I + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd Leaves Home + 

I + 

There, far below, is the knobbly backbone of England, the Pennine Range. At first, the whole dark length of it, from the Peak to Cross Fell, is visible. Then the Derbyshire hills and the Cumberland fells disappear, for you are descending, somewhere about the middle of the range, where the high moorland thrusts itself between the woollen mills of Yorkshire and the cotton mills of Lancashire. Great winds blow over miles and miles of ling and bog and black rock, and the curlews still go crying in that empty air as they did before the Romans came. There is a glitter of water here and there, from the moorland tarns that are now called reservoirs. In summer you could wander here all day, listening to the larks, and never meet a soul. In winter you could lose your way in an hour or two and die of exposure perhaps, not a dozen miles from where the Bradford trams end or the Burnley trams begin. Here are Bodkin Top and High Greave and Black Moor and Four Gates End, and though these are lonely places, almost unchanged since the Domesday Book was compiled, you cannot understand industrial Yorkshire and Lancashire, the wool trade and the cotton trade and many other things besides, such as the popularity of Handel‚Äôs Messiah or the Northern Union Rugby game, without having seen such places. They hide many secrets. Where the moor thins out are patches of ground called ‚ÄúIntake,‚Äù which means that they are land wrested from the grasp of the moor. Over to the right is a long smudge of smoke, beneath which the towns of the West Riding lie buried, and fleeces, tops, noils, yarns, stuffs, come and go, in and out of the mills, down to the railways and canals and lorries. All this too, you may say, is a kind of Intake. + 

At first the towns only seem a blacker edge to the high moorland, so many fantastic outcroppings of its rock, but now that you are closer you see the host of tall chimneys, the rows and rows of little houses, built of blackening stone, that are like tiny sharp ridges on the hills. These windy moors, these clanging dark valleys, these factories and little stone houses, this business of Intaking, have between them bred a race that has special characteristics. Down there are thousands and thousands of men and women who are stocky and hold themselves very stiffly, who have short upper lips and long chins, who use emphatic consonants and very broad vowels and always sound aggressive, who are afraid of nothing but mysterious codes of etiquette and any display of feeling. If it were night, you would notice strange constellations low down in the sky and little golden beetles climbing up to them. These would be street lamps and lighted tramcars on the hills, for here such things are little outposts in No Man‚Äôs Land and altogether more adventurous and romantic than ordinary street lamps and tramcars. It is not night, however, but a late September afternoon. Some of its sunshine lights up the nearest of the towns, most of it jammed into a narrow valley running up to the moors. It must be Bruddersford, for there, where so many roads meet, is the Town Hall, and if you know the district at all you must immediately recognize the Bruddersford Town Hall, which has a clock that plays ‚ÄúTom Bowling‚Äù and ‚ÄúThe Lass of Richmond Hill.‚Äù It has been called ‚Äúa noble building in the Italian Renaissance style‚Äù and always looks as if it had no right to be there. + 

Yes, it is Bruddersford. Over there is the enormous factory of Messrs. Holdsworth and Co. Ltd., which has never been called a noble building in any style but nevertheless looks as if it had a perfect right to be there. The roof of the Midland Railway Station glitters in the sun, and not very far away is another glitter from the glass roof of the Bruddersford Market Hall, where, securely under cover, you may have a ham tea or buy boots and pans and mint humbugs and dress lengths and comic songs. That squat bulk to the left of the Town Hall is the Lane End Congregational Chapel, a monster that can swallow any two thousand people who happen to be in search of ‚Äúhearty singing and a bright service.‚Äù That streak of slime must be the Leeds and Liverpool Canal or the Aire and Calder Canal, one of the two. There is a little forest of mill chimneys. Most of them are only puffing meditatively, for it is Saturday afternoon and nearly four hours since the workpeople swarmed out through the big gates. Some of the chimneys show no signs of smoke; they have been quiet for a long time, have stayed there like monuments of an age that has vanished, and all because trade is still bad. Perhaps some of these chimneys have stopped smoking because fashionable women in Paris and London and New York have cried to one another, ‚ÄúMy dear, you can‚Äôt possibly wear that!‚Äù and less fashionable women have repeated it after them, and quite unfashionable women have finally followed their example, and it has all ended in machines lying idle in Bruddersford. Certainly, trade is still very bad. But as you look down on Bruddersford, you feel that it will do something about it, that it is only biding its time, that it will hump its way through somehow: the place wears a grim and resolute look. Yet this afternoon it is not thinking about the wool trade. + 

Something very queer is happening in that narrow thoroughfare to the west of the town. It is called Manchester Road because it actually leads you to that city, though in order to get there you will have to climb to the windy roof of England and spend an hour or two with the curlews. What is so queer about it now is that the road itself cannot be seen at all. A grey-green tide flows sluggishly down its length. It is a tide of cloth caps. + 

These caps have just left the ground of the Bruddersford United Association Football Club. Thirty-five thousand men and boys have just seen what most of them call ‚Äút‚ÄôUnited‚Äù play Bolton Wanderers. Many of them should never have been there at all. It would not be difficult to prove by statistics and those mournful little budgets (How a Man May Live‚ÅÝ‚Äîor rather, avoid death‚ÅÝ‚Äîon Thirty-five Shillings a Week) that seem to attract some minds, that these fellows could not afford the entrance fee. When some mills are only working half the week and others not at all, a shilling is a respectable sum of money. It would puzzle an economist to discover where all these shillings came from. But if he lived in Bruddersford, though he might still wonder where they came from, he would certainly understand why they were produced. To say that these men paid their shillings to watch twenty-two hirelings kick a ball is merely to say that a violin is wood and catgut, that Hamlet is so much paper and ink. For a shilling the Bruddersford United A.F.C. offered you Conflict and Art; it turned you into a critic, happy in your judgement of fine points, ready in a second to estimate the worth of a well-judged pass, a run down the touch line, a lightning shot, a clearance kick by back or goalkeeper; it turned you into a partisan, holding your breath when the ball came sailing into your own goalmouth, ecstatic when your forwards raced away towards the opposite goal, elated, downcast, bitter, triumphant by turns at the fortunes of your side, watching a ball shape Iliads and Odysseys for you; and, what is more, it turned you into a member of a new community, all brothers together for an hour and a half, for not only had you escaped from the clanking machinery of this lesser life, from work, wages, rent, doles, sick pay, insurance cards, nagging wives, ailing children, bad bosses, idle workmen, but you had escaped with most of your mates and your neighbours, with half the town, and there you were, cheering together, thumping one another on the shoulders, swapping judgements like lords of the earth, having pushed your way through a turnstile into another and altogether more splendid kind of life, hurtling with Conflict and yet passionate and beautiful in its Art. Moreover, it offered you more than a shilling‚Äôs worth of material for talk during the rest of the week. A man who had missed the last home match of ‚Äút‚ÄôUnited‚Äù had to enter social life on tiptoe in Bruddersford. + 

Somewhere in the middle of this tide of cloth caps is one that is different from its neighbours. It is neither grey nor green but a rather dirty brown. Then, unlike most of the others, it is not too large for its wearer, but, if anything, a shade too small, though it is true he has pushed it back from his forehead as if he were too hot‚ÅÝ‚Äîas indeed he is. This cap and the head it has almost ceased to decorate are both the property of a citizen of Bruddersford, an old and enthusiastic supporter of the United Football Club, whose name is Jesiah Oakroyd. He owes his curious Christian name to his father, a lanky weaving over-looker who divided his leisure, in alternating periods of sin and repentance, between The Craven Arms and the Lane End Primitive Methodist Chapel, where he chanced to hear the verse from First Chronicles, ‚ÄúOf the sons of Uzziel; Micah the first, and Jesiah the second,‚Äù the very day before his second son was born. To all his intimates, however, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd is known as ‚ÄúJess.‚Äù He is a working man between forty-five and fifty years of age, a trifle under medium height but stockily built, neither ugly nor handsome, with a blunt nose, a moustache that may have been once brisk and fair but is now ragged and mousey, and blue eyes that regard the world pleasantly enough but with just a trace of either wonder or resentment or of both. He lives almost in the shadow of two great factories, in one of those districts known locally as ‚Äúback o‚Äô t‚Äômill,‚Äù to be precise, at 51 Ogden Street. He has lived there these last twenty years, and is known to the whole street as a quiet man and a decent neighbour. He is on his way there now, returning from the match to his Saturday tea, which takes a high rank in the hierarchy of meals, being perhaps second only to Sunday dinner. He has walked this way, home from the match, hundreds of times, but this Saturday in late September is no ordinary day for him‚ÅÝ‚Äîalthough he does not know it‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor it is the very threshold of great events. Chance and Change are preparing an ambush. Only a little way before him there dangles invitingly the end of a thread. He must be followed and watched. + 

II + 

As he moved slowly down Manchester Road, the press of fellow-spectators still thick about him, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd found himself brooding over the hollow vanities of this life. He felt unusually depressed. His physical condition may have had something to do with it, for he was hot, dusty, and tired; there had been a full morning‚Äôs hard work for him at the mill; he had hurried through his dinner; walked to the ground, and had been on his feet ever since. Manchester Road after a match had never seemed so narrow and airless; a chap could hardly breathe in such a crowd of folk. And what a match it had been! For once he was sorry he had come. No score at all. Not a single goal on either side. Even a goal against the United would have been something, would have wakened them up a bit. The first half had been nothing but exasperation, with the United all round the Wanderers‚Äô goal but never able to score; centres clean flung away, open goals missed, crazy football. The second half had not been even that, nothing but aimless kicking about on both sides, a kid‚Äôs game. During the time that it took him to progress three hundred yards down the crowded road, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd gave himself up to these bitter reflections. A little farther along, where there was more room, he was able to give them tongue, for he jostled an acquaintance, who turned round and recognized him. + 

‚ÄúNa Jess!‚Äù said the acquaintance, taking an imitation calabash pipe out of his mouth and then winking mysteriously. + 

‚ÄúNa Jim!‚Äù returned Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. This ‚ÄúNa,‚Äù which must once have been ‚ÄúNow,‚Äù is the recognized salutation in Bruddersford, and the fact that it sounds more like a word of caution than a word of greeting is by no means surprising. You have to be careful in Bruddersford. + 

‚ÄúWell,‚Äù said Jim, falling into step, ‚Äúwhat did you think on ‚Äôem?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThink on ‚Äôem!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd made a number of noises with his tongue to show what he thought of them. + 

‚ÄúAh thowt t‚ÄôUnited‚Äôd ‚Äôa‚Äô made rings rahnd ‚Äôem,‚Äù Jim remarked. + 

‚ÄúSo they owt to ‚Äôa‚Äô done,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with great bitterness. ‚ÄúAnd so they would ‚Äôa‚Äô done if they‚Äôd nobbut tried a bit. I‚Äôve seen ‚Äôem better ner this when they‚Äôve lost. They were better ner this when they lost to Newcastle t‚Äôother week, better bi far.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, a seet better,‚Äù said the other. ‚ÄúDid you ivver see sich a match! Ah‚Äôd as soon go and see ‚Äôtschooil lads at it. A shilling fair thrawn away, ah call it.‚Äù And for a moment he brooded over his lost shilling. Then, suddenly changing his tone and becoming very aggressive, he went on: ‚ÄúYon new centre-forrard they‚Äôve getten‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMacDermott, or whativver he calls hissen‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôll nivver be owt, nivver. He wer like a great lass on t‚Äôjob. And what did they pay for him? Wer it two thahsand pahnd?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd made this monosyllable very expressive. + 

‚ÄúTwo thahsand pahnd. That‚Äôs abaht a hundred for ivvery goal he missed today. Watson were worth twenty on ‚Äôim‚ÅÝ‚Äîah liked that lad, and if they‚Äôd let him alone, he‚Äôd ‚Äôa‚Äô done summat for ‚Äôem. And then they go and get this MacDermott and pay two thahsand pahnd for him to kick t‚Äôball ower top!‚Äù Jim lit his yellow monster of a pipe and puffed away with an air of great satisfaction. He had obviously found a topic that would carry him comfortably through that evening, in the taproom of The Hare and Hounds, the next morning, in the East Bruddersford Working Men‚Äôs Club, and possibly Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday nights. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd walked on in silence, quickening his pace now that the crowd was not so thick and there was room to move. At the corner of Manchester Road and Shuttle Street both men halted, for here their paths diverged. + 

‚ÄúAh‚Äôll tell tha what it is, Jess,‚Äù said his companion, pointing the stem of his pipe and becoming broader in his Yorkshire as he grew more philosophical. ‚ÄúIf t‚ÄôUnited had less brass to lake wi‚Äô, they‚Äôd lake better fooitball.‚Äù His eyes searched the past for a moment, looking for the team that had less money and had played better football. ‚ÄúTha can remember when t‚Äôclub had nivver set eyes on two thahsand pahnds, when t‚Äôjob lot wor not worth two thahsand pahnds, pavilion an‚Äô all, and what sort o‚Äô fooitball did they lake then? We knaw, don‚Äôt we? They could gi‚Äô thee summat worth watching then. Nah, it‚Äôs all nowt, like t‚Äôale an‚Äô baccy they ask so mich for‚ÅÝ‚Äîmoney fair thrawn away, ah calls it. Well, we mun ‚Äôa‚Äô wer teas and get ower it. Behave thi-sen, Jess!‚Äù And he turned away, for that final word of caution was only one of Bruddersford‚Äôs familiar goodbyes. + 

‚ÄúAy,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd dispiritedly. ‚ÄúSo long, Jim!‚Äù + 

He climbed to the upper deck of a tram that would carry him through the centre of the town to within a few hundred yards of Ogden Street. There he sat, his little briar pipe, unlit and indeed empty, stuck in the corner of his mouth, his cap still pushed back from his glistening forehead, staring out of a disenchantment. At times the tram jerked him forward, but only to return him, with a bang, against the hard back of the seat. People who were larger than usual, and all parcels and elbows, pushed past or trod on his toes. It is no joke taking a tram on Saturday in Bruddersford. + 

‚ÄúI call this two-pennorth o‚Äô misery, missis,‚Äù he said to a very large woman who wedged herself into the seat beside him. She turned a damp scarlet face, and he saw that it was Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, whose husband kept the little shop in Woolgate. Everybody in that district knew Buttershaw‚Äôs, for it was no ordinary shop. It catered to both body and soul, one half of it being given up to tripe and cow-heels and the other half to music, chiefly sixpenny songs and cheap gramophone records. Strangers frequently stopped in front of Buttershaw‚Äôs to stare and laugh, but strangers are easily amused: all the people round about recognized that this was a sensible arrangement, for some wanted tripe, some wanted music, and not a few wanted both. + 

‚ÄúEh, well, if it isn‚Äôt Mr.¬ÝOakroyd!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw knew him as both a patron (of the tripe counter) and an old neighbour. ‚ÄúI didn‚Äôt see yer. And ‚Äôow are yer?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúMiddlin‚Äô, middlin‚Äô,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with the air of one determined to give nothing away. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôve been meaning to ask yer for a long time,‚Äù she went on, ‚Äúonly I haven‚Äôt seen yer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôow‚Äôs your Lily doin‚Äô in where‚Äôs it?‚ÅÝ‚ÄîAmeriky?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúCanada,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd announced promptly and rather proudly. + 

‚ÄúCanada‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs it. It‚Äôs all the same, isn‚Äôt it? Only some calls it one thing, and some calls it another. Well, ‚Äôow‚Äôs she getting on there? Eh, it doesn‚Äôt seem more than a week or two since she was a bit of a lass coming in for a pantymine song‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe liked a bit o‚Äô music, didn‚Äôt she?‚ÅÝ‚Äîand now she‚Äôs a married woman in Canada.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúShe‚Äôs doing all right,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, vainly trying to appear unconcerned. ‚ÄúI‚Äôd a letter t‚Äôother day.‚Äù But he did not add that that letter, which began, ‚ÄúMy dear Father and Mother, I write these few lines to let you know we are alright as I hope you are,‚Äù was reposing in his coat pocket, having been carried there‚ÅÝ‚Äîand brought out and reread at frequent intervals‚ÅÝ‚Äîthese last three days. + 

‚ÄúShe‚Äôs settled in, ‚Äôas she?‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, who apparently thought of Canada as a sort of house. + 

‚ÄúAy. She‚Äôs settling nicely, is Lily. Been there nearly a year.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúEh, fancy that! A year! Well, I never did!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw seemed to have these exclamations shaken out of her by the jerky movements of the tram. ‚ÄúWho was it she married? I owt to know, but I‚Äôve fergotten. I shall ferget me own name soon, I‚Äôm that bad at remembering.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúJack Clough, old Sammy‚Äôs youngest lad,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúHe were a fitter at Sharp‚Äôs.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúEh, of course!‚Äù she exclaimed triumphantly. ‚ÄúI knew ‚Äôim well. He were often in, buying a bit of comic song and suchlike. He were a nice lad, an‚Äô a lively card. But then your Lily was a lively lass, full o‚Äôfun.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, lively enough. You knew when she was abaht.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd tried to speak offhandedly, but his voice warmed and his eyes were alight with affectionate reminiscence. He had always adored this only daughter of his. She had been the funniest baby, the cleverest child, and the prettiest girl in that part of Bruddersford, or, for that matter, in any other part. There was something wonderful about everything she did and said. Even her naughtiness‚ÅÝ‚Äîand she had always had a will of her own‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad seemed to him only a special sort of fun and prettiness, as good as a play. + 

‚ÄúYer must miss ‚Äôer. I know I do meself. Even Joe was asking me about ‚Äôer t‚Äôother day. ‚ÄôE didn‚Äôt know she‚Äôd got married and gone away, ‚Äôe knows nowt, doesn‚Äôt Joe; ‚Äôe‚Äôs always a year or two be‚Äôind‚Äôand.‚Äù But she said this in such a way as to hint that Mr.¬ÝButtershaw, with one eye on his tripe and the other on his music, was rather above this business of knowing things, an absentminded genius. ‚ÄúTher wasn‚Äôt a nicer little lass came into t‚Äôshop, and yer can put that feather in yer cap.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was so shaken out of his reserve by this praise that he proclaimed very earnestly: ‚ÄúAy. I miss her all right. I didn‚Äôt know ah could miss anybody so much. Place fair seems empty like sometimes.‚Äù + 

For a minute or two nothing more was said. No doubt both of them felt that this last speech had reached the limits to which confession might be pushed. Beyond were extravagance and indecency, and a good Bruddersfordian left such wild regions to actors and Londoners and suchlike. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd looked out of the window. + 

The day was just crossing the little magical bridge between afternoon and evening. The early autumn sunlight was bent on working a miracle. A moment of transformation had arrived. It hushed and gilded the moors above, and then, just when Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs tram reached the centre of the town, passing on one side the Central Free Library and on the other the Universal Sixpenny Bazaar, it touched Bruddersford. All the spaces of the town were filled with smoky gold. Holmes and Hadley‚Äôs emporium, the Midland Railway Station, the Wool Exchange, Barclays Bank, the Imperial Music Hall, all shone like palaces. Smithson Square was like some quivering Western sea, and the Right Honourable Ebenezer Smithson himself, his marble scroll now a map of the Indies, was conjured into an Elizabethan admiral. The fa√ßades of Market Street towered strangely and spread a wealth of carven stone before the sun. Town Hall Square was a vast place of golden light; and its famous clock, as it moved to celebrate the enchanted moments, gave a great whirr and then shook down into the streets its more rapturous chimes, ‚ÄúThe Lass of Richmond Hill.‚Äù + 

To all this sudden magic, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, sucking at his empty pipe and staring through the window, might have seemed entirely unresponsive. He was not, however. One hand went fumbling up his shabby coat. It would have gone further, would have plunged into the inner pocket, if its owner had not been sharing a seat with Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, who was of a breadth beyond the dreams of the Tramways Department. But if the hand could not bring out a letter, it could feel that it was there, and having done so, it dropped, satisfied. + 

‚ÄúAnd ‚Äôow,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, looking with disapproval at the warehouse of Messrs. Hoggleby, Sons and Co. Ltd., in whose shadow they were, ‚Äúis that lad of yours gettin‚Äô on?‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs face immediately changed, putting on a grim and satirical expression. ‚ÄúI can‚Äôt say. He tells me nowt. I think he‚Äôll be all right as long as there‚Äôs still a good supply o‚Äô brilliantine an‚Äô fancy socks, and plenty o‚Äô young women wi‚Äô nowt to do but look for chaps.‚Äù Leonard might be the darling of his mother‚Äôs heart, as indeed he was, but it was clear that his father had no great opinion of him. + 

Neither, it appeared, had Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw. ‚ÄúI seen ‚Äôim o‚Äô Wednesday,‚Äù she said severely, ‚Äústanding outside a picture place‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI think it were t‚ÄôPlazzer‚ÅÝ‚Äîand yer‚Äôd have thought ‚Äôe owned it. ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs lad,‚Äô I ses to Joe, but Joe didn‚Äôt know him. Joe knows nobody, and bin in a shop for thirty year! Nay, I nivver seen such a man. ‚ÄòYer won‚Äôt know me next,‚Äô I tell him. But when I showed ‚Äôim your lad, Joe ses, ‚ÄòWell, if that‚Äôs Jess Oakroyd‚Äôs lad, ‚Äôe‚Äôs nowt like his father. ‚ÄôE looks a bit of a swankpot.‚Äô ‚ÄòNay, Joe,‚Äô I ses, ‚Äòyer know nowt about t‚Äôlad.‚Äô But I knew what ‚Äôe meant. ‚ÄôE doesn‚Äôt like to see these lads all toffed up, doesn‚Äôt Joe. Where‚Äôs your Leonard workin‚Äô now? Is ‚Äôe still in t‚Äô hair cutting?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, he‚Äôs still at Bobsfill‚Äôs i‚Äô Woolgate,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who did not seem to resent these remarks. + 

‚ÄúWell,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, gathering together her assortment of packages and her immense form, ‚Äú‚Ää‚Äôe‚Äôll niwer get fat on what old Bobsfill gives ‚Äôim. I niwer reckoned nowt o‚Äô barbers, and Bobsfill‚Äôs one o‚Äô t‚Äô meanest. ‚ÄôE‚Äôd go blind lookin‚Äô for a thripenny bit.‚Äù And she heaved herself out of the seat and, as the tram slowed up, went waddling down the aisle. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, beginning to expand again into what he felt to be his natural size, fell to thinking of his daughter and her letter. As soon as Lily had gone, 51 Ogden Street had suddenly shrunk and darkened, and there was no family life in it, no real home, only the three of them there, eating and sleeping and sometimes squabbling, with Leonard and his doting mother on one side and him on the other. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt you have it, Dad. Don‚Äôt you put up with it. You look after yourself,‚Äù Lily had whispered just before she went, breaking up an old and happy alliance. Since then he had had a certain mournful pleasure in not putting up with it, in trying to look after himself. But it was a poor sort of business now. + 

He took the letter out of his pocket, but did not read it again. He had secretly hoped it would contain an invitation to him to go out there. He was ready to go at a word. A handy man like him could easily get work there. Six months‚Äô full time at the mill would easily raise the passage money. But no invitation had come, not a word about it. He hoped she had thought of it, had suggested it, and that it was only because Jack Clough, who was a decent young chap but, like the rest, bent on looking after Number One, had put his foot down that she had never said anything. He had mentioned it once or twice when he had written, just making a sort of little joke of it‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúWhat would your old Father look like in Canada!‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he did not feel like doing more than that. They had their own way to make, and a baby was coming. He looked down at the letter and then slowly tore it up and slipped the fragments under the seat. + 

The tram had ground its way to the Black Swan Inn (known locally as ‚Äút‚ÄôMucky Duck‚Äù), and this was his stop. He walked, rather slowly and heavily, the few hundred yards that brought him to Ogden Street. + 

Nobody could consider Ogden Street very attractive; it was very long and very drab, and contained two rows of singularly ugly black little houses; yet Ogden Street had its boasts, and its residents could claim to have both feet on the social ladder. You could, in fact, have a ‚Äúcomedown‚Äù from Ogden Street, and there were some people who even saw it as a symbol of a prosperity long vanished. To begin with, it was a respectable street, not one of those in which you heard sudden screams in the night or the sound of police whistles. Then too, it was entirely composed of proper houses, all with doors opening on to the street; and in this respect it was unlike its neighbours at the back, Velvet Street and Merino Street, which had nothing but ‚Äúpassage‚Äù or ‚Äúback-to-back‚Äù houses, the product of an ingenious architectural scheme that crammed four dwelling-places into the space of two and enabled some past citizens to drive a carriage-and-pair and take their wives and daughters to the Paris Exhibition in 1867. When you lived in Ogden Street, you did not disdain to talk to the occupants of passage houses, but nevertheless, if you were a woman who knew how to enjoy yourself, you could afford to be sympathetic towards a humble passage-houser or put a presumptuous one in her place. Many of these things had been known to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, an old resident, for many years, but he did not entertain himself now with any recollection of them. + 

The door, which led directly into the single living-room, stood ajar. There was no one in the room, but voices were coming from upstairs. Somebody shouted ‚ÄúHello!‚Äù as he flung his cap down on the end of the shiny black sofa. He grunted a reply, went through to the scullery, where he hastily washed, returning, with eyes still smarting from the yellow soap, to look very dubiously at the table. What he saw made him shake his head. It was indeed the miserable ruin of a Saturday tea. Three dirty cups, pushed to one end of the table, announced that there had been earlier arrivals, and everything had the air of having been closely examined and then rejected. There were two pieces of bread-and-butter on one plate, half a buttered currant teacake and a squashed lemon-cheese tart on another; and on a third‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor the tasty bit, the glory of the meal‚ÅÝ‚Äîwere the mere remains, the washy flotsam and jetsam, of a tin of salmon. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd poked about with a fork in this pink mush, shook his head again, and made little clicking noises. Then he lifted the teapot from the fender, where it had been stewing its contents for some time, sat him down and summoned what was left of a rapidly vanishing appetite. + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôre back, are you!‚Äù This was Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, who had come downstairs. She was a thin woman, with gleaming eyes, prominent cheekbones, a pinched nose reddened at the tip, and a long prow of a chin. She had two passions, one for her son, Leonard, and the other for virtuous discomfort. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm house-proud,‚Äù she reported of herself; and if she could fill the living-room with steaming clothes a few minutes before her husband arrived home from work, she was happy. She had long regarded him neither as a friend nor as a partner but as a nuisance, somebody who was always coming in to upset the house, always demanding food and drink. + 

The nuisance gave her one quick glance, and saw at once that she was pleased about something, though ready at any moment to be quarrelsome about it. ‚ÄúLeonard‚Äôs in this,‚Äù he told himself, gave a nod, then gloomily poured some of the salmon on to his plate. + 

‚ÄúWe ‚Äôad our teas,‚Äù remarked Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, coming forward into the room. + 

‚ÄúAy, so I see,‚Äù returned her husband dryly. ‚ÄúI wish I‚Äôd been here. Ther seems to ha‚Äô been a bit of a party like.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúLeonard‚Äôs ‚Äôere, come home this afternoon and brought Albert Tuggridge with ‚Äôim, so we all ‚Äôad our teas together.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, Leonard‚Äôs here, is he?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stared rather aggressively at his wife. ‚ÄúAnd what‚Äôs Leonard doing here at this time o‚Äô day? I suppose nobody i‚Äô Woolgate district wants a shave now o‚Äô Saturday.‚Äù As this was the only day on which many Woolgate residents ever did want a shave, this remark was the grimmest irony. + 

There was an added gleam in his wife‚Äôs eyes. ‚ÄúLeonard‚Äôs done wi‚Äô Woolgate. Left this morning. And not afore ‚Äôe told old Bobsfill a thing or two either. Trust ‚Äôim,‚Äù she added proudly. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd laid down his knife and fork. ‚ÄúGotten t‚Äôsack, has he, or marched out? And what‚Äôs he going to do now? I call that daft. Lad‚Äôs got too big for his boots.‚Äù + 

The gleam was really triumphant now. She raised her voice: ‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell yer what he‚Äôs going to do. He‚Äôs going to work at Gregson‚Äôs. There‚Äôs a chap finishing there today, and our Leonard takes his place o‚Äô Monday. Gets two pound and what he makes, and you know what Gregson‚Äôs is. Now then, what ‚Äôave you got to say to that?‚Äù + 

He had nothing to say to it. He did know what Gregson‚Äôs was, though he had never been a patron of such a lordly establishment. Gregson‚Äôs City Toilet Rooms were in the centre of the town, not two hundred yards from Town Hall Square, and heads worth a mint of money were continually being trimmed there. It was impossible to say a word against Gregson‚Äôs. + 

‚ÄúTwo pounds and tips galore!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôll be four pound ten, sometimes five pound, ‚Äôe tells me, in a good week, wi‚Äô regular customers coming in, wool men and travellers and suchlike. ‚ÄòWell,‚Äô I tells him, ‚Äòif it is, it‚Äôs better money than your poor father ever brought home, and you only fower-and-twenty.‚Äô Nay, I were that surprised! When I seen ‚Äôim walk in wi‚Äô Albert Tuggridge, middle o‚Äô t‚Äôafternoon, you could ha‚Äô knocked me down wi‚Äô a feather‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy,‚Äù her husband put in, ‚Äú‚Ää‚Äôan‚Äô when I see the way they‚Äôd both walked into that salmon, you could ‚Äôa‚Äô knocked me down wi‚Äô t‚Äôsame feather.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGo on, go on! That‚Äôs right! Go on!‚Äù she cried, with the shrillest irony. ‚ÄúNext time t‚Äôlad gets a better job I‚Äôll turn ‚Äôim and ‚Äôis friend out without a bit o‚Äô tea. I‚Äôll tell him ‚Äôe can‚Äôt ‚Äôa‚Äô any, tell him it‚Äôs all for his father. You‚Äôve got as much there as we ‚Äôad. What you wan‚Äôs a caffy. What we sit down to isn‚Äôt good enough for a man as can afford a shilling every week for a football match. He ought to ‚Äôave ‚Äôam and eggs every night, he ought, steaks and chips every night, he ought, when he‚Äôs so well off‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAll right, all right, all right,‚Äù growled Mr.¬ÝOakroyd and tried to look like a man who had had enough of that nonsense. His wife gave a sniff, collected some dirty cups and plates, gave another sniff, then marched the things into the scullery, where she contrived to make an extraordinary clatter. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd let his features relapse into their ordinary appearance, loudly yet mournfully sucked at a hollow tooth, then took an immense bite of currant teacake and washed it down with a gulp of tea. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôll bet t‚Äôyoung women o‚Äô Bruddersford will find it hard to keep their heads screwed on tonight,‚Äù he observed, when his wife returned. He nodded towards the stairs. ‚ÄúIs that Albert Tuggridge up there now wi‚Äô Leonard?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes. Leonard‚Äôs getting ready to go out. They‚Äôre off to a social an‚Äô dance at Shuttle Street Rooms.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd smiled grimly. ‚ÄúI thought as much. There‚Äôll be some ‚Äôearts broken i‚Äô Shuttle Street tonight. It‚Äôs fair cruel to let them two loose on t‚Äôsame night, and a Saturday an‚Äô all. It don‚Äôt give lasses a chance. Them as doesn‚Äôt prostrate therselves afore Leonard ‚Äôull fall afore the all-conquering Albert. It‚Äôs an absolute walkover for the male sex.‚Äù + 

His wife bristled. ‚ÄúA body‚Äôud think you‚Äôd never been young, Jess Oakroyd, the way you go on about them lads.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNay, I‚Äôve been young. None so old yet, I‚Äôm thinking. But I were never so dam‚Äô soft as yon two. Lady-killers, I calls ‚Äôem‚ÅÝ‚ÄîShuttle Street heart-breakers! Tut‚Äët‚Äët‚Äët!‚Äù + 

It was not a bad description of Leonard and his friend, Albert. With them and their like was perishing, miserably and obscurely, an old tradition. Though they did not know it, they were in truth the last of a long line, the last of the Macaronis, the Dandies, the Swells, the Mashers, the Knuts. Their old home, the West End, knows these figures no longer; their canes and yellow gloves, their pearl-buttoned fawn overcoats, their brilliantine and scent and bouquets, their music-hall promenades, and their hansoms, their ladies, with elaborate golden coiffures, full busts, and naughty frills, all have gone, all went floating to limbo, long ago, on their last tide of champagne; and some foolish and almost forgotten song, in perky six-eight time, of ‚Äúboys and girls upon the spree, in Peek-a-deely or Le-hester Squer-hare,‚Äù is their requiem. But just as a tide of fashion, raging fiercely in Mayfair for a season, will go rolling on and on, depositing black vases or orange cushions in drawing-rooms more and more remote year after year, so too the tradition of dandyism and lady-killing, after it had forsaken its old home, lingered on in towns like Bruddersford and among such young men as Leonard and Albert. They lived for dress and girls, above all‚ÅÝ‚Äînot having the opportunities of a Brummell‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor girls. They ogled and pursued and embraced girls at the Bruddersford dances and socials, in all the local parks and woods, picture theatres and music halls; they followed them on the Bridlington sands, along the Morecambe piers, into the Blackpool ballrooms, and even went as far as Douglas, I.O.M., to treat them to eighteen-penny glasses of champagne and other notorious aphrodisiacs; they knew, and frequently discussed among themselves, the precise difference between the factory girls of Bruddersford and the factory girls of Bradford or Huddersfield, between the tailoresses of Leeds and the shopgirls of Manchester; they were masters of the art of ‚Äúpicking up‚Äù and, young as they were, already veteran strategists in the war against feminine chastity or prudence, and were untiring in the chase, tracking these bright creatures for weeks through the dark jungle of West Riding streets, but apt to be either bored or frightened by the kill. In the end, most of them‚ÅÝ‚Äîas they said‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúgot caught,‚Äù and were to be seen walking out of their old lives, those epics of gallantry, pushing a perambulator. + 

The two young men now descended the stairs. Leonard walked in first, still patting his purple silk tie. He is a thin youth, with a very elaborate and greasy arrangement of curls and waves in his hair, a hardening eye and a loosening mouth, and an unfortunate habit of becoming spotty about the forehead. His friend, Albert, clerk to Swullans, the noisiest and shadiest auctioneer in the town, is larger and louder, and likes to brighten all social occasions by imitating the public manner of his master. Having no family in Bruddersford, he lives in lodgings, a few streets away, where he says he is very uncomfortable. Already it has been suggested several times, both by Leonard and his mother, that Albert might lodge with them, but Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who does not want a lodger and especially does not want to see any more of Albert, rages at the mere hint of such a proceeding. + 

‚ÄúMy words, Leonard,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, wiping her hands at the scullery door, ‚Äúyou‚Äôre a swell tonight all right!‚Äù To see him standing there, in his new chocolate-coloured suit, with his purple socks and tie and handkerchief, was as good as an evening out to her, better than the pictures. + 

‚ÄúNot so dusty, Mar,‚Äù said Leonard, tapping a cigarette against the back of his hand. + 

‚ÄúWell, well, well, well!‚Äù shouted Albert, winking at Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was pushing his chair back. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre we are, ‚Äôere we are! All merry and bright, the old firm! And ‚Äôow many runs did the old United make today?‚Äù And he winked at everybody. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who wanted to kick him, bent over his pipe and his packet of Old Salt tobacco, and grunted: ‚ÄúDrew. Nil, nil.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot much for a bob there then, what do you say, Len?‚Äù Albert went to the hearth and straddled there. ‚ÄúThe poor old United will ‚Äôave to do better before they see my money.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúRorther, rorther!‚Äù said Leonard, who was fond of entertaining company, at times, with an imitation of a musical-comedy duke. This was one of the times. + 

‚ÄúQuaite, quaite!‚Äù roared Albert, who knew his cue. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with the air of a man who had heard all this too many times already, very deliberately lit his pipe, then relieved his feelings by blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‚ÄúWell, they‚Äôll ‚Äôa‚Äô to try and get on without your money, Albert,‚Äù he remarked, relishing his irony. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôll ‚Äôa‚Äô to manage somehow, though it‚Äôll be a bad lookout for ‚Äôem, I can see that. Ha‚Äô you told ‚Äôem yet, or are you letting ‚Äôem find it out for themselves?‚Äù + 

At this moment Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd and Leonard disappeared into the scullery, where they could be heard whispering. Albert cocked an ear in that direction then opened fire himself. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve ‚Äôeard the news? Len‚Äôs new job. Good biz, good biz! Got a rise meself last week. Good biz! We‚Äôre making money, making money. What d‚Äôyou say?‚Äù + 

It was plain that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had very little to say and that it was not a subject that inspired him. He took out his pipe, looked at it and then looked at Albert, and asked very quietly if Mr.¬ÝSwullans had sold any more mahogany wardrobes lately. This was a malicious question because Mr.¬ÝSwullans had once got into trouble and a half-column report in the Bruddersford Evening Express because he sold a certain mahogany wardrobe. + 

But Albert was not abashed. ‚ÄúNow then, now then! We all know about that. Tricks in all trades! Did you know I was looking for fresh digs?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, I heard summat about it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell then, what d‚Äôyou say to having this little drop o‚Äô sunshine in the old ‚Äôome? What d‚Äôyou think of that? Good company and a good payer, right on the nail every Friday night.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd shook his head. ‚ÄúIt won‚Äôt wash, lad.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúRight on the nail every Friday,‚Äù Albert repeated with gusto. ‚ÄúAnd all the family in favour.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt won‚Äôt wash. We don‚Äôt want no lodgers ‚Äôere. There‚Äôs plenty as takes ‚Äôem without us. We don‚Äôt want ‚Äôem.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, we don‚Äôt, don‚Äôt we!‚Äù This was from Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, standing, belligerent, in the scullery doorway. + 

Her husband gave a steady look, then raised his voice. ‚ÄúNo, we don‚Äôt.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, some of us thinks we do.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThen you mun think again, and think different,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with an air of finality. And before any of them could reply, he had taken his cap from the end of the sofa, clapped it on his head, and walked out. + 

He told himself that he wanted a little stroll, another ounce of Old Salt, an early edition of the Evening Express Sports. But he knew he was afraid of what was coming. Having fired, manfully, his one big gun, he felt compelled to retreat. All the way down Ogden Street, he kept repeating to himself, ‚ÄúBetter money than your poor father ever brought home‚Äù; and didn‚Äôt like the look of things at all. + 

III + 

The weekend had begun badly for Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, and it did not improve. The depression of Saturday afternoon could not be shaken off. He could think of nothing to look forward to. He was troubled by a vague foreboding. It was just as if a demoniac black dog went trotting everywhere at his heels. Normally he was happy enough when he was smoking a pipe or two of Old Salt over the Evening Express Sports, learning how ‚ÄúKelly pushed the ball out to the homesters‚Äô left wing and Macdonald shot hard from a fine centre, but the visiting custodian made a great clearance.‚Äù But this Saturday night he could not settle down to the welcome pink sheets. It followed him, this black dog, when he tried another stroll later, into the centre of the town, and it even found its way with him into the singing-room of The Boy and Barrel, where he had a half-pint of bitter and listened to a purple-faced tenor, the victim of two passions, one for Doreen, His Darling and His Queen, and the other for Home, Just a Tumble-down Cottage. Nor had it departed when he called, on his return home, at Thwaites‚Äô Fish and Chip Shop (it called itself the West End Supper Bar, but nobody took any notice of that), and ate three-pennorth o‚Äô chips and a tail while exchanging some remarks on t‚ÄôUnited with Sam Thwaites, that excellent critic of the game. + 

Sunday morning was no better. To begin with, there was a bit of an argument about Albert Tuggridge at breakfast. Then the Imperial News, with which, like two million other Britons, he spent Sunday morning, for once gave him no pleasure. Listlessly, he turned from ‚ÄúSecrets of European Courts‚Äù to ‚ÄúDope Dens of Mayfair,‚Äù from ‚ÄúWhat the Husband Saw‚Äù to ‚ÄúScandals of the Boxing Ring,‚Äù and the most startling revelations, the most terrible disclosures, failed to brighten his eye. At half past eleven he went to the Woolgate Working Men‚Äôs Club and sat there over a half-pint, only to learn, to his disgust, that young Maundery had been made secretary of the local branch of his Trade Union, the Textile, Wagon, and Warehouse Workers. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had not been on good terms with his Union for some time, and this appointment of Maundery, a hatchet-faced young fanatic who had an unqualified admiration of Russian methods, meant that very soon he would be on even worse terms. He disliked the chap, and only a fortnight ago, in this very club, they had had a long and loud argument, during which Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had horrified his opponent by calling ‚Äúproletariat‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîa term that Maundery used in every other sentence and regarded as sacred‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúa bloody daft word.‚Äù After that cheerless half-pint, he went home to a dinner that was a sulky silent affair and none too good. This was what he had expected. He knew he had now seen the last of his wife‚Äôs best efforts in cookery for some time. In the afternoon, he dozed uneasily for an hour or so, suddenly decided to walk to the park, found he had gone far enough when only halfway there, and came back, dusty and gloomy, to a solitary tea. Leonard had gone off for the day, and Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd was taking tea with some fellow-worshipper at the Woolgate Congregational Chapel. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd ate and drank a good deal in an absentminded fashion, then smoked two pipes of Old Salt while he gave himself to a mournful survey of this life. + 

It was nearly seven o‚Äôclock when he finally decided how to spend the evening. He would go and see his friend Sam Oglethorpe out at Wabley. Having arrived at this decision, he immediately felt more cheerful, for to go as far as Wabley, which is four miles out of Bruddersford and almost on the edge of the moors, was something to do, indeed quite a little adventure, and he knew that Sam would be in and ready to welcome him. What he did not know was that this was a most momentous decision, that here was not a little adventure but the beginning of all manner of great adventures, that the thread now dangling in the empty space of his life was almost within reach, that Destiny was hard at work as he had his wash at the scullery sink, walked, took a tram, walked again, out to Wabley. + 

Yes, Sam was in, and glad to see him, and together they went down to the run and looked at hens. The two had worked side-by-side for years in the wagon department of Higden and Co., but two or three years ago they had parted company, for Sam had come into money, having been left four hundred pounds by an uncle who had kept an off-licence shop, and had boldly walked out of Higden‚Äôs, never to return. He was now on his own at Wabley, the proud proprietor of a large hen-run, a little cottage, and a sign that said Joinery and Jobbing Work Promptly Attended To. That was why Mr.¬ÝOakroyd regarded his friend with admiration and envy, for he too would like to walk out of Higden‚Äôs for the last time, to have done with wages and foremen and the tyrannical buzzer. Deep in his heart was a sign about Joinery and Jobbing Work. The hoisting of that sign, proclaiming Jes. Oakroyd, the independent craftsman, to the world, was one of his constant dreams. And he was a better craftsman than Sam, too; give him a saw, a hammer, a few nails, and he could do anything. But Sam, assisted by the off-licence uncle, had managed to scramble out, while he was still in, in up to the neck, and lucky perhaps to be keeping on at Higden‚Äôs at all. + 

Now, the last hen dismissed, they were cosily talking over pipes and a jug of beer. They were not in Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe‚Äôs cottage, which was simply a place to eat and sleep in and not meant, as anybody in Wabley would tell you, for social life. No, they were sitting snugly in Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe‚Äôs combined henhouse and workshop, with the jug of beer on a bench between them. If you want to know what independent men in Bruddersford and district think about life, you must listen to the talk that comes floating out of henhouses at night. A man can afford to let himself go in a henhouse. Sam had been letting himself go, enlarging upon his plans and prospects, his hens, his Joinery, his Jobbing, to all of which Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had been listening with deep and admiring attention. It was now time he had a look in, and Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, like the good fellow he was, knew it and gave him his cue. + 

‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, who had the slow meditative manner that properly belongs to Jobbing Work, ‚Äúthat‚Äôs what ‚Äôappens i‚Äô this sort o‚Äô business i‚Äô Wabley, ay, and i‚Äô Bruddersford too. Did you give it any ittention, Jess, when you was down South? It‚Äôll be a bit diff‚Äôrent there, I‚Äôm thinking.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs face lit up at once. This ‚Äúdown South‚Äù was the cue. This was where he came in and more than held his own, for if, in this company, Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe was the independent man, the owner of hens and a sign, the craftsman at large, who could smoke his pipe when he liked, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was the travelled man, who had knocked up and down a bit, who could talk of what were to Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, who had never been anywhere, foreign parts. It was only in the company of his friend Sam that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd felt that he really had seen the world. He had not often been away from Bruddersford, though he had had a few little holidays at Morecambe, Blackpool, and Scarborough, had been on football trips to Manchester, Newcastle, Sheffield, and had once gone on a wonderful midnight excursion to London and had actually seen St.¬ÝPaul‚Äôs and London Bridge before he fell asleep in an eating-house; but it happened that for a whole six months he had worked in Leicester, where his firm had a branch, and ever after he had referred to this exciting period as the time when he was ‚Äúdown South.‚Äù It was another of his dreams, companion to that of the hoisted sign, this happy business of travelling, of knocking about, of seeing this place and that, of telling how you once went there and then moved on somewhere else, and although he knew he had seen nothing much yet and probably never would now, yet he was able, nourished as he was by his secret dream, to capture the manner of the true wanderer. During his six months in Leicester, he had lodged in a street that could hardly be distinguished from his own Ogden Street, had worked in another Higden‚Äôs mill that was just like the one in Bruddersford except that it was smaller and cleaner. Yet when he said ‚Äúdown South,‚Äù he seemed to conjure up a vast journey towards the tropics and at the end of it a life entirely alien, fantastic. + 

‚ÄúAy, it‚Äôs different there, Sam,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, puzzling his brains to discover some proof of this difference. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs altogether different there, it is.‚Äù + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôOld on a bit afore you tell me,‚Äù the other cried, reaching for the jug. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs another sup i‚Äô this for both of us, I‚Äôm thinking. Nah then!‚Äù And he put a match to his pipe and looked across at his friend, his honest red face aglow. + 

‚ÄúWell, then you see,‚Äù began Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, but thought better of it and drank some beer instead. Then he reflected a moment. ‚ÄúWell, what I‚Äôd say is this. Yer asking me how this sort o‚Äô trade, Joinery and Jobbing, ‚Äôud go down South, aren‚Äôt yer?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right, Jess.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe looked very profound as he said this. + 

‚ÄúWell, what I‚Äôd say is this; that ther mayn‚Äôt be so much of it down there but what ther is ‚Äôud be a better class o‚Äô thing. D‚Äôyou follow me, Sam?‚Äù + 

Sam did follow him and looked more profound than ever as he slowly puffed at his short clay pipe. Nothing was said for a minute or two. Then Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe proceeded to light a very old and evil-smelling paraffin lamp that hung from the roof, and when he had done this, he broke the silence. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôll be all different, I‚Äôm thinking, Jess. I could nivver settle to it. But I‚Äôll bet tha liked it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI like a bit of a change, Sam.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôll bet tha‚Äôd like to be off down there ag‚Äôin next week,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, with an air of great artfulness, as if he had caught his friend at last. + 

‚ÄúI might an‚Äô I might not,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was not for giving himself away at once, not even in Sam‚Äôs henhouse. But then the hour and his mood worked together to fling down his reserve. He leaned forward and looked at once eager and wistful. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell you what it is, Sam. I‚Äôd give owt to see a bit more afore I‚Äôm too old.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYer‚Äôve seen summat already, Jess.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe spoke proudly, as if his friendship gave him a share in these vast migrations. + 

‚ÄúNowt much when you look at it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhy, look at me,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve nivver been farther ner Wetherby, to t‚Äôraces there. Nay, I‚Äôm lying; I have. I once went for a day to Southport to see t‚Äôsea, but I nivver saw it, not a drop. It were a take-in, that.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôd like to knock up an‚Äô down a bit,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd went on, ‚Äúan‚Äô see what there is to see afore I‚Äôm too old an‚Äô daft. I‚Äôve gotten fair sick o‚Äô Bruddersford lately, Sam, I have that. I‚Äôd like to get on t‚Äômove.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhere d‚Äôyer want to go, Jess? Down South ag‚Äôin? What is‚Äôt yer want to see?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNay, I don‚Äôt know,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, gloomily. ‚ÄúI‚Äôd like to see summat fresh. I‚Äôd like to have a look at‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, I don‚Äôt know‚ÅÝ‚ÄîBristol.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAr,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe knowingly. ‚ÄúBristol.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOr I‚Äôd like to see‚ÅÝ‚Äîyer know‚ÅÝ‚Äîsome of them places‚ÅÝ‚ÄîBedfordshire,‚Äù he added, at a venture. + 

The other shook his head at this. ‚ÄúI nivvr heard tell much o‚Äô that place,‚Äù he said gravely. ‚ÄúIs ther owt special i‚Äô Bedfordshire, Jess?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNay, I don‚Äôt know,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, a trifle impatiently. ‚ÄúBut it‚Äôs summat to see. I‚Äôd like to go and have a look so I‚Äôd know if ther was owt there or not. And I‚Äôll tell you another thing, Sam. I‚Äôd like to go to Canada.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYer nivver would, yer nivver would, Jess!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe slapped his thigh in appreciation of this audacity. ‚ÄúAn‚Äô if yer got there, yer‚Äôd want to be back i‚Äô no time. Nowt to sup, they tell me, and snaw months and months on end. Plenty o‚Äô money, I dare say, but nowt to spend it on. Nay, Jess, I‚Äôll nivver believe yer‚Äôd go as far as that.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôve a lass o‚Äô mine there, Sam.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, so you have, I‚Äôd fergetten. But I‚Äôll tell yer what it is. Y‚Äôowt to ‚Äôa‚Äô been a wool-buyer, Jess, and then yer could ‚Äôa‚Äô gone off all ower t‚Äôplace and been paid for it. It‚Äôud ‚Äôa‚Äô suited thee down to t‚Äôground.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI dare say,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd grimly. ‚ÄúAn‚Äô I owt to have a motorcar and twenty pound a week and nowt to do and plenty o‚Äô time to do it in‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

At this moment, a voice cried ‚ÄúHello!‚Äù and a face appeared in the doorway. + 

‚ÄúWho‚Äôs that? Oh, it‚Äôs you, is it, Ted? Come in, lad, come in. Yer know my nephew Ted, Jess?‚Äù And when Ted had sat himself down on an old coop, Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe went on: ‚ÄúNow, here‚Äôs a lad as can tell you a thing or two about knocking up and down. He‚Äôs nivver at home five minutes. Off wi‚Äô t‚Äôlorry all ower t‚Äôcountry, aren‚Äôt yer, Ted?‚Äù + 

Ted, who was part-owner of a lorry that called itself the Wabley Transport Co., admitted that he knocked about a bit and knew a thing or two. + 

‚ÄúThis lorrying owt to ‚Äôa‚Äô been your line o‚Äô business, Jess,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe continued, winking at his nephew for no particular reason. ‚ÄúWhere d‚Äôyer go next, lad?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOff tomorrow,‚Äù replied Ted, a laconic youth who preferred to talk, like a ventriloquist, with a cigarette in his mouth. ‚ÄúLoad at Bruddersford. Merryweather‚Äôs Tapp Street. Going to Nuneaton. Shan‚Äôt get off till late tomorrow night.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat time, Ted?‚Äù asked his uncle, rather in the manner of counsel in court, as if he already knew the answer himself. + 

‚ÄúTen or eleven. Perhaps twelve. Merryweather‚Äôs got a rush on. That‚Äôs how we got the job. Travel all night. Deliver in the morning. Hell of a game.‚Äù And Ted, having finished his speech, took out his cigarette to whistle. + 

‚ÄúThere y‚Äôare, Jess. ‚ÄôEll of a game,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe repeated triumphantly. + 

‚ÄúIt ‚Äôud do me,‚Äù muttered Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. + 

‚ÄúIt ‚Äôud suit ‚Äôim,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, turning to his nephew. ‚ÄúYer‚Äôll a‚Äô ter give ‚Äôim a job on t‚Äôlorry, Ted.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNothing doing,‚Äù replied Ted. ‚ÄúWouldn‚Äôt thank us if we did. He can have a trip when he likes, of course. See for himself then. Nothing in it. Been all over, Manchester, Liverpool, Newcastle, Leicester, Coventry, even taken it to London twice. Dozens o‚Äô smaller places. All over. Nothing in it. Get sick of it. Same old carry-on every time. Places all alike when you come to know ‚Äôem.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNay, I‚Äôll be damned if they are,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd protested. ‚ÄúYou may ‚Äôa‚Äô seen a sight more ner I have, but you must ‚Äôa‚Äô given it a funny sort o‚Äô look to think that. Places is as different as chalk and cheese. I soon picked that out when I were down South.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, that‚Äôs right,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe observed. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve heard Jess ‚Äôere tell many a time ‚Äôow diff‚Äôrent it is. I‚Äôve seen nowt much, but yer can nivver tell me places is all alike. Why, ther‚Äôs Wabley ‚Äôere is as diff‚Äôrent as owt from all t‚Äôother small places round Bruddersford. Amazin‚Äô it is, fair amazin‚Äô! Then Bruddersford‚Äôs ner more like Leeds or Halifax than I‚Äôm like Billy Baxter.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWho‚Äôs Billy Baxter?‚Äù This was from Ted, who ought to have known better. + 

‚ÄúWhat! Nivver heard o‚Äô Billy Baxter!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe, in great glee. ‚ÄúWell, well, well! Billy Baxter were the fellow that could nivver stand up without getting on his feet.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝOglethorpe began to punch himself, and shake and splutter and cough, until at last he was purple and helpless. + 

‚ÄúTha hasn‚Äôt selled that to anybody for years, Sam,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd approvingly. ‚ÄúTed‚Äôs learned summat tonight, anyway.‚Äù + 

Ted, still with a cigarette in his mouth, was shaking his head and at the same time making a loud tut-tutting noise. He was not abashed‚ÅÝ‚Äîas a man of the world, he could afford to ignore such primitive jests‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut he knew that his prestige was gone for the remainder of the evening, and so, after giving his uncle a resounding slap or two on the back, he took his leave. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stayed long enough to smoke another pipe, and was then steered through the darkness‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor it was late now‚ÅÝ‚Äîby his host, who accompanied him as far as the tram terminus. The tram that was waiting there, however, only took him to the outskirts of Bruddersford, where it went groaning into its shed. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd would have to walk the rest of the way. As a rule he liked to go to bed early on Sunday night, but now he was in no mood to consider Monday morning, more especially as he had just left the company of an independent craftsman and a man of travel. The night was fine and he was not tired. Off he went, with his old brown cap at the back of his head, whistling softly, and watching his shadow that grew and then dwindled between one streetlamp and the next. He was walking back into something that was beginning to look like slavery, but the large quiet night was his, and a man might fancy himself anything, proprietor of a Joinery and Jobbing sign, owner of a lorry commanded to go to Bristol or Bedfordshire, even a chap going out to Canada to see his daughter, as he walked in peace through such a night. + 

He was now in the Merton Park district, Bruddersford‚Äôs best suburb, where the wool merchants and the manufacturers and the bank managers had their detached villas. These pleasant avenues were full of leafy shadows, for there were trees in the gardens and trees alternating with streetlamps on the pavement itself. Now and then he heard the distant sound of a piano. Two or three cars rolled past. Sometimes from the deeper shadows there came a whispering and sound of kissing, for lovers in Bruddersford favoured the Merton Park district. There were very few of them about now, however; it was too late. Learoyd Avenue, longest and leafiest of these opulent roads, was very quiet. Yet it was in Learoyd Avenue, nearly at the end, just before it turns into Park Drive, that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs adventures really began. + 

He had just stepped from the lamplit pavement into the shadow of a tree, when he tripped over something and went sprawling. + 

‚ÄúWhat the bl‚ÅÝ‚Äî!‚Äù he began, startled and shaken. + 

‚ÄúShush! Shush!‚Äù said a voice, close to his ear. ‚ÄúNaughty! Naughty!‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd scrambled to his feet and peered through the gloom at the figure beside him. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre, Mister, get up.‚Äù + 

The other giggled quietly. ‚ÄúCan‚Äôt gerrup,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúCan‚Äôt poshibly gerrup.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, you can‚Äôt stay there all t‚Äônight, Mister,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who now understood the situation. ‚ÄúCan you now?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI dunno, I dunno,‚Äù said the other meditatively. ‚ÄúP‚Äôraps I can, p‚Äôraps I can‚Äôt. Who knows?‚Äù Then in a tone of great melancholy he added: ‚ÄúNobody knowsh. And nobody‚ÅÝ‚Äînobody‚ÅÝ‚Äîcaresh. Nobody.‚Äù He seemed to be overcome by the pathos of this reflection. + 

‚ÄúWell, you‚Äôve got a load on and no mistake,‚Äù said Oakroyd. Then he reached out a hand. ‚ÄúCome on, come on. This‚Äôll nivver do. ‚ÄôOist yerself up.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs ri‚Äô. Gimme a hand, the hand of frien‚Äôship. Up we go!‚Äù And, aided by Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, he struggled to his feet, clapped Mr.¬ÝOakroyd on the shoulder, nearly lost his balance again, and finally clung to his companion‚Äôs arm and began staggering down the road. The lamplight revealed him as a large red-faced man, very smart in a light grey felt hat, check suit, and spats. + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôre a good fella,‚Äù he cried. ‚ÄúA very good fella. And I‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm a good fella too. Both good fellas. Wass‚Äôr name? Mine‚Äôs George. I‚Äôve had a mos‚Äô extr‚Äôor‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîextr‚Äôor‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôstonishin‚Äô time. Mos‚Äô ‚Äôstonishin‚Äô. Been away nearly a week. Racesh. Yes, I‚Äôm a rayshing man. Been to Doncaster‚ÅÝ‚Äîall over. An‚Äô lucky ev‚Äôry time, ev‚Äôry ev‚Äôry time. D‚Äôyou know, d‚Äôyou know‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand here George separated himself from his companion and stood swaying‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúwha‚Äô I made thish week?‚Äù He waved a finger at Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, then repeated, quite sternly: ‚ÄúD‚Äôyou know?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNay, I don‚Äôt know,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, good-humouredly. ‚ÄúBut I‚Äôll bet it were more ner I did.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôll tell you,‚Äù said George, gravely swaying. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell you. No, I won‚Äôt, ‚Äôcos I‚Äôve fergorren. But hundredsh, hundredsh an‚Äô hundredsh. Lucky, very very lucky. And now‚ÅÝ‚Äîhere I am, here I am, my frien‚Äô, home again.‚Äù And he steadied himself by grasping Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs arm again. + 

‚ÄúBut where do you live, Mister?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúRoun‚Äô the corner, roun‚Äô the corner. Had mosh ‚Äôstonishin‚Äô adventures, these lash few days. Came back in car. With palsh, goo‚Äô old palsh. But gone, all gone. We had li‚Äôl‚Äô dishpute. Fact is‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he lowered his voice and almost rested his head on his companion‚Äôs shoulder‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúfact is, ol‚Äô man, they were drunk, yes, dr‚Äôr‚Äëunk. An‚Äô they dropped me out of the car. Bur I said to them, I says, ‚ÄòI‚Äôm berrer without you ‚Äôcos you‚Äôre all drunk and this is reshpec‚ÅÝ‚Äîreshpec‚Äôable neighbererer-hood.‚Äô Thash wor I says, my frien‚Äô, an‚Äô I think you‚Äôll agree thar it was well spoken‚ÅÝ‚Äîon my par‚Äô.‚Äù These three last words came with a rush, for he had suddenly released his hold and had swung round alarmingly. + 

‚ÄúNay, that won‚Äôt do, Mister,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, making a grab at him. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll nivver get home at that rate. Now where is it you live?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúJus‚Äô roun‚Äô the corner, roun‚Äô the good ol‚Äô Johnny Horner,‚Äù replied George, with enthusiasm. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre all ri‚Äô, we‚Äôre all ri‚Äô. You‚Äôre a good fella. You been to racesh thish time?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, I‚Äôve not, nor nowhere else either for a long time. Hold up, Mister, hold up.‚Äù + 

But George had swung right over and was now slowly collapsing against the railings. His legs slowly slid over the pavement, but he still kept on talking. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre a wise man, a wise man‚ÅÝ‚Äîto stay at home.‚Äù And he said this several times as his head sank lower and lower. + 

‚ÄúNay, brace up, brace up!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd tried to pull him up but the man was heavy and a dead-weight now. For a moment it looked as if he were going to sleep, but Mr.¬ÝOakroyd gave him a series of nudges and shakings and at last succeeded in arousing him a little. After he had made an effort, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had put out all his strength to assist him, George rose very unsteadily to his feet and staggered one or two paces forward. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre, wha‚Äôs this?‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, picking up an unusually bulky pocketbook. ‚ÄúThis must be yours.‚Äù And he handed it over. + 

The other waved it in the air. ‚ÄúMy notecase. Full, full to the brim with money. Hundredsh of pounds, hundredsh. Must have dropped ou‚Äô pocket.‚Äù Then he came closer and held the pocketbook only about two inches from Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs nose. ‚ÄúI thank you. I thank you. Knew you were good fella. An honesh man. Come here,‚Äù he added, ignoring the fact that it would be impossible for his companion to be any closer than he already was. Indeed, he himself stepped back a pace as he continued: ‚ÄúCome here. You gave me thish, I give you something. Yes, I do. Fair‚Äôs fair. Thash George‚Äôs motto.‚Äù He fumbled in the pocketbook. ‚ÄúCome here. Hold hand out.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd found himself clasping some crisp pieces of paper. They felt like banknotes, and there were four of them. He did not stop to examine them but held them out to the donor, who was busying himself with the pocketbook. ‚ÄúLook here, Mister, I can‚Äôt take these,‚Äù he said, for his code demanded that he should help a drunken man if he possibly could and also that he should not take advantage of a man‚Äôs drunken freaks of generosity. + 

‚ÄúWarrer say?‚Äù George was still busy fastening his pocketbook and putting it away. + 

‚ÄúI say I can‚Äôt take these,‚Äù he repeated, almost pushing the notes in the other‚Äôs face. + 

‚ÄúWarrer mean can‚Äôt take ‚Äôem? I tell you, I give ‚Äôem. Li‚Äôl‚Äô presen‚Äô for good boy.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIf I take these,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd earnestly and somewhat unwisely, ‚Äúyou‚Äôll be sorry in the morning.‚Äù + 

This offended George. ‚ÄúWarrer mean sorry in the morning?‚Äù he cried aggressively. ‚ÄúMoney‚Äôs mine, isn‚Äôt it? Do warrer like with it, can‚Äôt I? Can I or can‚Äôt I? Ish it mine or ishn‚Äôt it? Can I or can‚Äôt I? Answer plain queshuns.‚Äù And he brought his face as near as he could. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stepped back and began to feel impatient, but said nothing. + 

‚ÄúCome on, come on. Le‚Äôsh have answer plain queshuns. Can I or can‚Äôt I? Have I gorrer ask you warrer do with it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, don‚Äôt be such a damn fool, Mister,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, tired of this daft catechism. + 

‚ÄúDamn fool, eh? All ri‚Äô, all ri‚Äô. Thash finish, ab‚Äëso‚Äëlutely finish.‚Äù And he made a sweeping gesture that nearly threw him off his feet. ‚ÄúYou go to hell now, anywhere. Finish. No frien‚Äô o‚Äô mine.‚Äù He turned away and staggered forward at a surprising pace. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, stuffing the notes in his pocket, hurried after him. ‚ÄúHalf a minute, half a minute,‚Äù he cried to the swaying figure. + 

The indignant George stopped for a moment to shout: ‚ÄúYou go to hell. I don‚Äôt want you. Don‚Äôt you follow me.‚Äù And off he went again, round the corner into Park Drive. A few yards farther on, he stopped again: ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt you follow me. You‚Äôre a bad fella, you are. You leave me alone.‚Äù But Mr.¬ÝOakroyd only increased his pace and was almost up to him, when a large figure stepped out of a shadowy gateway and confronted the pair of them. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre, ‚Äôere! What‚Äôs all this about?‚Äù said the policeman, flashing his lamp on their faces. + 

George pulled himself up and saluted. ‚ÄúGood evening, Conshtable. Jus‚Äô going home. You know me, don‚Äôt you?‚Äù + 

The policeman took another look at him. ‚ÄúYes, I think I know you, sir. You live down ‚Äôere, don‚Äôt you? Well, the sooner you‚Äôre ‚Äôome the better, if you ask me. And what‚Äôs all this noise about? Who‚Äôs this ‚Äôere?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThash the point,‚Äù replied George gravely. ‚ÄúWho is he? I dunno who he is. I‚Äôve jus‚Äô told him he‚Äôs a bad fella, an‚Äô I don‚Äôt want him following me. You tell him he‚Äôs a bad fella.‚Äù The policeman flashed his lamp over Mr.¬ÝOakroyd again. ‚ÄúNow then, what‚Äôs the game?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThere‚Äôs no game,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, rather sulkily. ‚ÄúI found him rolling drunk up the road and gave him a hand, that‚Äôs all.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúRollin‚Äô drunk!‚Äù exclaimed George, horror-stricken. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre bad bad fella, an‚Äô I told you not to keep following me.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou be off,‚Äù said the policeman to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, ‚Äúand leave him alone. And you get off home, sir, afore somebody else starts follering you. You‚Äôve not far to go.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, ay, Cap‚Äôen.‚Äù And George gave another salute and zigzagged down the road. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd moved on after him, but a shout from the policeman behind pulled him up. + 

‚ÄúDidn‚Äôt I tell you to be off?‚Äù cried the policeman, who had now caught up to him. ‚ÄúGet off and leave ‚Äôim alone afore you get into trouble.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúHe‚Äôs not the only chap as is going home.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was indignant. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve as much right to walk down this street as he has. I‚Äôm going home too. I‚Äôm not going to bother with him. He‚Äôs daft drunk.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhere d‚Äôyou live?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOgden Street.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs a good way from ‚Äôere,‚Äù said the policeman suspiciously. + 

‚ÄúAy, but this is nearest way to it, and that‚Äôs all I care about.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, walk on the other side then. I shall stand ‚Äôere and watch you. And don‚Äôt let me see you round ‚Äôere again tonight.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt want ivver to set eyes on thee agen, lad,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd muttered to himself as he crossed the road. He walked as fast as he could now, and took the first possible turning out of Park Drive. ‚ÄúI wonder who that were,‚Äù he said to himself. ‚ÄúEh, I‚Äôve seen some silly drunks in my time, but I nivver saw one sillier.‚Äù He had to slow down a little because his heart, which had been given a bump or two by that unpleasant talk with the policeman, kept missing a beat and seemed to make him short of breath. Thus it was very late indeed when he finally arrived at 51 Ogden Street, and even Leonard was obviously in bed. + 

He found a piece of buttered currant teacake, took a large and comforting bite out of it, and then smoothed out on the table four five-pound notes. Twenty pounds. Only twice before had he ever possessed such a sum, and then it had been scraped together, shilling added to shilling. But here was twenty pounds that had fallen to him out of the blue. What should he do with it? He crept upstairs pondering. + 

IV + 

‚ÄúAn‚Äô serve ‚Äôim right, too,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd muttered. ‚ÄúI haven‚Äôt a bit of patience with him.‚Äù It was the third time she had turned over this kipper, now blackened on both sides. It awaited, this kipper, the arrival of Mr.¬ÝOakroyd from work, being indeed the usual centrepiece of Monday evening‚Äôs tea; but obviously it had long ceased to care whether he came or not. An hour earlier this kipper might have been said to be wasted on him. Now, as Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd has suggested, it could only be described as something that served him right. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd generally arrived home before six, but now it was after seven. His wife, who had been washing all day and had organized a particularly fine display of steaming clothes round the fire at a quarter to six, had lost more and more of her temper with every passing quarter of an hour. Had she known that four five-pound notes had found their way into her husband‚Äôs pockets, late last night, she might have been alarmed. She knows nothing, however, and has not exchanged a dozen words with her husband, who has to rise very early and take both breakfast and dinner to the mill, since they disposed of the Sunday dinner. She is not alarmed but simply annoyed. ‚ÄúA body can‚Äôt get on,‚Äù she tells herself fretfully. Very soon she will have to prepare tea for Leonard, who will return from his first day at Gregson‚Äôs to find a kipper, and a much larger and fatter kipper than the one we have already seen, waiting for him, done to a turn. Meanwhile, his father, like the nuisance he is, must take it into his head‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor that is how Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd saw the matter‚ÅÝ‚Äîto be over an hour late. + 

‚ÄúNot ‚Äôome yet!‚Äù she cried to Mrs.¬ÝSugden, who had looked in from next door. ‚ÄúHis tea‚Äôs been ready nearly an hour and a half. Eh, men‚Äôs a bother, they are! Is yours ‚Äôome!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúLong sin‚Äô,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝSugden, a woman of few illusions. ‚ÄúBeen and gone out again. Trust ‚Äôim! When ‚Äôe‚Äôs more ner an half-hour late, I know I shan‚Äôt see ‚Äôim afore all pubs an‚Äô clubs is closed. But that nivver happens o‚Äô Monday ‚Äôcos ‚Äôe has nowt. They can‚Äôt be working over at Higden‚Äôs, can they?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot they!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd knew all about the state of the wool trade. ‚ÄúThey can‚Äôt get a full week in, and a lot on ‚Äôem‚Äôs been stopped. It‚Äôs not that, I‚Äôm sure. Some piece o‚Äô silliness, I‚Äôll be bound.‚Äù + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôE‚Äôs ‚Äôere,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝSugden whispered dramatically, then promptly vanished from the doorway. + 

The next moment he was there, a grimy, hot, and angry man who flung his cap and his bag of joiner‚Äôs tools down on the sofa, then closed the outer door with a bang. + 

‚ÄúWhere in the name o‚Äô goodness have you been?‚Äù his wife demanded. ‚ÄúAnd your tea waiting ‚Äôere a full hour and a half!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúBeen on to t‚ÄôUnion office,‚Äù he answered shortly. + 

She glanced at his face and then moderated her tone, ‚ÄúWhat d‚Äôyou want to go there for at this time?‚Äù + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôCos I‚Äôve been stopped.‚Äù He bent down and began to unlace his heavy working boots. + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôve been what?‚Äù his wife shrieked. + 

‚ÄúStopped, sacked, paid off, whativver you want to call it!‚Äù He straightened himself and threw an insurance card and some money on the table. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm not even under notice. Higden‚Äôs has finished wi‚Äô me, and I‚Äôve finished wi‚Äô them. There‚Äôs a week‚Äôs money there.‚Äù He began to unlace the other boot. + 

‚ÄúWell, I nivver did!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd. She flopped down into a chair and regarded him with the utmost astonishment. ‚ÄúWhat ‚Äôa‚Äô you been doing?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell you all about it in a minute. I want a wash and summat to eat.‚Äù He marched in his stockinged feet towards the scullery. ‚ÄúGet my tea ready and then you‚Äôll soon know what I‚Äôve been doing,‚Äù he added grimly. + 

In Bruddersford wives do not stand on ceremony at such moments of crisis, and Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, without a word of protest, made the tea and released the kipper from its long ordeal. + 

‚ÄúIf this ‚Äôere fish had ‚Äôa‚Äô been by t‚Äôfire a minute longer,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, now seated at the table, ‚Äúit ‚Äôud ‚Äôave started warping. It‚Äôs like a bit o‚Äô burnt wood.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúHappen it‚Äôs last you‚Äôll see for a bit,‚Äù his wife retorted, having been roused by this gratuitous sally. ‚ÄúNever mind about that. What ‚Äôave you gotten stopped for?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúFor nowt, just nowt,‚Äù he began. ‚ÄúOr, if you like, for bein‚Äô a man and not a damned monkey.‚Äù He stopped to take a drink of tea, then, pointing his fork at Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, he resumed: ‚ÄúThis morning I hadn‚Äôt a wagon in, and so were doin‚Äô nowt for a bit. Simpson, t‚Äôunder-manager, comes up an‚Äô ses, ‚ÄòWhat are you on with, Oakroyd?‚Äô and I tells him, ‚ÄòNowt, just now.‚Äô They‚Äôre puttin‚Äô up a temporary shed for t‚Äôwagons, and so Simpson ses, ‚ÄòWell, help wi‚Äô t‚Äôshed. You can start by getting this into shape.‚Äô And he points to a beam they pulled out o‚Äô t‚Äôold shed, and he finds measurements for me. So I borrows an axe an‚Äô a big crosscut saw and gets to work on this ‚Äôere beam. I haven‚Äôt been at it more ner ten minutes when a chap taps me on t‚Äôback. I don‚Äôt know him but I know he‚Äôs one t‚Äôshop-stewards. ‚ÄòAn when did you join t‚ÄôCarpenters‚Äô Union, comrade?‚Äô he ses, very nasty. ‚ÄòWhat d‚Äôyou mean?‚Äô I ses, though I knew what was coming. He pointed to t‚Äôbeam: ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs a carpenter‚Äôs job,‚Äô he ses, ‚Äòan‚Äô you keep off it, comrade.‚Äô I give him a look. ‚ÄòComrade!‚Äô I ses, ‚ÄòMy God!‚Äô ‚ÄòI‚Äôve noticed you once or twice,‚Äô he ses, ‚Äòan it‚Äôs struck me you‚Äôve got the makings of a blackleg,‚Äô he ses. ‚ÄòAn summat else‚Äôll strike you in a minute, mate, if you stay here callin‚Äô me names,‚Äô I ses. ‚ÄòWell, leave that job alone,‚Äô he ses, an‚Äô walks off. And of course I had to.‚Äù + 

He paused for refreshment, and his wife stared at him and said that she didn‚Äôt know whatever things were coming to. + 

‚ÄúWell, let me finish,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, as if she had been preventing him. ‚ÄúSo I‚Äôd nowt to do again. By an‚Äô by, Simpson comes round again, this time wi‚Äô manager hisself, old Thorley. They‚Äôre takking a quick look round and seem a bit flustered. Thorley sees me. ‚ÄòWhat‚Äôs this man doing?‚Äô he asks. ‚ÄòEh, Oakroyd,‚Äô Simpson shouts across, ‚Äòget on wi‚Äô that job an‚Äô sharp about it.‚Äô ‚ÄòI can‚Äôt get on wi‚Äô it,‚Äô I shout back, and moves across to tell ‚Äôem. ‚ÄòGo on, man, go on, man, go on!‚Äô ses old Thorley, waving his hand at me, and out they goes. At dinnertime I hears that the great man hisself, Sir Joseph Higden, Bart‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô his father were nobbut a weaving over-looker like mine‚ÅÝ‚Äîis on the premises. I knew now why t‚Äômanagers were so flustered. ‚ÄòI‚Äôll bet they‚Äôre cuttin‚Äô summat down,‚Äô I ses. About three o‚Äôclock they lands in our department, Sir Joseph and Thorley, wi‚Äô Simpson behind. I see Sir Joseph wave his hand. Then Thorley looks round, an‚Äô I see him look at me and then say summat to Simpson. In a minute or two, Simpson comes up an‚Äô ses, ‚ÄòI‚Äôm sorry, Oakroyd, but you‚Äôll ‚Äôa‚Äô to take a week‚Äôs notice.‚Äô ‚ÄòWhat for?‚Äô I ses. ‚ÄòWhat have I done?‚Äô ‚ÄòIt‚Äôs your own fault,‚Äô he ses, ‚Äòthere‚Äôs so many to be stopped, an‚Äô you shouldn‚Äôt have let Mr.¬ÝThorley see you this morning.‚Äô ‚ÄòIt were no fault o‚Äô mine,‚Äô I ses, ‚Äòan‚Äô I‚Äôm going to have a word wi‚Äô Mr.¬ÝThorley.‚Äô And I did have a word wi‚Äô him, an‚Äô a fat lot o‚Äô good it did me. I begins to tell him how long I‚Äôd been there, an‚Äô he cuts me short an‚Äô ses some of us older men is as idle as young uns instead o‚Äô setting an example. That were enough for me, and I ses summat I shouldn‚Äôt ha‚Äô said. ‚ÄòPay ‚Äôim off an‚Äô give him his card,‚Äô he ses. ‚ÄòThis man‚Äôs finished wi‚Äô Higden‚Äôs for good an‚Äô all.‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat comes o‚Äô not keeping a civil tongue in your head, Jess Oakroyd,‚Äù said his wife reproachfully. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve warned you afore now.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhatd‚Äôyou think I‚Äôm made of?‚Äù demanded Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúWhen a chap‚Äôs called a blackleg in t‚Äômorning an‚Äô an idler i‚Äô t‚Äôafternoon, he‚Äôs got to say summat. Well, I gets my week‚Äôs money and my card at five o‚Äôclock, and sets off for t‚ÄôUnion office to tell my tale there. Secretary‚Äôs not in. That‚Äôs young Maundery, him as talks so much about the proletariat. I waits about and waits about. By and by in he comes, an‚Äô who‚Äôs with him? That shop-steward, the comrade. In they come, laughing and talking, two bloody comrades together. A fat lot o‚Äô good my trying to tell ‚Äôem my tale! Started pulling me up right an‚Äô left. ‚ÄòNotify this, that, an‚Äô t‚Äôother.‚Äô ‚ÄòOh, you go to Hell,‚Äô I ses at finish. What wi‚Äô one an‚Äô another, and being badgered this way an‚Äô that, I hadn‚Äôt a bit o‚Äô patience left. ‚ÄòOh, you go to Hell,‚Äô I ses, and marches out. And now you know.‚Äù + 

His wife sat there rigid, her eyes fixed on his. For a few moments her face softened and she looked as if she were about to cry. But as she watched him dispose of the remainder of his tea, deal aggressively with a piece of pastry and a second cup, the hard lines came back into her face, the unfriendly gleam into her eyes. ‚ÄúWell, and what are you going to do now then?‚Äù she asked. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd pushed aside his cup. It was a little gesture of despair. ‚ÄúLine up for t‚Äôdole till another job turns up.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd ‚Äôow long ‚Äôull that be?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúDon‚Äôt ask me. You know what it is now. That bag o‚Äô tools ‚Äôull be there a long time, I‚Äôm thinking.‚Äù He stood up now and looked across at his tools, lying on the sofa. Then he glanced down at his dirty old working clothes, and suddenly arrived, he knew not how or why, at a queer little decision. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm off upstairs to change my clothes,‚Äù he announced, and departed. + 

When he came down again, he found his wife preparing Leonard‚Äôs tea. He saw at a glance that she had made up her mind about something: her lips were tightly folded upon some recent decision. He waited for her to speak, turning, in his misery, to the old-time comfort of Old Salt. + 

‚ÄúWell, that settles it,‚Äù she began. + 

‚ÄúWhat settles what?‚Äù he asked uneasily. + 

‚ÄúAlbert Tuggridge comes ‚Äôere,‚Äù she announced. Then, before he had time to do more than remove his pipe, she charged in, working herself up to a fury of justification. ‚ÄúNow, don‚Äôt start on again, don‚Äôt start on. You‚Äôve just thrown your job away, you‚Äôre not going to throw this away an‚Äô all, that you‚Äôre not. If t‚Äôlad‚Äôs still willing to come, ‚Äôere he comes, and sooner the better. If it takes any more work it‚Äôll be mine and I‚Äôll have it to stand, so it‚Äôs more my business ner yours, and I say he can come. We‚Äôve got to live, ‚Äôaven‚Äôt we? You‚Äôd got little room to talk when you were in work, and you‚Äôve less now.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou might ‚Äôa‚Äô let me off Albert for this one night anyhow,‚Äù he said quietly. + 

This only made her angrier. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs got to be settled, ‚Äôasn‚Äôt it? An‚Äô let me tell you this, if Albert don‚Äôt come, Leonard might be going. I heard ‚Äôem saying summat t‚Äôother night. I don‚Äôt think t‚Äôlad would leave his mother, but ‚Äôe might, wi‚Äô you always on to him. And then where should we be? Just when he‚Äôs getting a good wage, too!‚Äù + 

So that was it. He was angry too now. ‚ÄúIf Albert comes ‚Äôere,‚Äù he said firmly, ‚ÄúI go.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúDon‚Äôt talk so soft. Where are you going? Are you going to live at t‚ÄôMidland Hotel on your dole money?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot so much about the dole! It‚Äôs first time it‚Äôs had to be mentioned in this ‚Äôouse, let me tell you.‚Äù He took his wounded pride to the door and there brooded over his pipe. When he swivelled his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other, his elbow set something rustling in his inside coat pocket. There were four five-pound notes there. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre we are at last, the old firm!‚Äù This was Leonard. His father followed him into the living-room. ‚ÄúTea ready, Mar?‚Äù cried the youth, gaily. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the stuff!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGot on all right, Len?‚Äù asked his mother, bringing the large fat kipper from the fire. + 

‚ÄúAb‚Äëso‚Äëlutely! D‚Äôyou know what I made in tips? Guess. Eight-and-threepence. Eight-shillings-and-threepence. Not so dusty. Good old Gregson‚Äôs!‚Äù His mother poured out a cup of tea for the conquering hero. + 

‚ÄúGood job we‚Äôre gettin‚Äô it from somewhere,‚Äù she remarked. ‚ÄúYour father‚Äôs finished at Higden‚Äôs.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs this?‚Äù A close observer might have noticed a subtle change at once in Leonard‚Äôs manner. + 

His father, for once, was a close observer. ‚ÄúAll right, all right,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúGive it a rest for a minute. Is that t‚Äôpaper you‚Äôve got there?‚Äù It was, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, claiming it, retired to a corner of the sofa, plodding steadily and miserably down the columns of the Bruddersford Evening Express and trying to shut his ears to the whispering of the other two at the table. + 

Quarter of an hour later, on arriving at the fifth page, it was not necessary for him to try to fix his attention on the paper. His attention was securely riveted there. He stared and stared at a report headed: ‚ÄúStreet Robbery. Local Sportsman‚Äôs Loss.‚Äù Phrases leaped up to meet his eye: ‚ÄúThe well-known local sportsman, Mr.¬ÝGeorge Jobley‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ returning to his home in Park Drive, Merton Park, Bruddersford, last night‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ Mr.¬ÝJobley had been attending various race-meetings‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ had left his friends to walk the short distance to his home‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ attacked and robbed‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ at least ¬£120 missing‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ strange affair‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ most important street robbery in Bruddersford for years‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ Mr.¬ÝJobley not injured but some shock.‚Äù And the last sentence of all held his eye longest: ‚ÄúThe police announce that they possess a valuable clue to the identity of the assailant.‚Äù What was this? + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre, who‚Äôs this chap, George Jobley?‚Äù he demanded. + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the bookie feller that‚Äôs been robbed,‚Äù replied Leonard. ‚ÄúI know him well by sight. He‚Äôs one o‚Äô the lads.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs‚Äôe like?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúTallish feller with a red face. Always dressed in a check suit and spats. What‚Äôs up?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNowt!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd returned untruthfully. George! He stared at the report again. ‚ÄúThe police announce that they possess a valuable clue‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ‚Äù Nay, but a hundred and twenty pounds! It had nothing to do with him, nothing at all. There were a thousand things a perfectly innocent citizen might do to clear himself, but now Mr.¬ÝOakroyd could not consider them, for his little world was shaking, collapsing, and now another prop had been kicked away. One thing coming on top of another! + 

As if to confirm this, a voice came roaring from the doorway. ‚ÄúHello, hello, hello, hello! Ev‚Äôrybody at ‚Äôome, and smilin‚Äô! Oh, I do like a kipper for my tea! What‚Äôo, Len! ‚ÄôEvening, Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd!‚Äù And who could this be but Albert? + 

‚ÄúOh, my God!‚Äù And groaning thus, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd flung down his paper and rose to his feet. + 

‚ÄúHello, hello!‚Äù cried Albert, still loudly but this time indignantly. ‚ÄúWhat ‚Äôave I done wrong?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúTake no notice of ‚Äôim, Albert.‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd gave her husband a furious glance, then, with an astonishing quick-change, smiled at her visitor. ‚ÄúCome in and sit yer down. You know you‚Äôre welcome. An‚Äô another thing, if you want to stay ‚Äôere, you can do.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh!‚Äù cried her husband. ‚ÄúAnd who says so?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI say so.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd so do I,‚Äù Leonard added truculently. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd took a quick step towards his son, who immediately dropped his truculence and, indeed, seemed to flinch, like a very small boy. But then Mr.¬ÝOakroyd pulled himself up and stood still, a man at bay, thinking hard. The next moment he had dashed upstairs. + 

Once there he began looking about him eagerly. ‚ÄúI must ‚Äôa‚Äô summat,‚Äù he muttered. There was a suitcase, Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs pride. No, he wouldn‚Äôt take that. There was the old round tin trunk. Too heavy and cumbersome. Then he remembered the basket thing, and pulled it out of the corner where it had been for the last fifteen years. It was very light and quite small, only eighteen inches long and a foot deep, and it would hold all he wanted to carry. Into this absurd receptacle‚ÅÝ‚Äîor at least one half of it, for the other half would have to be jammed on as a lid‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe stuffed a nightshirt and day shirt, three collars and some handkerchiefs, a muffler, a vest and a pair of pants, and his shaving kit. When he had jammed on the top half, he bethought him of his old mackintosh, and folded it round the little basket trunk before he fastened it with the strap, which was still intact and boasted of a holder for the hand. Then he put on a pair of strong boots and hurried downstairs, basket in hand, to confront three astonished faces. + 

‚ÄúWhat in the name o‚Äô goodness‚ÅÝ‚Äî!‚Äù cried his wife. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm off,‚Äù he announced. + 

‚ÄúWhere to?‚Äù asked Leonard, still staring. ‚ÄúYer can‚Äôt go like that, Par. Where can you go to?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNever mind, never mind!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd was white with temper. ‚ÄúLet ‚Äôim go, let ‚Äôim go! Tryin‚Äô ‚Äôis tricks! ‚ÄôE won‚Äôt hear a word from me about stayin‚Äô. Let ‚Äôim go. ‚ÄôE‚Äôll be in a diff‚Äôrent frame o‚Äô mind when ‚Äôe comes back. And that won‚Äôt be so long either.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou can do what you like wi‚Äô t‚Äôplace now,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs yer own. There‚Äôs a week‚Äôs money there and no doubt you‚Äôll manage after that.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúManage!‚Äù cried his wife, in a fury of scorn. ‚ÄúOf course we can manage. Nivver better off. You‚Äôve been wanting a lesson some time and now you‚Äôre runnin‚Äô to get it. Go on, go on.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd said nothing, but moved over to the sofa and took up his bag of tools, dumping it beside the basket trunk. Then he stuck his old brown cap at the back of his head, and prepared to depart. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre,‚Äù said Albert, pointing to the table. ‚ÄúWhat about that?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù said Leonard. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll ‚Äôave to ‚Äôave that.‚Äù And he held out the insurance card. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stood staring at the greenish-blue card in his hand, staring as if he were in a dream. Man‚ÅÝ‚ÄîAge 16 to 65.‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ Failure to surrender this card promptly‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ If the Insured Person‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ The Insured Person‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ All so familiar and yet so strange. He stood staring, baffled, lost in the dark of a world of notices and notifying, of sneering Comrades and stupid autocratic managers, of buzzers that kept your feet from the road, of signs that could never be hoisted, of daughters that grew up, laughing and singing, and then vanished over the sea. Then something inside him flared and went shooting through this bewildered dark like a rocket, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd committed a crime. + 

‚ÄúOh, to hell wi‚Äô t‚Äôcard!‚Äù he cried, and tore it across and threw the pieces into the fire. Then, leaving horror-stricken amazement behind him, he picked up his bag of tools and his little basket trunk and made for the door. + 

‚ÄúNow you‚Äôve done it,‚Äù they were crying. ‚ÄúWhere yer going?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúDown South,‚Äù he replied, and vanished into the night. + 