William Somerset Maugham
   
                                Mr Know-All


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   I was prepared to dislike Max Kelada even before I knew him. The 
war had just finished and the passenger traffic in the oceangoing 
liners was heavy. Accommodation was very hard to get and you had to 
put up with whatever the agents chose to offer you. You could not hope 
for a cabin to yourself and I was thankful to be given one in which 
there were only two berths. But when I was told the name of my 
companion my heart sank. It suggested closed portholes and the night 
air rigidly excluded. It was bad enough to share a cabin for fourteen 
days with anyone (I was going from San Francisco to Yokohama), but I 
should have looked upon it with less dismay if my fellow passenger's 
name had been Smith or Brown.
   When I went on board I found Mr Kelada's luggage already below. I 
did not like the look of it; there were too many labels on the suit-
cases, and the wardrobe trunk was too big. He had unpacked his toilet 
things, and I observed that he was a patron of the excellent Monsieur 
Goty; for I saw on the washing-stand his scent, his hair-wash and his 
brilliantine. Mr Kelada's brushes, ebony with his monogram in gold, 
would have been all the better for a scrub. I did not at all like Mr 
Kelada. I made my way into the smoking-room. I called for a pack of 
cards and began to play patience. I had scarcely started before a man 
came up to me and asked me if he was right in thinking my name was so 
and so.
   "I am Mr Kelada," he added, with a smile that showed a row of 
flashing teeth, and sat down.
   "Oh, yes, we're sharing a cabin, I think."
   "Bit of luck, I call it. You never know who you're going to be put 
in with. I was jolly glad when I heard you were English. I'm all for 
us English sticking together when we're abroad, if you understand what 
I mean."
   I blinked.
   "Are you English?" I asked, perhaps tactlessly.
   "Rather. You don't think I look like an American, do you? British 
to the backbone, that's what I am."
   To prove it, Mr Kelada took out of his pocket a passport and airily 
waved it under my nose.
   King George has many strange subjects. Mr Kelada was short and of a 
sturdy build, clean-shaven and dark-skinned, with a fleshy hooked nose 
and very large, lustrous and liquid eyes. His long black hair was 
sleek and curly. He spoke with a fluency in which there was nothing 
English and his gestures were exuberant. I felt pretty sure that a 
closer inspection of that British passport would have betrayed the 
fact that Mr Kelada was born under a bluer sky than is generally seen 
in England.
   "What will you have? " he asked me.
   I looked at him doubtfully. Prohibition was in force and to all 
appearance the ship was bone-dry. When I am not thirsty I do not know 
which I dislike more, ginger ale or lemon squash. But Mr Kelada 
flashed an oriental smile at me.
   "Whisky and soda or a dry martini, you have only to say the word."
   From each of his hip pockets he fished a flask and laid it on the 
table before me. I chose the martini, and calling the steward he 
ordered a tumbler of ice and a couple of glasses.
   "A very good cocktail," I said.
   "Well, there are plenty more where that came from, and if you've 
got any friends on board, you tell them you've got a pal who's got all 
the liquor in the world."
   Mr Kelada was chatty. He talked of New York and of San Francisco. 
He discussed plays, pictures, and politics. He was patriotic. The 
Union Jack is an impressive piece of drapery, but when it is 
flourished by a gentleman from Alexandria or Beirut, I cannot but feel 
that it loses somewhat in dignity. Mr Kelada was familiar. I do not 
wish to put on airs, but I cannot help feeling that it is seemly in a 
total stranger to put "mister" before my name when he addresses me. Mr 
Kelada, doubtless to set me at my ease, used no such formality. I did 
not like Mr Kelada. I had put aside the cards when he sat down, but 
now, thinking that for this first occasion our conversation had lasted 
long enough, I went on with my game.
   "The three on the four," said Mr Kelada.
   There is nothing more exasperating when you are playing patience 
than to be told where to put the card you have turned up before you 
have had a chance to look for yourself.
   "It's coming out, it's coming out," he cried. "The ten on the 
knave."
   With rage and hatred in my heart I finished.
   Then he seized the pack.
   "Do you like card tricks? "
   "No, I hate card tricks," I answered.
   "Well, I'll just show you this one."
   He showed me three. Then I said I would go down to the dining-room 
and get my seat at table.
   "Oh, that's all right," he said. "I've already taken a seat for 
you. I thought that as we were in the same state-room we might just as 
well sit at the same table."
   I did not like Mr Kelada.
   I not only shared a cabin with him and ate three meals a day at the 
same table, but I could not walk round the deck without his joining 
me. It was impossible to snub him. It never occurred to him that he 
was not wanted. He was certain that you were as glad to see him as he 
was to see you. In your own house you might have kicked him downstairs 
and slammed the door in his face without the suspicion dawning on him 
that he was not a welcome visitor. He was a good mixer, and in three 
days knew * everyone onboard. He ran everything. He managed the 
sweeps, conducted the auctions, collected money for prizes at the 
sports, got up quoit and golf matches, organized the concert and 
arranged the fancy-dress ball. He was everywhere and always. He was 
certainly the best hated man in the ship. We called him Mr Know-All, 
even to his face. He took it as a compliment. But it was at mealtimes 
that he was most intolerable. For the better part of an hour then he 
had us at his mercy. He was hearty, jovial, loquacious and 
argumentative. He knew everything better than anybody else, and it was 
an affront to his overweening vanity that you should disagree with 
him. He would not drop a subject, however unimportant, till he had 
brought you round to his way of thinking. The possibility that he 
could be mistaken never occurred to him. He was the chap who knew. We 
sat at the doctor's table. Mr Kelada would certainly have had it all 
his own way, for the doctor was lazy and I was frigidly indifferent, 
except for a man called Ramsay who sat there also. He was as dogmatic 
as Mr Kelada and resented bitterly the Levantine's cocksureness. The 
discussions they had were acrimonious and interminable.
   Ramsay was in the American Consular Service and was stationed at 
Kobe. He was a great heavy fellow from the Middle West, with loose fat 
under a tight skin, and he bulged out of his ready-made clothes. He 
was on his way back to resume his post, having been on a flying visit 
to New York to fetch Ills wife who had been spending a year at home. 
Mrs Ramsay was a very pretty little thing, with pleasant manners and a 
sense of humour. The Consular Service is ill-paid, and she was dressed 
always very simply; but she knew how to wear her clothes. She achieved 
an effect of quiet distinction. I should not have paid any particular 
attention to her but that she possessed a quality that may be common 
enough in women, but nowadays is not obvious in their demeanour. You 
could not look at her without being struck by her modesty. It shone in 
her like a flower on a coat.
   One evening at dinner the conversation by chance drifted to the 
subject of pearls. There had been in the papers a good deal of talk 
about the culture pearls which the cunning Japanese were making, and 
the doctor remarked that they must inevitably diminish the value of 
real ones. They were very good already; they would soon be perfect. Mr 
Kelada, as was his habit, rushed the new topic. He told us all that 
was to be known about pearls. I do not believe Ramsay knew anything 
about them at all, but he could not resist the opportunity to have a 
fling at the Levantine, and in five minutes we were in the middle of a 
heated argument. I had seen Mr Kelada vehement and voluble before, but 
never so voluble and vehement as now. At last something that Ramsay 
said stung him, for he thumped the table and shouted:
   "Well, I ought to know what I am talking about. I'm going to Japan 
just to look into this Japanese pearl business. I'm in the trade and 
there's not a man in it who won't tell you that what I say about 
pearls goes. I know all the best pearls in the world, and what I don't 
know about pearls isn't worth knowing."
   Here was news for us, for Mr Kelada, with all his loquacity, had 
never told anyone what his business was. We only knew vaguely that he 
was going to Japan on some commercial errand. He looked round the 
table triumphantly.
   "They'll never be able to get a culture pearl that an expert like 
me can't tell with half an eye." He pointed to a chain that Mrs Ramsay 
wore. "You take my word for it, Mrs Ramsay, that chain you're wearing 
will never be worth a cent less than it is now."
   Mrs Ramsay in her modest way flushed a little and slipped the chain 
inside her dress. Ramsay leaned forward. He gave us all a look and a 
smile flickered in his eyes.
   "That's a pretty chain of Mrs Ramsay's, isn't it? "
   "I noticed it at once," answered Mr Kelada. "Gee, I said to myself, 
those are pearls all right."
   "I didn't buy it myself, of course. I'd be interested to know how 
much you think it cost."
   " Oh, in the trade somewhere round fifteen thousand dollars. But if 
it was bought on Fifth Avenue shouldn't be surprised to hear that 
anything up to thirty thousand was paid for it."
   Ramsay smiled grimly.
   "You'll be surprised to hear that Mrs Ramsay bought that string at 
a department store the day before we left New York, for eighteen 
dollars."
   Mr Kelada flushed.
   "Rot. It's not only real, but it's as fine a string for its size as 
I've ever seen."
   "Will you bet on it? I'll bet you a hundred dollars it's 
imitation."
   "Done."
   "Oh, Elmer, you can't bet on a certainty," said Mrs Ramsay.
   She had a little smile on her lips and her tone was gently 
deprecating.
   "Can't I? If I get a chance of easy money like that I should be all 
sorts of a fool not to take it."
   "But how can it be proved?" she continued. "It's only my word 
against Mr Kelada's."
   "Let me look at the chain, and if it's imitation I'll tell you 
quickly enough. I can afford to lose a hundred dollars," said Mr 
Kelada.
   "Take it off, dear. Let the gentleman look at it as much as he 
wants."
   Mrs Ramsay hesitated a moment. She put her hands to the clasp.
   "I can't undo it," she said. "Mr Kelada will just have to take my 
word for it."
   I had a sudden suspicion that something unfortunate was about to 
occur, but I could think of nothing to say.
   Ramsay jumped up.
   "I'll undo it."
   He handed the chain to Mr Kelada. The Levantine took a magnifying 
glass from his pocket and closely examined it. A smile of triumph 
spread over his smooth and swarthy face. He handed back the chain. He 
was about to speak. Suddenly he caught sight of Mrs Ramsay's face. It 
was so white that she looked as though she were about to faint. She 
was staring at him with wide and terrified eyes. They held a desperate 
appeal; it was so clear that I wondered why her husband did not see 
it.
   Mr Kelada stopped with his mouth open. He flushed deeply. You could 
almost see the effort he was making over himself.
   "I was mistaken," he said. "It's a very good imitation, but of 
course as soon as I looked through my glass I saw that it wasn't real. 
I think eighteen dollars is just about as much as the damned thing's 
worth."
   He took out his pocketbook and from it a hundred-dollar bill. He 
handed it to Ramsay without a word.
   "Perhaps that'll teach you not to be so cocksure another time, my 
young friend," said Ramsay as he took the note.
   I noticed that Mr Kelada's hands were trembling.
   The story spread over the ship as stories do, and he had to put up 
with a good deal of chaff that evening. It was a fine joke that Mr 
Know-All had been caught out. But Mrs Ramsay retired to her state-room 
with a headache.
   Next morning I got up and began to shave. Mr Kelada lay on his bed 
smoking a cigarette. Suddenly there was a small scraping sound and I 
saw a letter pushed under the door. I opened the door and looked out. 
There was nobody there. I picked up the letter and saw that it was 
addressed to Max Kelada. The name was written in block letters. I 
handed it to him.
   "Who's this from?" He opened it. "Oh!"
   He took out of the envelope, not a letter, but a hundred-dollar 
bill. He looked at me and again he reddened. He tore the envelope into 
little bits and gave them to me.
   "Do you mind just throwing them out of the porthole? "
   I did as he asked, and then I looked at him with a smile.
   "No one likes being made to look a perfect damned fool," he said.
   " Were the pearls real ? "
   "If I had a pretty little wife I shouldn't let her spend a year in 
New York while I stayed at Kobe," said he.
   At that moment I did not entirely dislike Mr Kelada. He reached out 
for his pocketbook and carefully put in it the hundred-dollar note.