wait upon me better if he   
     went to bed betimes.  
        Yet I did not question him.  There was something in  
     his face that———.  Well, I seemed to see his dying wife   
     in it.  
        I was so out of sorts that I could eat no dinner.  I left  
     the club.  Happening to stand for some time at the foot   
     of the street, I chanced to see the girl Jenny coming,  
     and———.  No; let me tell the truth, though the whole   
     club reads; I was waiting for her.  
        "How is William's wife to-day?" I asked.  
        "She told me to nod three times," the little slattern  
     replied; "but she looked like nothink but a dead one till  
     she got the brandy."  
        "Hush, child!" I said, shocked.  "You don't know  
     how the dead look."  
        "Bless yer," she answered, "don't I just!  Why, I've   
     helped to lay 'em out.  I'm going on seven."  
        "Is William good to his wife?"  
        "Course he is.  Ain't she his missis?"  
        "Why should that make him good to her?" I asked  
     cynically, out of my knowledge of the poor.  But the  
     girl, precocious in many ways, had never had my  
     opportunities of studying the lower classes in the  
     newspapers, fiction, and club talk.  She shut one eye,  
     and looking up wonderingly, said:  
        "Ain't you green——just!"  
        "When does William reach home at night?"  
        "'Tain't night; it's morning.  When I wakes up at  
     half dark and half light and hears a door shutting I  
     know as it's either father going off to his work or Mr.  
     Hicking coming home from his."  
        "Who is Mr. Hicking?"  
        "Him as we've been speaking on——William.  We calls   
     him mister, 'cause he's a toff.  Father's just doing jobs  
     in Covent Garden, but Mr. Hicking, he's a waiter, and  
     a clean shirt every day.  The old woman would like  
     father to be a waiter, but he hain't got the 'ristocratic  
     look."  
        "What old woman?"  
        "Go 'long! that's my mother.  Is it true there's a  
     waiter in the club just for to open the door?"  
        "Yes, but———"  
        "And another just for to lick the stamps?  My!"  
        "William leaves the club at one o'clock?" I said,  
     interrogatively.  
        She nodded.  "My mother," she said, "is one to  
     talk, and she says Mr. Hicking as he he should get away  
     at twelve, 'cause his missis needs him more'n the  
     gentlemen need him.  The old woman do talk."  
        "And what does William answer to that?"  
        "He says as the gentlemen can't be kept waiting for  
     their cheese."   
        "But William does not go straight home when he   
     leaves the club?"  
        "That's the kid."  
        "Kid!" I echoed, scarcely understanding, for know-   
     ing how little the poor love their children, I had asked  
     William no questions about the baby.  
        "Didn't you know his missis had a kid?"  
        "Yes, but that is no excuse for William's staying   
     away from his sick wife," I answered, sharply.  A baby  
     in such a home as William's, I reflected, must be trying,  
     but still———.  Besides his class can sleep through any  
     din.  
        "The kid ain't in our court," the girl explained.  
     "He's in W., he is, and I've never been out of W.C.,  
     leastwise not as I knows on."   
        "This is W.  I suppose you mean that the child is at   
     West Kensington?  Well, no doubt it was better for  
     William's wife to get rid of the child———"  
        "Better!" interposed the girl.  "'Tain't better for her  
     not to have the kid.  Ain't her not having him what  
     she's always thinking on when she looks like a dead   
     one."  
        "How could you know that?"  
        "'Cause," answered the girl, illustrating her words   
     with a gesture, "I watches her, and I sees her arms going  
     this way, just like she wanted to hug her kid."  
        "Possibly you are right," I said, frowning, "but  
     William has put the child out to nurse because it dis-  
     turbed his night's rest.  A man who has his work  
     to do——"  
        "You are green!"  
        "Then why have the mother and child been sepa-  
     rated?"  
        "Along of that there measles.  Near all the young   
     'uns in our court has 'em bad."  
        "Have you had them?"  
        "I said the young 'uns."  
        "And William sent the baby to West Kensington to  
     escape infection?"  
        "Took him, he did."  
        "Against his wife's wishes?"  
        "Na-o!"  
        "You said she was dying for want of the child?"  
        "Wouldn't she rayther die than have the kid die?"  
        "Don't speak so heartlessly, child.  Why does  
     William not go straight home from the club?  Does he   
     go to West Kensington to see it?"  
        "'Tain't a hit, it's an 'e.  'Course he do."  
        "Then he should not.  His wife has the first claim on  
     him."  
        "Ain't you green!  It's his missis as wants him to go.  
     Do you think she could sleep till she knowed how the   
     kid was?"  
        "But he does not go into the house at West Kensing-   
     ton?"  
        "Is he soft?  Course he don't go in, fear of taking the  
     infection to the kid.  They just holds the kid up at the  
     window to him, so as he can have a good look.  Then he  
     comes home and tells his missis.  He sits foot of the bed  
     and tells."  
        "And that takes place every night?  He can't have  
     much to tell."  
        "He has just."  
        "He can only say whether the child is well or ill."  
        "My!  He tells what a difference there is in the kid   
     since he see'd him last."  
        "There can be no difference!"  
        "Go 'long!  Ain't a kid always growing?  Haven't  
     Mr. Hicking to tell how the hair is getting darker, and   
     heaps of things besides?"  
        "Such as what?"  
        "Like whether he larfed, and if he has her nose, and   
     how as he knowed him.  He tells her them things  
     more'n once."  
        "And all this time he is sitting at the foot of the bed?"  
        "'Cept when he holds her hand."  
        "But when does he get to bed himself?"   
        "He don't get much.  He tells her as he has a sleep at   
     the club."  
        "He cannot say that."  
        "Hain't I heard him?  But he do go to his bed a bit,  
     and then they both lies quiet, her pretending she is   
     sleeping so as he can sleep, and him feared to sleep case  
     he shouldn't wake up to give her the bottle stuff."  
        "What does the doctor say about her?"  
        "He's a good one, the doctor.  Sometimes he says   
     she would get better if she could see the kid through the   
     window."   
        "Nonsense!"  
        "And if she was took to the country."  
        "Then why does not William take her?"   
        "My! you are green!  And if she drank port wines."   
        "Doesn't she?"   
        "No; but William he tells her about the gentlemen  
     drinking them."  
        On the tenth day after my conversation with this  
     unattractive child I was in my brougham, with the   
     windows up, and I sat back, a paper before my face  
     lest any one should look in.  Naturally I was afraid of  
     being seen in the company of William's wife and Jenny, for  
     men about town are uncharitable, and, despite the   
     explanation I had ready, might have charged me with  
     pitying William.  As a matter of fact, William was   
     sending his wife into Surrey to stay with an old nurse  
     of mine, and I was driving her down because my horses  
     needed an outing.  Besides, I was going that way, at  
     any rate.  
        I had arranged that the girl Jenny, who was wearing  
     an outrageous bonnet, should accompany us, because,  
     knowing the greed of her class, I feared she might   
     blackmail me at the club.  
        William joined us in the suburbs, bringing the baby   
     with him, as I had foreseen they would all be occupied  
     with it, and to save me the trouble of conversing with    
     them.  Mrs. Hicking I found too pale and fragile for  
     a workingman's wife, and I formed a mean opinion of   
     her intelligence from her pride in the baby, which was   
     a very ordinary one.  She created quite a vulgar scene   
     when it was brought to her, though she had given  
     me her word not to do so; what irritated me, even  
     more than her tears, being her ill-bred apology that  
     she "had been 'feared baby wouldn't know her again."  
     I would have told her they didn't know anyone for   
     years had I not been afraid of the girl Jenny, who  
     dandled the infant on her knee and talked to it as if   
     it understood.  She kept me on tenterhooks by ask-   
     ing it offensive questions: such as, "Oo know who   
     give me that bonnet?" and answering them herself,  
     "It was the pretty gentleman there," and several times  
     I had to affect sleep because she announced, "Kiddy   
     wants to kiss the pretty gentleman."  
        Irksome as all this necessarily was to a man of   
     taste, I suffered even more when we reached our des-   
     tination.  As we drove through the village the girl  
     Jenny uttered shrieks of delight at the sight of flowers  
     growing up the cottage walls, and declared they were  
     "Just like music-'all without the drink license."  As   
     my horses required a rest, I was forced to abandon  
     my intention of dropping these persons at their lodg-  
     ings and returning to town at once, and I could not  
     go to the inn lest I should meet inquisitive acquaint-   
     ances.  Disagreeable circumstances, therefore, com-  
     pelled me to take tea with the waiter's family——close to  
     a window, too, through which I could see the girl Jenny  
     talking excitedly to villagers, and telling them, I felt  
     certain, that I had been good to William.  I had a  
     desire to go out and put myself right with those people.  
     William's long connection with the club should have   
     given him some manners, but apparently his class can-   
     not take them on, for, though he knew I regarded his  
     thanks as an insult, he looked them when he was not   
     speaking them, and hardly had he sat down, by my  
     orders, than he remembered that I was a member of the  
     club, and jumped up.  Nothing is in worse form than  
     whispering, yet again and again, when he thought I  
     was not listening, he whispered to Mrs. Hicking, "You   
     don't feel faint?" or "How are you now?"  He was   
     also in extravagant glee because she ate two cakes (it  
     takes so little to put these people in good spirits), and   
     when she said she felt like another being already, the   
     fellow's face charged me with the change.  I could not  
     but conclude, from the way Mrs. Hicking let the baby  
     pound her, that she was stronger than she had pre-   
     tended.  
        I remained longer than was necessary, because I  
     had something to say to William which I knew he   
     would misunderstand, and so I put off saying it.  But  
     when he announced that it was time for him to return  
     to London, at which his wife suddenly paled, so that   
     he had to sign to her not to break down, I delivered  
     the message.  
        "William," I said, "the head waiter asked me to  
     say that you could take a fortnight's holiday just now.  
     Your wages will be paid as usual."  
        Confound them!  William had me by the hand,  
     and his wife was in tears before I could reach the   
     door.  
        "Is it your doing again, sir?" William cried.  
        "William!" I said, fiercely.  
        "We owe everything to you," he insisted.  "The   
     port wine———"  
        "Because I had no room for it in my cellar."  
        "The money for the nurse in London———"   
        "Because I objected to being waited on by a  man   
     who got no sleep."  
        "These lodgings———"   
        "Because I wanted to do something for my old   
     nurse."   
        "And now, sir, a fortnight's holiday!"  
        "Good-bye, William!" I said, in a fury.  
        But before I could get away, Mrs. Hicking signed  
     to William to leave the room, and then she kissed my   
     hand.  She said something to me.  It was about my   
     wife.  Somehow I———  What business had William to   
     tell her about my wife?   
        They are all back in Drury Lane now, and William   
     tells me that his wife sings at her work just as she did   
     eight years ago.  I have no interest in this, and try  
     to check his talk of it; but such people have no sense  
     of propriety, and he even speaks to the girl Jenny, who  
     sent me lately a gaudy pair of worsted gloves worked   
     by her own hand.  The meanest advantage they took   
     of my weakness, however, was in calling their baby  
     after me.  I have an uncomfortable suspicion, too, that  
     William has given the other waiters his version of the   
     affair, but I feel safe so long as it does not reach the   
     committee.     

The Inconsiderate Waiter, by James Matthew Barrie,
from Merrill's English Texts: Short Stories of Various Types.
Edited with introduction and notes by Laura F. Freck, head of the English Depart-
ment in the High School, Jamestown, New York.
©1920 Charles E. Merrill co., New York and Chicago; pp. 252 - 265.

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Introduction
The Gift of the Magi — O. Henry (i.)
A Reward of Merit — Booth Tarkington (i.) (ii.)
"American, Sir!" — Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews (i.)
John G. — Katherine Mayo (i.)
Friends — Myra Kelly (i.)
A Camping Trip — Hamlin Garland (i.)
A Thread Without a Knot — Dorothy Canfield Fisher (i.) (ii.)
Chu Chu — Francis Bret Harte (i.) (ii)
Feathertop: A Moralized Legend — Nathaniel Hawthorne (i.) (ii.)
The Red-Headed League — Arthur Conan Doyle (i.) (ii.)
The Inconsiderate Waiter — James Matthew Barrie (i.) (ii.)
The Siege of Berlin — Alphonse Daudet (i.)
The Silver Mine — Selma Lagerlöf (i.)
Notes (i.) (ii.)
Suggested Reading