Almost all the first class passengers had crowded together outside the Sonnendeck Restaurant where they watched the heavy bag of Luftpost being hauled aboard the Heinkel float plane.  The pilot, looking every inch a German air ace, swung himself athletically into the cockpit and started up the engine.  The noise was deafening and people blocked their ears if they didn’t have to hang on to their hats.  The excitement mounted and then there was a mechanical sound and suddenly the ’plane was catapulted from the ramp and was flung over the side of the liner and into the air.  It didn’t simply plunge into the water as Martin had feared, but dipped for a second and then regained height and headed into the setting sun on its way to New York.  It would beat them there by a full day, although it was widely believed that the Bremen would take the Blue Riband on this maiden voyage.

Martin and Stephen were lucky to have obtained tickets and the glamour of the first crossing more than made up for the inconvenience of having to take the ferry across the North Sea to commence the voyage.  The Bremen was completely different to the liners they had known before.  She was low and sleek, with just two squat funnels and her raked masts seemed to suggest speed even when berthed.  Inside, all the passenger accommodation was in the modern style with lots of curves and minimal decoration and with just a few stylised tapestries showing German scenes— typically healthy maidens bathing in freezing mountain streams or vigorously engaged in outdoor sports. 

Stephen waxed lyrical about the turbine engines and the process for blowing air into them, which Martin didn’t quite follow.  He spent a good deal of their five days aboard in the blue-tiled swimming pool or at the nearby cocktail bar where he was seen in the company of the Olympic swimming star Johnny Weissmuller who had been to Europe promoting an American brand of underwear.  Both boys drew admiring looks from passengers of both sexes, although Weissmuller could plough through the water and be out of the pool at the other end and signing autographs before Stephen was even halfway down its length.

Martin had for some time been planning a return to the United States with a promised visit to Bunny and Dwight, but he found that he had been delayed by affairs at home.  There were ominous signs of distress on the estate, with an increasing number people who had formerly worked at Tatchell’s in Wareham and in the factories of Portsmouth, asking Blake if he was hiring farm labourers.  Agricultural prices were also falling and the talk now was of the heresy of tariffs when free trade had been the orthodoxy since his grandfather was a boy.

Several families on the estate with grown-up children who had left for Birmingham or the factory towns to the north, now found that they had returned home, often with children of their own, to swell the number of the unemployed and more and more everyone spoke in gloomy tones of ‘the slump’.  This was reflected in an increase in crime and Martin, sitting on the local bench, found himself imposing fines for petty offences born out of idleness and committing some quite serious cases of theft and assault to higher courts.  This distressed him, especially in those cases where he knew families of long-standing.

However, it was the suggestion of the clever Daniel Sachs that made this trip to America possible. 

“Martin,” Sachs had said as he steered his yacht, the Pheme, down the Solent in a stiff breeze, “I don’t like to talk business when I’m out here…

“But” completed Martin for him and he paused in the simple task of coiling a line that had been given him.

“…but why don’t you accept any of those directorships that are offered to you?  There must be a dozen you have turned down in the last financial year alone.”

“But I don’t know anything about banking or chemicals or oil, Daniel, and I am so busy with things at Croome just at present.  My father disapproved of finance— ‘trade’ he called it—and said that sort of thing was best left to…”

“Jews?”

“Well, he did say that, Daniel.  He was an intolerant old bigot and he ruined my brother’s life and would have ruined mine too, I think.  I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right— it is best left to us because we are smart…”

“And good-looking?”

“Yes and that too, but you are not your father and it would be an easy way to make some money.”

“You mean they pay you for being on a board of directors?”

“Of course, didn’t you know?”

“No, I thought it was like being on the Parish Council or the MCC.”

Daniel rolled his eyes (while still heeding the compass) and explained the likely remuneration he would receive for his labours which would largely consist of attending a few meeting in the city, facing the shareholders once a year and lending his name and title to the letterheads.

The scales were lifted from Martin’s eyes and he excitedly told Stephen of this new opportunity when he came up on deck and was directed to apply his muscles to a winch.

Thus Martin, with Sachs’ approval, accepted three positions as an outside director for a large bank, an insurance company and on the board of Imperial Chemicals.  One of the most persistent financiers, a Mr Clarence Hatry, had bombarded Martin with invitations and he must have learned about Stephen, for soon these soon came to include Mr Knight-Poole’s name as well.

At last they accepted to dine at his house in Great Stanhope Street to which they were admitted when they rang the bell by a very grand butler with a long nose who took their hats and coats and ushered them directly down the stairs to the basement.  Here had been constructed a large informal sitting room with a bar created to resemble the taproom in a public house—the sort that was done over in a bogus Tudor style on a by-pass road.  It was all terribly vulgar of course, but Hatry was generous to a fault and Martin derived the small pleasure of drinking another man’s good whisky. 

Even more amazing was the private swimming bath actually constructed inside the house, here, in the middle of London.  Stephen was in his element and Hatry called to his servant: “Bodkin, could you find a costume for Mr Knight-Poole?” And indeed one in approximately the right size was forthcoming and Stephen changed modestly in the luxuriously tiled dressing room with the assistance of Bodkin who brushed and hung up his evening clothes and who certainly enjoyed the sight of the Stephen’s shameless nakedness as he pulled on the tight tank suit and asked Bodkin to adjust the straps.  There and then Stephen dived into the pool and swam up and down while the other guests looked on in envy, sipping their drinks and constrained in their evening clothes. 

“Swimming is the only sport I really enjoy,” said Hatry, mournfully.  Martin looked at him: he was balding and sallow with a wispy moustache and Martin wondered if he ever saw the sunlight or breathed fresh air.  The other guests were all City men and at dinner Martin was flattered to be in their presence as they discussed great matters in which thousands of pounds were mentioned as if they were no more than trifles.

Over the port, which Bodkin placed on the table in a little silver wagon, Hatry pressed Martin to join the board of his new company, General Securities Ltd.  When he heard that Stephen had been a decorated officer, a feeler was put out in his direction for something called Far Eastern Photomaton.  Stephen merely murmured, non-committal, and Hatry returned to Martin.  “The board would pay you £2000 a year, Lord Branksome.  Of course I would recommend that you invest any spare cash in GS too.”

Martin was more than interested and imagined himself telling Daniel Sachs of the directorship and of the investment coup that he had made all on his own—without Sachs’ customary advice.  Martin then asked questions about Photomaton, a company that installed photographic booths at railway stations and funfairs.  Martin had liked these and had to stop himself from telling the story about when he and Stephen squeezed into one at Bournemouth and his questions largely concerned how the machines worked and the silly sorts of photographs people had taken that the directors might know of.  The financiers at the table exchanged glances.

Finally Hatry showed Martin the prospectus for General Securities Ltd.  There, just under the title, which was written in the most beautiful and reassuring Old English script, was the name of the chairman: Lord Paulet, the Marquess of Winchester.  Of course Martin knew this contemporary of his father’s and had been several times to Amport house with its garden laid out by Lutyens and thus Martin anticipated that Lord Paulet would be both a comforting and a commanding presence on the board and was pleased that he was at last stepping into the shoes of his late father—or rather what might have been his shoes had his father taken the more ambitious outlook of his fellow peer.

Therefore it came as a shock just two days later when the club servant at Boodles brought him a note.  “Excuse me chaps,” said Martin to Custard and Dongo and he read the missive.  “Tell him I will see him in the Strangers’ Room, Furkin.”

There he found Daniel Sachs looking agitated.  “Hullo, Daniel.  Is everyone well?”

Sachs assured him that he was in good health and so were his wife and daughters.  “Martin he began,” quietly, sitting down, “I have come with a warning.”  Martin looked alarmed.  “But you must promise to tell no one what I tell you.”

“Why Daniel?  I might have to tell Stephen.”

“Stephen yes, but no other, because rumours can bring down a company that otherwise might survive.”

“Which company?”

“General Securities,” his said in a tone so hushed that Martin wasn’t quite sure that he heard correctly.

“But what’s wrong with GS?” said Martin, trying to show he was au fait with City talk while at the same time as picturing the impressive prospectus and its titled chairman.

“I’m not exactly sure, but there are rumours and you do know Hatry has been bankrupt three times, including his sending the London Commercial Bank to the wall in 1924 owing tens of thousands of pounds?  He paid it back, of course, and has been trading on his so-called honesty ever since.  It smells bad, Martin, please believe me.  I wouldn’t want you or Stephen to be involved.”

Martin was shaken and the blood had drained from his face.

“You’re not involved are you Martin?” asked Sachs, inspecting him closely for signs of rash behaviour.

Martin shook his head, biting his lip.  “But how did you know?”

“Ask Chilvers,” said Sachs, smiling for the first time as he picked up his hat and umbrella and headed out the door. 

Unsurprisingly Martin collected Stephen from the Saville Club and took the first train to Dorset.  “Chilvers,” said Martin when they were alone, “Mr Sachs gave me a message.”

“Indeed, your lordship?”

“Yes Chilvers.  He said to speak to you.  What did he mean?”

Chilvers continued to set out the cutlery on the dining table, placing each piece with great exactitude.  “Well sir, you might remember when, in an unguarded moment, I mentioned I had a particular friend when I was a young footman at Matching?”

“Yes, Chilvers,” said Martin, thinking he should tread delicately.  “You were later estranged, you said, and it was with some regret.”

“Indeed, your lordship, and you must remember in my younger days I was not as I am now, in fact I had quite a good figure and my legs…”

“Yes, yes, Chilvers your legs looked like George Leotard’s,” he said impatiently, “but what has that got to do with Charles Hatry.”

“My friend’s name was Arthur Bodkin.”  Martin looked blankly.  “Mr Hatry’s butler, your lordship, and I might tell you that Mr Hatry pays his staff very handsomely, why Bodkin tells me he receives…” What Bodkin’s wages were Martin never heard for he had dashed up the stairs to Stephen.

Later that evening Chilvers knocked and entered the bedroom carrying the silver chocolate pot and the brandy on a tray.  Before him he saw Martin waddling with a cushion stuffed under his shirt with his hands placed on his ‘stomach’ and he was giggling with Stephen.  He stopped when he saw Chilvers and looked down at his shirt with the cushion and then at Chilvers without one.  Chilvers held out the tray and looked down at his own tummy in evident comparison and then with pursed lips cast an icy look at his master.

Martin’s expression changed instantly. “Oh no, Chilvers, Stephen and I were just playing at babies– I was pretending that I was having his baby and…” Chilvers’ expression had not changed and Martin tried a new tack.  “I say Chilvers, thank you ever so much for the Hatry thing.  It can’t have been easy for you to make the decision to call Mr Sachs.”

“That part was quite easy, your lordship, because I simply put your interests first.”  He put down the tray.  “It was Mr Bodkin who suggested I telephone Mr Sachs straight away when I told him that he was your financial advisor, but it was Bodkin who had to betray his master, your lordship, and that can’t have been easy.  He has been with Mr Hatry for three years now and if Mr Hatry goes under he may well find himself without a position.”

“Well, we will have to hope that Mr Hatry keeps afloat for the sake of all his investors, but thank you very much, Chilvers, you’ve saved my bacon.”

Chilvers glared at the cushion, the fruit of the unnatural conception, which was still under Martin’s shirt and Martin reluctantly removed it.  “It was our baby, Chilvers, honestly…” he began and Chilvers held out his hand and the infant was given over to him and deposited on the armchair and Chilvers left the room.

*****

Manhattan, as seen across the water from the pier in Brooklyn, was stupendous and a sight to take the breath away and turn the knees to jelly at the thrilling promise of it all.  The setting summer sun was just catching fire to the towers of the Financial District burnishing it white and gold and creating the impression that it was the New Jerusalem itself come down from heaven, prepared as a new bride for her husband.

The air around them was filled with the sound of ships’ horns blaring out a cacophonous welcome to the new liner while the Port Authority’s fire tugs spewed elegant plumes of water into Gowanus Bay, like the fountains Martin and Stephen had seen at Versailles, and a flight of tiny aeroplanes soared overhead in salute.

Martin and Stephen, with Carlo in tow, put up at the new Governor Clinton Hotel on 7^th Avenue, opposite Pennsylvania Station, and they quickly entered into the social whirl of the city where they no longer felt like strangers.

After several days, Martin thought he must tackle the people at the Carnegie Foundation about the library while Stephen was sent to see their lawyer and broker on Wall Street.

“I’m sorry Lord Branksome,” said Mr James Bertrum, the late steel magnate’s secretary, “but we could not countenance a design such as you propose.  We believe that a traditional style with references to the glories of the classical past creates the right sort of tone for these ‘universities of the poor’— that is what the late Mr Carnegie called libraries.  There must be a lantern over the door to represent knowledge and we also like a good flight of steps up from the street to symbolise the elevating nature of education.”

“But stairs would make the building too tall for its site in our village and mothers with prams would not be able to enter —I was planning for a children’s section you see, with books for the little ones.”

“Perhaps not so elevating then, Lord Branksome?” said Mr Bertrum.

Martin felt he had reached an impasse and picked up his hat and took his leave, deciding that he would have to finance the library himself.

 *******

Stephen returned from downtown and was as white as a sheet.  He came in and sat down heavily.  “You don’t look too well, Derbs,” said Martin, “bring him a cup of tea, Carlo.”

“No, Carlo,” said Stephen speaking for the first time, “sit down; sit down the both of you.”  They did, looking concerned as Stephen stood and then paced the room.  “I saw Mr Dulles in his office and he explained how the American economy has boomed in the last ten years.  He said that investment in American business was the cornerstone of American life and it was indeed the civic duty of all Americans to participate in the growth and development of the nation and that everybody could be rich if they invested as little as $17 a month in sound stocks.  He was very persuasive and showed me some graphs that he said proved that, in the long term, sound stocks provide both good yields and certain capital growth and that he was quite convinced that stocks would continue rise over the next four years at least before levelling off.”

“They could go down, couldn’t they?” said Martin.

“Dulles said that was a million to one.”

“He urged us to put any idle capital we might have lying around into Shenandoah Corporation which is part of Goldman Sachs.”

“Well, what did you do, Derbs?”

“Nothing yet, but I asked him how much our present investments were worth– your shares in Goldman Sachs, Mala; your $70 invested in City Services, Carlo; mine in Anaconda Copper. You bought 50 shares at $104, Mala, and today they are worth $220.”

“So I have lost half my money, Derbs?” asked Martin, dispirited.

No Mala, that’s per share; they’re worth $11,000– divide by five for pounds.” He moved on quickly while Martin was trying to do the mental arithmetic. 

“Your City Services shares, Carlo, which were $5 each in 1927, are now worth $55, so you have made $700 exclusive of your original investment of $70 of which you only paid up a small fraction.”

Martin was sitting there pleased but Carlo looked shocked.  “Might I have a glass of sherry, your lordship?  I feel dry in the mouth.”

“And Anaconda Copper, Derbs?  You invested  $1,000; how many shares and what are they worth today?”

“Well,” said Stephen sitting down himself, “they were just under $10 so I bought 100.  Mr Dulles said they are at $128 each and bound to rise further.”

“Why that’s a small fortune, Derbs!  This is fantastic.  Keep them and watch them rise– they might reach $150, who knows?”

“No!” said Carlo, suddenly.  “Forgive me your lordship, but we agreed to sell when we came back here– whatever the price.  I know I’m just a servant and know nothing about high finance, but I do know about betting on horses and that’s what this is.  I also know there is no permanent way to make money without working for it— not legally, not morally.”

“But Carlo, people are working for it.  Why, they’re pumping oil out of the ground in Oklahoma as we speak and little men are pumping petrol into American automobiles on every street corner.  Besides, you heard what Mr Stephen said Mr Dulles said and you’ve seen how America is booming right outside our windows.”

Carlo was unmoved.  “He’s right, Mala,” said Stephen.  “We should quit while we’re ahead.  What would my stepfather have said?”

“That investing is a good thing, Derbs, surely?”

“No Mala, this isn’t investing; it’s speculation.”

Martin was a little shocked by their attitude but was prepared to be swayed by them and he thought of the very nice profit he had made and he understood about greed— in theory at least— and was still chastened by his close shave with Clarence Hatry.  “Tell Mr Dulles to sell all our stocks, Derbs; it’s what we agreed to do after all.”

*****

“Do I know you sir?”

Mr Henry Bourne Joy sat at a large desk as befitted the head of one of the greatest motorcar manufacturers in the country.  Through the window could be seen the skyline of the attractive and thriving city of Detroit.  He polished his pince-nez and looked at Stephen’s card again. 

“We met during the War, Mr Joy; I was in uniform then and I had come over from England…”

“Why of course Captain Knight-Poole!  It was here in Detroit and we were gearing up for the fight.  We talked about reinforced concrete and you were with Lord What’s-his-name.  I do apologise for not remembering.”

“Not at all, sir; it was twelve years ago and a lot of water…”

“Yes, yes.  And did you continue in your career?”

“Well, if you mean in the Army, no.  I have done a little bit of work in concrete construction but I work with Lord Branksome now,” said Stephen, hoping that this was not denigrating his relationship with Martin.  “How is your project going, Mr Joy, for the concrete road across the continent?”

“The Lincoln Highway is complete, but we are continually improving it and removing unnecessary detours.  It has a concrete base of course for heavy vehicles and there are now statues of President Lincoln at intervals to remind travellers of that great President who united our nation in a different way.  I am now engaged in another fight, Mr Knight-Poole; Prohibition, as you must have noticed if you’ve been here for any time at all, has utterly failed and it should be repealed, but you haven’t come all this way to listen to me talk politics, young man.  What can I do for you?”

“I want to buy a motorcar, Mr Joy; a Packard, I thought.”

Mr Joy was not dismissive as Stephen feared he might be— except when Stephen had to confess that his present vehicle was the unique ‘Pan’ that he had bought in 1917.  He ascertained that Stephen was not looking for a family car and had plenty of money.  He retrieved a brochure from a drawer and pushed it across to Stephen.  Inside were some marvellous drawings of a new model for 1930, artfully sketched from all angles and with the top up and the top down, revealing it’s rakish lines.  It was a ‘roadster’, with two roomy seats in the front and a dickie seat—called a ‘rumble seat’ over here— for two more passengers. 

“Looks powerful, doesn’t it?” said Joy, smiling. “Straight-8 engine, 110 horsepower, top speed 100 mph.”

It was beautiful and Stephen was utterly hooked.  He was firmly but kindly ushered out of Mr Joy’s office and into the arms of one of Mr Joy’s functionaries who seductively talked about all the custom-made features that the coachbuilders, LeBaron, could provide to meet a customer of Mr Knight-Poole’s exacting requirements, including having the steering wheel placed on the correct side.  Stephen chose a colour scheme of ivory and chocolate, with red spokes on the white-tyred wheels.  If the spare wheel was placed on running board on the passenger side, a large trunk could be fitted on a folding rack at the rear and this was to have special compartments for Stephen’s clothes and sporting equipment.  There was also an electric starter on the floor.  Stephen left having spent $5000 and felt quite light-headed.  

*****

At Chicago’s Union Station, Martin and Stephen were met by the welcoming figure of Moses LeRoy, Bunny Wilbur and Dwight Hoyt’s servant.  “Welcome to Chicagah, gen’lemen.  Dr Dwight has a clinic this afternoon and sends his ’pologies for not meetin’ you person’ly and Mr Wilbur don’t get home much befo’ it’s dark.  But I will see you home safely,” he said as he directed them to an enormous Pierce-Arrow brougham waiting by the kerb.

The apartment on Lake Shore Drive was as before, but a glimpse through a half opened door showed that Bunny’s study to be a sea of paper and there was a row of steel filing cabinets where a ‘Federal Period’ bureau had once stood.  An open book lay on the desk with many underlining’s and margin notes, evidently by Bunny.  Martin turned to the cover and read: The Man Nobody Knows and tried to recall the author, Bruce F. Barton.  He carefully put the book back, for he knew he had been snooping. 

Moses brought them coffee and sandwiches that they consumed while gazing out over the sparkling lake upon which could be seen, moving in their individual gaits, patient barges laden with lumber and steel, hard-working passenger ferries bound for Waukegan and Milwaukie and the light-hearted private yachts of Chicago’s millionaires.

It was still early so the boys went for a walk as far as the Lincoln Park Conservatory and returned by streetcar along Clark Street.  At 7:00 Dwight appeared and was all apologies for having been delayed.  “We’re to dine at a French restaurant on North Michigan,” he said removing his coat and tie and accepting the cocktail offered by Moses.  “Bunny will meet us there—he works late most nights.”

In the event, Bunny did not make an appearance until half-past eight.  He greeted them warmly, but he looked terrible, with his fair hair having noticeably thinned, and there were bags under his eyes and his body, once that of a college footballer, seemed to have gone to fat.  Bunny drank nervously and smoked one cigarette after another.  “It’s frantic downtown, boys, he said and went on to explain some complex business deals he was involved in.  A waiter brought a telephone to their table and plugged it in so Bunny could take a call.

Moses arrived at 10:00 and took them home.  Martin settled on Stephen’s lap in an armchair as he talked excitedly about all that they had been doing since they saw each other two years before.  Bunny followed suit and sat on Dwight’s knee but was only there for a few minutes when the telephone bell sounded and Moses said there was an urgent call for him.  He excused himself but was soon back, but the instrument rang several more times and Bunny never seemed to relax for more than a moment.

“Dwight has a new yacht and we will go out on it on Saturday.  I thought we’d spent the weekend up at our summerhouse on Lake Geneva.  Would you like that?”

Martin and Stephen said that they would like that very much.  Bunny and Dwight looked tired and went to bed soon after and were gone when Martin and Stephen awoke the next morning.  That evening Bunny said he had too much paper work to do to go to the Dil Pickle Club and the others did not feel like going without him so they played three handed rummy while Bunny went off into his study, taking a bottle with him.

On Friday evening Martin was embarrassed to hear Dwight arguing down the telephone line with Bunny who was apparently still in his office in the Loop.  “It’s unfair to Martin and Stephen, Bun, it can’t be so darn important that it can’t wait until Monday…” He hung up and turned around, glimpsing Martin in the doorway.  “I’m worried about him, Martin, he’s been like this for the past year; it’s just work, work, work and he’s not eating properly or sleeping even though he is worn out.  He’s too tired to even… you know; he just rolls over.”

“What do you think’s wrong with him—medically I mean?”

“How do I know?  It’s not eczema, that’s all I can say.  He gave a tight smile.  “I’m frightened he will have a breakdown or get an ulcer.”

It turned out that Bunny did get back from La Salle Street by just after 6:00 and they piled into the Pierce-Arrow and, with the auxiliary seats let down and with Moses at the wheel and Carlo beside him, drove north from Chicago the 80 miles to Lake Geneva, which was in the next state.  It was dark when they arrived and all Martin was aware of was that they had left a small, brightly lit township a little way behind them and were now in the forest.  At last the headlamps illuminated a rambling timber bungalow in a clearing.  It was made of stained boards with windows and doorframes picked out in white paint.  There was a wide porch with insect screens and the front door opened directly into a very pleasant room lit by oil lamps.

“Why this is lovely, Bunny!” exclaimed Martin as he inspected the fireplace made of round boulders apparently taken straight from a stream.  It wasn’t cold, but Moses was bending down to light a fire.

“It’s really Dwight’s house.”

“It belonged to my aunt and uncle but now it’s mine— I mean ours.  We don’t come here enough, do we Bun?”

“There’s no telephone and Rip won’t let one be connected.  He doesn’t understand how I have to keep in touch with things.  He just thinks the money grows on trees and all you have to do is pick it off like apples.”

“But surely you have enough for a good life, Bunny,” began Stephen.

“Look Stephen,” began Bunny aggressively, “Every man needs a challenge; something to pit himself against so that he knows that he is at least alive and mine is to make myself successful in business and best the rest of the Chicago pack.  When you play sport, do you play to win, even in cricket?”

“Yes, of course, I go out there to do my best and to win—for the side to win.  It makes me feel good, but what you’re doing…”

Bunny cut him off.  “It’s exactly the same; while cricket might be the great British game, business is ours, and I’m doing my darnedest to hit as many homeruns as you do when you go out to face up to the pitcher in a game of cricket.  I can’t just spend my life as one permanent vacation.”  Stephen thought this was a low blow directed at him and Martin, but kept his temper, thinking all the while that Bunny was a little unhinged.

“I’m an American,” he continued, “a Chicagoan and this is what we’re all about.  It has been promised to us and it is then up to us to look for an opportunity—some fresh angle on life —and seize it by the throat if we have the brains and the balls.”

“What has been promised to you, Bunny?” asked Stephen, rather puzzled.

“The promise of American life, Stephen, that’s what, although I can’t describe to you exactly what that is.  Perhaps it is different for every man, but Lindbergh found it and Henry Ford and…”

“Al Capone,” said Dwight with sarcasm.

“I was going to say Bobby Jones, Dwight,” said Bunny, plainly annoyed. “You see we had two great Presidents, Stephen: Jefferson who smashed the power of old governments to limit our potential, to curb our free will.  He completed what Washington started when he threw off the British yoke—no offence to you to both.  And Andrew Jackson smashed the power of the bureaucracy to make every man his own man—a pioneer going forward in a new land.  If you’re not an American you cannot really understand what it means to be free to think for yourself and to be given a purpose.  All you have to do is find what yours is and the means to achieve it.”

“I haven’t heard of President Jackson,” said Stephen, “but was he the one who talked about manifest destiny?”

“I think he did.  He certainly understood freedom.  You have to be an American to know what it really means.”

Stephen was slightly doubtful.  “But what has this got to do with killing yourself with hard work, Bunny?  Can’t you be free some other way?”

“No, every man has to work hard to make something of himself; to build things up, to make two grow where one grew before, to create wealth to be… to be…”

“Pleasing in the sight of God?” put in Dwight.  “Are you trying to corner the market in pork bellies to please the Almighty?”

“You can sneer if you like.  My father made more money than my grandfather and my grandfather left a fortune after being the son of a dirt-poor farmhand in Kentucky.  I’m determined to do better than both of them.  And it’s isn’t pork bellies, you know that, Rip.”

Martin knew all about family pressure and could sympathise a little, but was nonetheless distressed and said: “But what about Bohemia and the artist’s life in Montmartre, Bunny, I thought that was your dream?”

“That was when I was a child.  I’m 32, I’ve put away childish things now.”

“But this weekend will be for fun and relaxation, won’t it Bunny,” said Dwight with an edge of desperation to his voice, “for Martin and Stephen who have come all this way?”

“Yes, of course,” said Bunny, flashing a smile.  We’ll have a fine weekend.  What about a hand of cards before I have some papers to read through?” 

“What did you think of all that in Bunny’s little speech, Mala?” Stephen asked quietly when they were in bed together.  It was a hot night and they could hear mosquitoes and crickets and other sounds from the dark woods surrounding the cottage.

“I don’t know, Derbs.  Is it free from something or free to do something?  I think it’s good to have something to do with your life, but you don’t have to be a success to give life meaning.  I mean look at your stepfather; his life was rich and full of meaning, but he was not fighting for success against ‘the pack’.”

“No, I think his life was lived in a quiet harmony and not in competition with anyone or anything and I doubt that he ever gave freedom a thought.  I think about him a lot, Mala; he was the best man I have known.” They were silent for a while, naked under a cotton sheet in the heat.

“I don’t think Bunny is free at all,” announced Martin at last, “he’s enslaved by ambition and, I don’t like to say it, but by money too.”

“Do you think it would help if I fucked him, Mala?”

“I don’t even think that would help, Derbs, in this instance.  He will have to help himself.  I’m just worried that Dwight will leave him; he seems fed up.  What Bunny’s doing is not making the best out of his life; it’s arrogant and self-destructive, don’t you think?”

“I do,” said Stephen and put his arm around his lover and kissed him on the forehead.

 *******

The rest of the weekend passed quietly.  They went into the pretty township, which was bustling with holidaymakers from Chicago and Milwaukee.  Bunny was seen going into the post office to make a telephone call.

Out on the lake it would have been impossible to think of making money and even Bunny seemed back to normal for a few hours.  Dwight handled the sailboat very skilfully and there was plenty of time to view the interesting shoreline where houses like their own and much grander mansions and summer hotels made of timber gingerbread could be seen against a backdrop of trees.  Bunny fell to talking about the new house he was planning to build for the both of them.  “We will get out of Chicago when I am able to retire from business and build a big place in Highland Park with a swimming pool and a harbour right on the lake for a steam yacht.  I will buy you the biggest yacht in Chicago, Dwight.  You might even be able to sail it clear across the Atlantic to Europe.  We’ll have a seaplane too.”  They tried to imagine it all.

On the Sunday, when they had returned from swimming in the lake, Stephen suggested that there should be a Naked Day, such as he periodically proclaimed by fiat in Antibes.  Everyone removed his costume and when Moses and Carlo came to serve lunch, they were told that the rules applied to them as well.  The only fly in the ointment of this pleasant diversion came in the form of the Dr and Mrs Claybourne of the Episcopal Church of the Ascension in Chicago who had ridden over from their cottage to visit.  At the sound of their horses, bathing costumes were hastily donned and Carlo admitted them.

“We’ve just come to visit awhile,” said Mrs Claybourne pleasantly to Dwight as he led them through to the screened porch.  She was introduced to the British houseguests.  Bunny poured glasses of lemonade from a pitcher for the pair who was thirsty from their ride along the dusty road.  “I do hope you will see something of our American home life while you are here, Lord Branksome,” she said.

As she was putting the glass to her quivering lips, Moses, who was unaware of the visitors’ arrival, entered the room holding a brass vase containing branches and pinecones he had gathered.  Mrs Claybourne obtained a fine and uninterrupted view of the naked servant whose unclothed form had once been more familiar to certain passengers on the Lackawanna Railroad and she put her glass down with a bang at the same time as giving a strangled cry.  Moses looked up and made a similar sound and tried to hide his person behind the vase.  The pine needles jabbed at him painfully and he dropped the whole thing with a clatter.

“Moses, you have forgotten your trousers again,” said Bunny in a patient voice.

“My trousers?  Have I not got them on, suh?”

“No, Moses.  Get Carlo to help you,” and then to the Claybournes: “We only took him on as a favour to his old mother who was our cook.”

“I’m sorry about that, Mrs Claybourne,” said Dwight.

“Not at all Mr Hoyt,” she replied grandly.  “Unlike my husband I am a modern woman.  This is 1929 and I’ve read Carl Van Vechten.”

Moses was led away by Stephen like a child and when they were out of sight, Stephen gave Moses’ generous cock a couple of cheeky strokes while they clung to each other, convulsed with laughter which they had to cruelly stifle.
A few days later it was time to leave Chicago and indeed the United States and, once again, Dwight and Bunny were pressed to come over to England.  Moses drove them down to the Loop and they called in at Bunny’s office to say a final farewell.  It was terribly busy with clerks running backwards and forwards, carrying pieces of paper and looking anxious.  In Bunny’s office the two stock tickers were nervously chattering and vomiting forth their paper tapes.  They started to say goodbye to Bunny who was seated behind his desk.  The telephone rang once again and he answered it.  Then he put the mouthpiece to his chest and mouthed the words, “Goodbye and bon voyage” and smiled before returning to the insistent instrument.  “I don’t care what Babson says,” he snapped, “we should buy now.”  When he looked up the boys had gone.

*****

Stephen’s splendid American roadster growled to a halt and fell into line with hundreds of other motors and pedestrians that had choked the rural lanes near Cardington.  They crawled forward slowly, the motor straining to be let given its head.  Obviously they were not the only visitors interested in seeing the great British airship whose development and construction had been touted in the newspapers for more than year. 

It was rather bleak, flat land, this east side of Bedford, but the new village of Shortstown proved to be a gem, with neat little brick houses set out in a crescent around an ornamental garden.  “These were built for the aircraft employees,” said Stephen, “and this,” he said pointing to a long Georgian building that looked rather like the new London County Council Offices, “will be a hotel for travellers when it’s finished.”

It was hard to appreciate these things, or indeed concentrate on the road, when all attention was drawn to the enormous shed in the fields beyond, which dwarfed every other building in sight and, above it and above them– in fact above everything and looking as if it shouldn’t be there at all, the Leviathan itself, tethered delicately by it’s nose to the tip of an enormous steel tower shaped like a pepper pot.

http://youtu.be/gdPrUBkMgdE 

“It’s unbelievable, Derbs!” exclaimed Martin when he was able to form the words. And indeed it was, for it was as big as an ocean liner but was swimming in the air above their heads and it weighed nothing at all.

At a gate they showed their invitation and were allowed to proceed while the other vehicles had to make do with more distant views across the windswept fields.  Stephen parked alongside other motors at the base of the tower where there was a series of timber sheds and the plant for making the gas.  They alighted and found themselves in the shadow of the man-made cloud above them— and it was a frightening feeling.

It was, of course, a tremendous disappointment that the R101 would not be flying that afternoon due to the unfavourable weather forecast and the contingent of politicians and other dignitaries (which included Martin and Stephen) would have to be content with a reception on-board whilst the airship remained at her 200-foot mast.

Fortunately this mast was served by an electric lift around which wound a metal staircase and Stephen and Martin ascended with several other people and a steward with cases of champagne.  At the summit, above the apparatus that winched in the mooring cable, was a staircase that led to a breezy platform.  Here a clever covered gangway unfolded and was free to move around the platform as the R101 drifted in the wind.  It was an easy matter to cross it and then they found themselves inside the airship, like so many Jonahs about to make their home in the belly of the whale. 

A corridor led downwards from this ‘mouth’, pursed disapprovingly just below the ‘nose’ of the dirigible, and then along the underside of the airship.  There were few windows and beneath the electric lamps the long white corridor stretched out before them with no sign of the aluminium girders or the great bags that contained the gas that they knew must lay just above their heads, nevertheless they whispered because the experience was unearthly and akin to being inside a cathedral.

After several minutes of filing down this sober tunnel they could hear faint music that become louder and then up some stairs and through a door they came upon the passenger accommodation and emerged suddenly into a brightly lit world of gaiety and good cheer.  The contrast was remarkable—even slightly hysterical; the lounge was filled with people who were chatting and drinking and several couples were fox-trotting to a small orchestra which had set up in one corner of the spacious room, which was lined with green wicker benches whose cushions, on closer inspection, proved to be made of inflatable rubber.  Afternoon tea had slid into the cocktail hour and voices were raised somewhat as a consequence. 

There were several people Martin knew already, including Lord Thomson, the Secretary of State for Air, who was talking to George Lansbury and Miss Foxton.  It was only a few weeks before that Thomson had been a luncheon guest at Branksome House to discuss his wartime romance, Smaranda, set in Bucharest.  Other guests on this occasion, besides Miss Foxton and George Lansbury, had been Thomson’s Australian friends, Maie and Richard Casey, and The Maharaja of Rajpipla. 

Thomson, the curiously sensitive ex-soldier-turned Labour politician, had been born in India and Ramsay Macdonald had asked him to be the next viceroy, according to Miss Foxton’s information.  His devotion to air travel, India and Romania found resonance at the luncheon table and Stephen also found a further a connection because Thomson had been in the Royal Engineers.  It was a pleasant afternoon and Thomson was quite charismatic and Martin wasn’t even greatly annoyed when he said that Count Osmochescu sent his greetings through the beautiful Princess Bibesco, Thomson’s great romance.  And as a result of this luncheon had come the invitation to Cardington.

Across the saloon Sir Oswald Mosley was seen engaged earnestly with ‘Custard’ Featherstonehaugh, while Lady Cynthia was dancing with the Chancellor of the Exchequer.  Men in uniform, who were clearly the ship’s officers, were not looking overly pleased that their airship had been invaded by all these people, bringing to their serious undertaking an undiluted whiff of Mayfair.

As they discovered elsewhere, the walls of this saloon were made of fabric panels, painted white and attractively outlined in gold.  Blue curtains separated the lounge from a promenade with sloping windows that gave passengers a marvellous view of the earth below.  “These windows are made of a new material called ‘Cellon’,” said a voice behind them.  It was Thomson who had walked over with two glasses of champagne.

“It’s all so marvellous, Lord Thomson,” said Martin, taking his. “You must be very proud.”

“Well I suppose I am proud of my ‘baby’.  Of course it is still an experimental ship and it has to be tested thoroughly in all sorts of conditions, but we plan to take her to India while the R100 up at Hawdon will start for Canada next year.”

How long will it take to get to India?” asked Martin.

“Four days out and six back, with a stop in Egypt to refuel.  We have plans for still larger ships to run a monthly service to South Africa and Australian and capable of taking a hundred passengers.  Our aim is to unite the Empire as much as anything.”

They discovered the dining room where a sumptuous buffet had been arranged.  “Look Mala, the cutlery is made of aluminium,” said Stephen who had picked up a fork and was weighing it in his hand.

“Come and have a look at this,” said Custard who appeared beside them.  He led them down the stairs again to the lower deck and they came to another attractive room.  The floor was curiously made of aluminium and the ceiling was asbestos, but there were attractive tables and chairs as in the larger saloon above.  “This is the smoke room,” said Custard taking out his silver case.

“But isn’t it dangerous?” asked Martin.

“Apparently not as hydrogen rises and it can’t burn unless it mixes with oxygen and this room, they say, is fireproof.”  They were joined by some others and presently left.

“What are you doing here, Custard?” asked Martin.

“Lord Rothermere sent me to cover the story.  He’s rather keen on the Empire at the moment and wants an end to free trade for ‘Imperial Preference’ and I have to work that into the article.”

They returned to the lounge just in time for the speeches.  The band had taken a break for their dinner and some well-earned beer and the ebullient crowd was hushed with difficulty until the driving rain on the outer cover of the ship could be faintly heard.  Custard quickly got out his notebook and took down the words in Pitman’s shorthand, which impressed Martin terribly as he looked over his shoulder at the strange squiggles.

Lord Thomson spoke of the long history of British engineering triumphs and of the government’s desire to create, he said: “an Empire of Air…to give a unity to widely scattered peoples, unattainable hereto; to create a new spirit, or maybe to revive an old spirit which was drooping and to inculcate a conception of the common destiny and the mission of our race.”  He then went on to praise the designers of the R101 and waxed lyrical about the smoothness and comfort he had experienced on the test flight.  The audience politely tittered when he said that the ship was the perfect place for him to do work, undisturbed by his fellow Members of Parliament who might come knocking at his door and then he concluded: “The R101 is as safe as a house except for the millionth chance.”

There was applause and some more speeches from people Martin didn’t know and then the stewards circulated with more champagne and toasts were drunk to His Majesty and to His Majesty’s Airship R101.  The dancing resumed as the autumn darkness outside was now complete and Martin looked across to see Stephen dancing with Miss Wilkinson—‘Red Ellen’— the fiery red-headed radical M.P. with the piercing blue eyes—while he was fox-trotting with the wife of the Bishop of Bedford. 

“You dance very well, Mrs Crockford.”

“Thank you, Lord Branksome; I suppose I ought to as I was a Tiller Girl before Crockford plucked me out of the chorus.  Unfortunately we don’t get to dance very much now at the Palace as he is so busy with his research into Islam and his model trains.  Do you want to have a go at this?”   This last referred to the latest dance craze which had replaced the Charleston in the more hectic ballrooms of England and involved a sort of foot stomping with other steps called ‘mooching’ and ‘doodling’ and, with hands on the hips, ‘messing around’. Martin and the Bishop’s wife were very good and received a round of applause, while Stephen was having a lively time trying to teach the steps to Miss Wilkinson who suffered from being rather short and wanting to talk incessantly.  Soon the whole room had joined in and the band was forced to repeat the tune three times as one hundred pairs of feet thumped on the polished plywood panels of floor.  The ships officers frowned even more severely.

The evening wore on and the dining room was looking rather the worse for wear, with the buffet having been attacked by the hungry dancers.  There was a quantity of spilt champagne and discarded chicken bones and a jelly had come to grief.  A pig’s head had fallen from a tray and lay unpleasantly on the floor with its dead eyes staring out reprovingly at the ceiling, its voice muted by an apple. 

Stephen led Martin past the starboard promenade with its rows of deckchairs facing the sloping windows occupied by romantic couples. They skirted the staircase to the lower deck and scuttled down a series of narrow corridors that gave onto the tiny cabins.  These had curtains instead of doors and Stephen pulled one of these blue portieres aside and dragged Martin in after him and, without pause, wrapped his arms about Martin and kissed him passionately.  “But Derbs, suppose somebody sees us?”

“I don’t care,” said Stephen, not caring, and he already had his jacket and shirt off.  Martin shrugged and followed suit (or rather out of suit) and they broke their disrobing several times for urgent kisses.  Martin was having trouble with his belt and buttons and Stephen assisted by simply wrenching them off, the button flying across the cabin and making a dull sound on the fabric that formed the partitions.  The belt was completely ruined and Martin discarded it beneath the lower bunk.  There was not much time to look about, but it was obvious that the cabins were rather Spartan and more akin to a sleeping car than an ocean liner, for there was just a pair of narrow bunks, thoughtfully made up, and a folding stool probably intended for a suitcase.  “Don’t touch that switch, Mala, I don’t know if it is for the light or to call the steward.”

They moved the aluminium ladder aside and squeezed into the lower berth.  Stephen attacked Martin’s fair skin, pulling on his pink nipples with his teeth, making Martin wince, then soothing them with his tongue.  He worked his way down Martin’s chest and rubbed his nose in the wiry blond hair that ran from Martin’s navel down to the similarly hued pubic bush, kept trim by Carlo, which formed an escutcheon to Martin’s hard and aching erection.  Martin squirmed with delight.  Stephen ran his nose and moustache over the sensitive skin and Martin felt his hot breath and shivered.  Stephen lapped at the clear juices that had started to flow and then ran his tongue the length of his shaft and didn’t stop until he had taken each of Martin’s balls into his mouth and swirled them about with his tongue.  He moved from the now sopping scrotum to the delicious skin than ran further south, kissing and nipping at the sensitive blond flesh.  Martin’s trembling legs were pushed back as far as the bunk above would allow, so his more tender and private areas were exposed to his lover’s savage attentions. 

“Open up for me, Mala.” 

Martin tried to relax and concentrate and Stephen used his strength to repeatedly part his plump buttocks and it hurt but it must have worked for he could feel Stephen’s tongue probing deeper and deeper and his lips were almost sucking his insides out.  “Not so loud, Mala,” cautioned Stephen and Martin, for a second, became alarmed.

“My turn,” breathed Martin and with difficulty they reversed their positions on the narrow bunk.  Martin tried to remember all that Stephen had done and repeated it, enjoying the sensations of skin, caressing skin.  Stephen’s dimpled buttocks were clenched tightly and Martin fought to caress the soft black hair, like silk, that lined this masculine trench before returning to Stephen’s rampant cock which was now urgent and flowing.

“I want to watch you spill Mala,” demanded Stephen.

“But it’s dark, Derbs.”

Stephen opened the curtain a few inches and the dim light from the corridor illuminated the scene.

Stephen spat on Martin’s right palm and then, thinking that Martin might find it convenient at some point, spat on the left one too.  He renewed his attentions to Martin’s cock then sat back on his haunches, with his head touching the bunk above, and watched Martin take over.

Stephen’s leaking cock was right over Martin’s stomach where a pool was forming as his eyes shone and stared fixedly at Martin whose right arm was moving furiously and whose fist was a blur on his cock.  Several times Martin held out his palm for more spit and then Stephen saw him change hands and was relieved that Martin too enjoyed the benefits of being ambidextrous in this matter.  “Keep your eyes open Mala; keep looking at me.”  Martin did so and Stephen flexed his muscles and put his arms behind his head, lacing his fingers together.  The heady aroma of sweat and passion filled the cabin that, unknown to the boys, Sir Sefton Brancker has called home only a week before on the trial flight.  “I want to watch you to spill.  Spill for me Mala; make it a big load.  You will do that if you love me, won’t you?”  This was a rhetorical question and had Martin been thinking clearly, a not particularly fair one.  Nevertheless he wanted to spill his seed desperately and pleasing Stephen was always a stimulant.

A further stimulant came in a digital form, when Stephen slid his wetted index finger inside Martin who suddenly convulsed and shot three ropes of his milky seed well up onto his breast, with one pearly drop clinging to his noble chin.

“How was that, Derbs?” Martin asked, gasping for breath.

“Very good Mala, but I think I will have to draw up a schedule for practice.”

Martin rolled his eyes in the gloom and then said: “Clean me up, Derbs, I want to see you swallow it.”  Stephen was obedient and when he was finished he looked intensely at Martin while his stroked his own cock, trying not to make the bunks squeak or to bang his head as he had done several times already.  “I want it inside me Derbs, can you do it?  Deep inside me and I’ll hold it in.”

Martin let out a howl when Stephen entered him, but no footsteps came.  Stephen only gave three or four thrusts before he discharged his pent up load inside his lover.  He withdrew with a slurp and Martin clenched tightly, trying not to fart, and spoil the romantic moment, as he licked Stephen’s big dripping member clean in what he knew was certainly an act of depravity.

Presently they lay together somehow on the narrow bunk, Stephen’s big sweaty body keeping Martin safe and warm.  Outside the rain could be heard beating a tattoo on the fabric and the strains of the dance band drifted faintly down the corridor— the party was still going.  Stephen had his left arm around Martin, holding him tight and the gentle swaying of the airship could be felt as it swung at the mast in what was now a gale.  “This is nice, Derbs,” said Martin. “We have seen the future, haven’t we?  It’s like jumping forward 25 years. We could fuck all the way to India,” he giggled.  “Do you think we’ll be doing this in 25 years?”

“That will be 1954, Mala.  I may not be able to do you so many times a night then, will you mind?”

“Yes, I think I will, Derbs,” said Martin sleepily.  “I want things to remain exactly as they are now.”  He shifted his head to Stephen’s chest and rested it on the dirigible-shaped patch of silky black hair that was the jewel in the crown of the empire that was Stephen’s chest.  They closed their eyes.

The music had stopped and Stephen roused himself in alarm.  “Mala, I think we’d better go.”  This was not so easy as they had to dress in the tiny space in the gloom and Martin found that his trousers were damaged beyond repair.  He was almost in tears.  “You should be more careful with your clothes, Mala,” admonished Stephen as he was doing up his tie. “What would Mr Gibbon say if he saw the way you treated his tailoring?”

Martin found that he had to hold his trousers up with one hand while trying to clench his buttocks.  It was judged prudent not to say goodbye to anyone, but to depart at once down the companionway and along the corridor by which they had boarded the airship.  At last they reached the tower where they were brutally lashed by the rain.  “I’m sorry sir, the lift has broken down,” shouted an air shipman in uniform.  “You will have to use the stairs.”  He indicated the way to go with his hand and, with their collars turned up and drenched to the skin already, they joined other departing guests on the slow, clanking descent of 200 feet in the driving rain, which Martin had to negotiate using one hand to hold his trousers up while Stephen’s seed trickled down the inside of his legs—and it was one of his bigger loads. 

Martin was almost in tears again by the time they reached the bottom, but Stephen tried to make him see the funny side of it all.  His persuasion slowly worked and Martin actually laughed as he sat down in Stephen’s motor, making a squelching sound, while the rain had plastered down Stephen’s black hair across his left eye and water dripped from his nose.

Stephen pressed the starter and the engine roared into life.  The powerful headlamps illuminated the sheds in the field and, through the beating windscreen wiper, picked out occasional black figures, like themselves, fleeing the mad party and making for their motors.

Stephen bumped across the field and made for the road to London, 60 miles away while, like Lot’s wife, Martin chanced to look back to see the ominously dark silhouette of the giant airship swaying at the mooring mast, pricked with tiny sprigs of light from its gay passenger lounge, the scene of such a marvellous party. 

The End.   

Thank you reading.  The adventures of our heroes Martin and Stephen will continue next week with the debut of Book 5 titled Outer Darkness, which will bring many new adventures and a few surprises. 

As always, if you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you.