I
We left Inigo Jollifant hurrying away from Washbury Manor in the darkness of Monday night. We have just seen him arrive at the Station Refreshment Rooms in Rawsley on Thursday afternoon. In order to understand how he came to be there at all, we must know what happened to him during those three days, or, to be more precise, those sixty-four hours that began at 12:30¬Ýa.m. on Tuesday.
Then it was that Inigo decided that Fauntley had been right. He ought to have gone to bed. The night was not warm enough and certainly not light enough to make walking very pleasant, especially after a long day of French and History and birthday celebrations. He ought to have drunk more Rob Roy or less. As it was, Rob had played him false, for after conjuring him out of the school, out of his bed, he had not stayed with him and kept him glowing inside but had gradually dropped behind, and now, at the end of half an hour’s walk, had slunk away altogether. A little more Rob or a little less, and he would have been in bed now. So Inigo argued, and incidentally entertained himself, as he walked the last half mile or so of a familiar side-road that linked Washbury to the world. When he came at last to the main road, running north and south, he was back again in the world, but there was little of it to be seen as nothing was happening in it. He turned to the right, then spent the next minute wondering which of the faint points of light was the North Star, and the next ten minutes wondering about stars in general. It was, as usual, a cheerless meditation. If you are going to bother about these things, he decided, you have to turn astronomer, to weigh them and measure them, out of sheer self-defence.
A rumble that he had heard behind him for some time turned at last into a lorry. This was the first vehicle he had seen on the road. He turned round and gave a shout when it came near. It pulled up, but the driver seemed dubious when he was asked for a lift.
“It’s all right,” said Inigo, “I’m on a walking tour.”
That was sufficient. The driver realized at once that a man on a walking tour is an enemy to nobody but himself, and may safely be given a lift.
“But I can’t take yer far,” the driver shouted as they rumbled on again. “About ten mile and no more. That’s where I finish. I live there, yer see.”
“Where?”
“Near Dullingham. And I’ll tell yer what. Yer can get a train at Dullingham Junction. Yer wouldn’t think it but yer can. It’s the only place for miles and miles where yer can get a train at this time o’ night is Dullingham Junction.”
“Splendid!” cried Inigo at the top of his voice. The lorry appeared to be full of suits of armour carelessly packed. “I like to hear that. You wouldn’t imagine anything ever happened at a place with a name like that, would you? Dullingham Junction! Where do they go to, these trains?”
“I dunno. Up Lincoln and Grimsby way or Doncaster way I dare say, but I don’t rightly know. I’ve never been on ’em but there’s a feller I know, feller called Harry Briggs, works at the station and I know he’s on duty at night for this train. Always late too, he tells me. I’m not sure he isn’t on this week.”
“I’d like to have a look at this station.”
“That’s right,” roared the driver. “I’ll put yer down close to it.” And then he went on to shout of other matters, the chief of them being a very awkward journey he had just made to Northampton, and he so often demanded agreement that Inigo, who felt that he ought to be sympathetic, made himself hoarse before the ten miles were covered.
At last the driver pulled up and pointed. “There y’are. See them lights. That’s Dullingham Junction. Yer just go down that bit o’ road and yer there. See if it’s Harry Briggs.”
The road curved down sharply to the station. As he descended, Inigo could see the signal lights, the faint gleam of the metals, and a dim yellow glow from somewhere in the station itself. His spirits dropped at the sight. There was something very melancholy about Dullingham Junction. The wide night itself was somehow not so cheerless as this halfhearted attempt to drive it away, this sad glimmer of light. It was so quiet too. He could not imagine a train ever arriving there. The usual cheerful railway bustle seemed as remote from this little station as Paddington itself. He began to ask himself what he was going there for, whether it would not be better to return to the main road, and about twenty yards or so from the entrance he stopped and leaned against the wooden rail at the side of the road. Dullingham Junction only confirmed his opinion that he was indeed a young ass.
Perhaps he would have turned away (and walked out of this chronicle altogether) had he not heard a most astonishing sound. The sound itself was pleasing and its unexpectedness, its daft incongruity, were ravishing. He listened in delight, telling himself that he had judged Dullingham Junction too hastily. It was saying that he was not a young ass, that this is still a world in which midnight exits may be rewarded, that he has not everything who has bed and breakfast. Somebody in Dullingham Junction was playing the banjo.
If this was Harry Briggs, Inigo decided as he drew nearer, then Harry Briggs was wasting his time in the service of the London and North Eastern Railway, for this banjo was not being fumbled with but was being played. The night retreated hastily before its impudent twanka-pang, twanka-pang. Tired as he was, Inigo found that his feet itched to break into a double shuffle. If the station had been crammed with grinning coons, buried under melons and cotton blossoms, he would not have been surprised.
He walked through the booking office, where only one tiny light was burning, and on to the dim and empty platform. The banjoist, now in a happy fury of syncopation, was obviously in the waiting-room. Inigo peeped in through the half-opened door. At one side of the little fire was Harry Briggs or one of his colleagues, a young man with a round red face, and at the other side, sprawling on the seat, was the banjoist himself. One was so busy playing and the other staring and listening, with his mouth wide open, that Inigo stood there several minutes without being observed.
With a final and triumphant wag of his head, the banjoist concluded his performance. “How about that, my boy?” he cried, holding up the banjo as if inviting it to share in the applause. “You’ve heard that? Now where are you going to hear the next like it? Can I rattle the old banjo or can I not?”
“You can that, Mister,” replied his audience earnestly. “My word, you’ve got a touch, you ’ave!”
“You’ve said it. I have got a touch,” the banjoist remarked with dignity. His utterance was rather thick and there were other indications that he had been refreshing himself very generously earlier in the night. Apart from this thickness, however, his voice was peculiar. It was a curious, harsh drawl, and though he could not be said to have a definite American accent, nevertheless his accent was not quite an English one. It was so unusual that it excited Inigo’s curiosity.
“You ’ave got a touch, and I don’t care where the next one comes from,” his listener went on, enthusiastically if a trifle vaguely. “What about giving us just another, Mister? ’Ere, do you know ‘’Er ’Air Was Golden’?” And, fixing his gaze sternly on his companion, who looked rather startled, the railwayman sang very slowly and solemnly, with the most lugubrious portamentos, the following ballad:
“Errair was go‑olden on the day
She gave ’er love to mee-yer,
And though it’s long since turned to gray,
We’re still in sympathee-yer,
And ‚Äôand in ‚Äôand‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
But here he was interrupted.
“No, no,” cried the banjoist. “No, don’t know it. And between you and me, stationmaster, it’s not quite my style. A little too heavy on the sentimental side, too much heart message, for me, a matter of taste, you know, a matter of taste.”
“Ar, ar, I like a good ballad.”
‚ÄúYou like ‚Äôem tender and trew, I can see that,‚Äù said the banjoist, with a droll glance. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs because you stay up so late by yourself, waiting for the midnight express. Did you ever see The Midnight Express‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe drama? I played in it once for three nights in Montreal!‚Äù
Inigo chose this moment for his entrance.
“Hallow, hallow!” cried the performer. “What’s this?”
The railwayman jumped to his feet, looking startled, and was then annoyed because he had felt frightened for a moment or so. “ ’Ere, what’s the idea?” he demanded angrily. “Coming creeping in like that!” Then, having taken a good look at Inigo, he moderated his tone. “Beg your pardon, but you made me jump. What is it you want?”
“I want a train,” replied Inigo, though up to that moment he had not really thought about trains.
“Oh, you want the 1:20, eh? Where do you want to go to?”
“Where do I want to go to? Now that’s rather a puzzler. Let me see,” Inigo meditated. “Well, what about Stockport?”
“Stockport! You can’t get to Stockport on this line.”
The banjoist now took charge of them. “Stockport,” he repeated, rather condescendingly. “Ever been to Stockport?”
“Never set eyes on it,” Inigo told him.
‚ÄúThen my advice is‚ÅÝ‚Äîdon‚Äôt bother. There‚Äôs nothing there, not at all. I know it well, my boy. I‚Äôve been there; I‚Äôve been everywhere. If you do go, you ask ‚Äôem. Ask ‚Äôem at the Red Lion if they don‚Äôt know me. They‚Äôll remember me all right. Morton Mitcham, that‚Äôs my name. They‚Äôll remember Morton Mitcham.‚Äù And he stood up, perhaps to show exactly what it was they would not be able to forget. He was certainly not a person who would be easily forgotten. He was tall but very thin, and his clothes, a light check, merely hung upon him. There was a Shakespearian cast about the upper part of his head, for he was bald on the crown but had very thick dark hair at each side, bushed about his ears. His eyebrows were immense and dramatic; his nose boasted a fine curve and a rather richer colouring than the rest of his face; his long upper lip and his long pointed chin were blue; his slightly hollow cheeks were blue below and brown above; and indeed his whole face had that curious parchmenty look that comes from exposure, at some time or other, to hotter suns than this country ever sees. His collar and tie reminded Inigo vaguely of Tenniel‚Äôs Mad Hatter. Altogether, Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham was an unusual person; his appearance was as puzzling as his accent, oddly combining the tropical planter, the tragic actor of the old school, and a rather down-at-heels senator from one of the remoter states of those that are united.
“I was listening to you playing the banjo,” Inigo told him. “And by jingo, it was good too. It’s a rattling good instrument played like that.”
“It is. But it’s a difficult instrument, let me tell you. Yes, sir. It’s good, as you say, when it’s played like that, but how often is it played like that?”
“Ar,” said the railwayman fervently. “That’s right.”
Mr.¬ÝMitcham fumbled in a waistcoat pocket and finally brought out about an inch and a half of dusty cheroot. ‚ÄúIndian cheroot,‚Äù he explained. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs nothing to beat ‚Äôem once you acquire the taste. I had twenty boxes of the very best given to me once when I was up at Bangalore. I never knew who sent ‚Äôem, didn‚Äôt know a thing. ‚ÄòTo Morton Mitcham Esquire from an admirer‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs all it said, on a plain card. Woman‚Äôs handwriting, though. I‚Äôve one or two of the boxes still, in there.‚Äù He pointed to a very large and disreputable bag on the seat. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve carried ‚Äôem round ever since. But no cheroots in ‚Äôem. Ha, ha!‚Äù Nor did it seem likely that he had any stock of cheroots with him, for the one he was lighting now had evidently been smoked before. He began putting away his banjo in its case. ‚ÄúYou a musician?‚Äù he inquired of Inigo.
“I play the piano from time to time.”
“A professional?” And he raised his immense eyebrows.
“No, a very ordinary amateur.”
‚ÄúAh, pity!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham lowered his eyebrows, but did not condescend to explain why it was a pity.
Inigo suddenly remembered the chocolate and biscuits that Daisy Callander had given him, and now he brought them out, inviting the others to eat with him.
‚ÄúYou‚Äôre a traveller, a campaigner, a trouper, my boy, I can see that,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝMitcham approvingly, helping himself and carefully extinguishing the cheroot. ‚ÄúGive me a few biscuits and some chocolate and a few bottles of whisky, rye for choice, and I‚Äôll face anything. Blizzard, shipwreck, anything. I once lived for a fortnight on nothing else, up on the Black Hills between Wyoming and South Dakota‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“South Dakota!” Inigo’s cry was ecstatic. The man must really have been there because you couldn’t think of South Dakota, couldn’t just lift it out of some mental map.
‚ÄúYes, South Dakota. There were two of us. Let me see, what was that fellow‚Äôs name? Ah, yes‚ÅÝ‚ÄîSheerman. He was an ex-Wesleyan minister who‚Äôd been running a quick-lunch bar down in Denver. Hardest winter they‚Äôd known for forty years, and the two of us walked right into it.‚Äù
“Have another biscuit,” said Inigo enthusiastically.
“Thanks, my boy, I will. Of course we’d whisky there too, any amount of it. Perhaps you’re thinking whisky wouldn’t shake down with biscuits and chocolate, but let me tell you, they’re fine together. If you’ve got a flask with you, just try it.”
“Sorry, but I haven’t.”
‚ÄúAlways carry a flask,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham severely. Then he turned to the railwayman, who was demolishing a gigantic sandwich. ‚ÄúWhat about that tea you were talking about, stationmaster?‚Äù
The other mumbled something in his sandwich. Evidently he was dubious now that there were three of them.
“You’re not Harry Briggs by any chance, are you?” Inigo asked him.
He was Harry Briggs; admitted the fact with delight, and insisted upon Inigo explaining exactly how he came to hear of him. When the identity of the lorry-driver had been fully established, Harry Briggs at once changed his attitude towards Inigo, who felt he was now regarded almost as an old Dullinghamian. His round red face beaming at the thought of what coincidence could do, Harry Briggs set to work now to make some tea.
Mr.¬ÝMitcham fastened the straps of his banjo-case. ‚ÄúJust a little hobby of mine, you know,‚Äù he remarked airily, tapping the case. ‚ÄúBut it‚Äôs most useful; made the evening go all over the place. ‚ÄòAsk Morton Mitcham to come in and play his banjo,‚Äô they‚Äôd say. Guest nights at Residencies, you know, and that sort of thing. I‚Äôve played to at least half a dozen colonial governors in my time, and they simply ate it, simply ate it‚ÅÝ‚Äîall except one and that was old Lord Stennenfield.‚Äù
“What was the matter with him?” asked Inigo. “No soul?”
“Deaf as a post, couldn’t hear his own brass cannon going off. And the best bridge-player east of Alexandria, they used to tell me. That’s what he wanted, you see. ‘Get the card tables out,’ he shouts, right in the middle of my performance, I walked straight out. You can’t do that to Morton Mitcham.”
“Quite right,” murmured Inigo. “You’re an artist, sir, I can see that.” And he saluted him with a stick of chocolate.
‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôve been told so. I‚Äôve been asked to give lessons by a colonial governor. I‚Äôll give you his name‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough this is in confidence, gentlemen.‚Äù And he looked sternly at Harry Briggs, who was standing open-mouthed, with a kettle in his hand. ‚ÄúIt was Sir Elkin Pondberry. ‚ÄòDamn it all, Mitcham,‚Äô he said to me, ‚Äòyou‚Äôll have to teach me how to play that thing.‚Äô ‚ÄòVery proud, Sir Elkin,‚Äô I told him, ‚Äòbut it can‚Äôt be done.‚Äô ‚ÄòDamn it all,‚Äô he said, ‚Äòit must be done.‚Äô ‚ÄòIt would take years,‚Äô I told him. ‚ÄòThen you‚Äôll have to stay here years,‚Äô he said. ‚ÄòI‚Äôll have you kept here, Mitcham, damned if I won‚Äôt.‚Äô ‚ÄòCan‚Äôt be done,‚Äô I told him, ‚ÄòI‚Äôm catching the next boat up to Bangkok.‚Äô And he had to give in. But I told him about Stennenfield‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey were meeting at Singapore very soon‚ÅÝ‚Äîand showed him how to deal himself four aces and four kings. ‚ÄòDamn me if you‚Äôre not a genius, Mitcham,‚Äô he said when he‚Äôd got the hang of it. ‚ÄòI‚Äôll try that on old Stennenfield.‚Äô And he did, and it was the great joke that year in all the clubs out there. I heard about it up at Hong Kong.‚Äù
“Hong Kong!” cried Inigo, who was feeling rather dazed. “You’ve held the gorgeous East in fee, absolutely. But what about those aces and kings? You’re not a conjuror, are you?”
“Not exactly a conjuror. I’ve never bothered about illusions and the mechanical trick acts, you know. But sleight of hand’s a hobby of mine. I think I can do most things with a pack of cards.”
“You’ve got a heap o’ talent, if you ask me, Mister,” said Harry Briggs, who had now made the tea. “I wish I’d only got a bit of it. You wouldn’t catch me ’ere. You’ve got a touch on that there banjoey, my word! ’Ere, ’ave a drop o’ tea. One’ll ’ave to ’ave the cup and other the saucer.”
‚ÄúIt passes the time, it passes the time,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham, and with an apparent absence of mind, he took possession of the cup. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve found these little accomplishments useful now and again on my travels, and polished ‚Äôem up a bit as I went along. I learned a trick or two in the sleight-of-hand business from an old Chink I met one time in Shanghai, and then another time one of the Frenchified niggers you get in New Orleans showed me one or two things I didn‚Äôt know about playing the banjo when I was down there. Though one of the best players I ever heard‚ÅÝ‚Äîin a class right above all these New York jazz-band men, and, mind you, I‚Äôve heard them all‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas an old Irishman I struck down in Sydney.‚Äù
“There’s a cousin o’ mine there,” Harry Briggs put in eagerly, “same name as me, except he’s Jim, and he drives a van for a laundry. You might ’ave come across ’im.”
‚ÄúWhat, Jim Briggs of the laundry!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝMitcham, with a wink at Inigo. ‚ÄúI knew him well. He told me he‚Äôd a cousin down here. ‚ÄòLook him up,‚Äô he said, ‚Äòif you‚Äôre ever at Dullingham Junction.‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù
“That was clever of ’im, seeing that I’ve only worked ’ere six months and it’s two or three years since we ’eard from ’im. You can’t pull my leg, Mister.”
‚ÄúWell, it‚Äôs fifteen years or more since I was there,‚Äù remarked Mr.¬ÝMitcham imperturbably. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve been all over since then. I‚Äôm a wanderer over the face of the earth, I am, my boys. I‚Äôve only been back in the Old Country two years, just looking round, you know, visiting a few old friends.‚Äù
‚ÄúAr, a gentleman o‚Äô leisure like, now,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝBriggs observed with respectful envy.
“You’ve hit it,” said Ulysses, in his queer harsh drawl, now American, now English. Once more he brought out the stub of cheroot, this time a very small and dusty stub, lit it, and blew out clouds of smoke in a manner that contrived to suggest leisure, a rich indolence, a return at last from innumerable and astonishing journeys round and round the globe.
“Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage,” said Inigo, who was wondering how this incredible personage had ever been able to land himself at Dullingham Junction in the middle of the night. It was really surprising that he had been able to find this small island of ours at all.
“That’s right, my boy,” he replied condescendingly. Then he yawned. “What about that train of yours?”
“Should be ’ere this next half-hour,” said Harry Briggs, slowly turning himself into a railway official again. “She’s an hour late tonight. I’ll just ’ave a walk round.” And he lumbered out.
‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know whether I shall bother catching it,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham, settling himself down on the seat. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm going on to Nottingham, just to see a few old friends, you know. But I might as well wait until the morning now. I missed a connection down the line.
“Did you?” yawned Inigo. “Where was the place?”
‚ÄúUm‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt remember.‚Äù For once, it seemed, that unusual memory of his had failed him.
Inigo had a suspicion that Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham had not missed any connection. Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham was a very unusual person, either a great traveller or a great liar. Inigo decided that he wanted to see more of him.
What he did see, however, was Mr.¬ÝTarvin. He and Mr.¬ÝTarvin were struggling through deep snow up a hill, and when they were halfway up, Mr.¬ÝTarvin stopped and looked round, saying: ‚ÄúAll this is South Dakota then. Chumha. Just call the boys, Jollifant,‚Äù and he called the boys, though there were none to be seen. But the next moment they were there, a whole crowd of them, making the most extraordinary humming noise. It made Inigo so angry that he shouted at them, but they made more noise than ever. Then he stared so fiercely at the nearest boy, young Withington, that he stared himself out of South Dakota altogether, back again into the waiting-room, where Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham was sleeping with his mouth wide open and snoring prodigiously.
Inigo stretched himself out at full length on the seat and used his knapsack as a pillow. He listened to the snores for a minute or two, then slipped away again, not into South Dakota this time, but into oblivion. There he stayed, though once or twice it seemed as if the darkness and quiet were being mysteriously invaded, as if there were alarms and skirmishes on some distant frontier.