Brass Rags

Brass Rags By J.L. Merrow “Shouldn’t your man be doing that for you, Algy?” Lord Algernon Huffingham paused in the act of unpacking his valise. “He should, if I had brought one, but as I didn’t, he can’t.” “Oh?” Cedric Whyte, known to his friends, inevitably, as ‘Chalky,’ lounged back on his elbows on Algy’s bed. He kicked his feet idly over the edge. “Want me to lend you my chap?” “That’s kind of you, but no, thank you. I’ll manage.” Algy had had dealings with Cedric’s valet, Woundsworth, before, and the man was a dreadful old stick-in-the-mud. Far easier to endure a spot of manual labour than Woundsworth’s sanctimonious expressions. And there was always the possibility Algy might have left something incriminating lurking amongst his collars. “Well, if you’re sure. What’s happened to old Hibbert, anyway?” “Brass rags, I’m afraid.” “Come again?” Algy straightened, pressing his hands into his aching back. An errant lock of his light-brown hair had fallen over one eye, and he squinted at it reproachfully, wondering if he’d remembered to pack brush and comb. “I had to give him his notice.” “Catch him pawning your watch, did you?” “Not exactly. But he was taking liberties.” Algy sighed, and ambled over to the mirror. “Taking time off without so much as a by-your-leave, making free with the best claret, and talking back to me in front of the other servants. It seems to happen with all of them. Just because I like some things…a certain way, they start thinking they can get away with murder.” “Sorry, old man, don’t follow your drift.” Engaged in making the same discovery as countless young men before him—namely, that fingers make a rather poor substitute for a comb—Algy was annoyed to see his reflected cheeks flush a delicate shade of rose. With his fair-ish hair and blue eyes, it made him look like an impeccably-tailored cherub, which was not at all the sort of impression he preferred to make. “We were…well, you know.” “Oh. Oh.” The frown lines deepened, until Cedric’s forehead resembled the surface of the sea on a choppy afternoon around Biscay. “I say, don’t you think it’s a bit off, buggering the help? I’m sure—” “Keep your voice down! The last thing I need is anyone else I have to pay off.” Flying to the door, Algy stuck his head out and glanced left, right and, to be on the safe side, up and down, then retreated, shutting it firmly behind him. “Anyway, if you must know, he was buggering me.” “Good Lord. And now he’s demanding money with menaces?” “Insinuations, more like, but that’s about the size of it.” “What will you do?” “Do? Pay him off, of course.” Algy sat down heavily on the bed next to his friend. “I really thought he was different, Chalky. Why do they always end up despising me? And you needn’t answer that.” “Right-oh,” Cedric said obligingly. “You know, you really should find someone, well, a bit more like us. Someone who’d have as much to lose, you know.” “Care to suggest a few names?” Algy asked scathingly. “Well, there’s Portonbury—” “That would be ‘Pox’ Portonbury, I presume?” “Or Caldwell—” “Please. If ‘Sissy’ Caldwell’s wrists were any limper, he’d be in grave danger of losing his hands. I may as marry a woman and have done with it.” “Well…” “Not in a million years. Not if she were as rich as Croesus and a Venus incarnate.” “Oh. Well, there’s, ah, Melthorpe—” “No, it’s no use, Chalky. I just don’t like men like that.” “Like what?” “Like us. I like…well…” “‘Horny-handed sons of toil?’” “In a word or five, yes.” “Ah. Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re lowering yourself to their level—naturally they won’t see you as above them, anymore.” “I’ve no particular problem with that. I just wish they wouldn’t see themselves as above me, that’s all.” “Except in the purely physical sense, you mean.” Cedric nodded. “Well, frankly, Algy, to coin a phrase, you’re buggered.”