Jimmy Quixote
A NOVEL
By TOM GALLON
Author of "Tatterley," "The Golden Thread," "Meg the Lady," etc.
London:
Hurst and Blackett, Limited,
Paternoster House, E.C.
Dedication.
My Dear Malcolm Watson,
In the early days of a friendship that has happily lasted for someyears, you were witness of, and kindly helper in, some of thosestruggles which must always be the lot of the young beginner inliterature. They were good days, and I look back at them with more oflaughter than of tears. And because you will recognise in these pagescertain autobiographical notes of that time, and may care to smile withme at them, I feel that this book most properly belongs to you.
Your friend always,
TOM GALLON.
London, 1906.
JIMMY QUIXOTE
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
OLD PAUL'S BABIES
"Old Paul" struggled back out of the big, roaring, bustling world oneday in late July, and was rather glad to leave it behind him. Old Paulhad been jostled and hurried and flurried and stared at in London; haddrifted aimlessly into the wrong departments in shops, and had nearlybought the wrong things, and had more than once lost his way. For,indeed, it was a far cry to the days when Old Paul had known Londonwell, and it had known him. And when it is remembered that he was cladin somewhat shabby country clothing, and that he went into the biggestshops, and with a total disregard for money bought the mostextraordinary things, and insisted on carrying the greater number awaywith him, there is small wonder that he was stared at. Now, at the endof a hot and bustling day, he got out at the little local station atDaisley Cross, drew a deep breath of fresher, purer air, and smiled tothink that he was near home.
A sympathetic porter, who had known him for some years, helped him toadjust the little cascade of parcels that tumbled out with Old Paul onto the platform; remarked that he was "main glad" to see Old Paulagain—quite as though that gentleman had been absent for a few years,instead of merely for the length of a summer day. In the simplestfashion Old Paul borrowed some string from the porter, and contrived aningenious arrangement of slings about his broad shoulders wherewith tosupport certain refractory parcels; and, finally, something after themanner of a very hot and perspiring summer Father Christmas, started offfor home.
The summer twilight was all about him as he breasted the hill at the endof the village, and came out on to the long sweep of road that led downinto the valley; and so faced a prospect that had been homely andfamiliar to him for some years—and faced it with simple gratitude. Onsuch a day as this, Old Paul always went back to that London he hadknown so many years before with misgivings, and always returned from itwith an uplifting of his heart; and yet Old Paul turned to-night a facetowards the twilight that was young and unlined. True, it may have beenlined with unaccustomed wrinkles of perplexity in London that day; butall those lines were smoothed away now as he went on through thegathering dusk, tramping steadily, with the step of a man used tocountry roads and broad uplands. As he walked he pushed back the softhat he wore, displaying a rather high forehead, and light brown hairgrowing a little thin; and he smiled to himself as at some problem thatwas exercising his mind—yet not exercising it in any troublesome way.