III
It was late in the afternoon when Mr.¬ÝOakroyd saw the curious motor-van. Since leaving Poppleby‚Äôs Dining-Rooms, he had struggled down some eight or nine miles of dusty road, forever changing his basket trunk from the right hand to the left and his bag of tools from the left hand to the right, he had had a bite of bread and cheese and a mouthful of beer from a friendly lorry-driver, who had not, however, believed a word that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had told him, and he had slept for two hours under a hedge. Now he was moving on again, very slowly because, for one thing, he was tired and rather dazed after his nap, and, for another thing, he did not know where he was going and was wondering what to do. The motor-van caught his eye at once. It was drawn up under some trees just off the road, and was a most unusual vehicle, something between a rather long delivery van and a caravan proper. A little window had been let into the side, but it had no chimney nor any of the shining contrivances of the real caravan. Paint and polish it had none; the car itself seemed old and rusty; and the wagon or caravan part of it had a woefully weatherbeaten look. After noticing all these details with a craftsman‚Äôs eye, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd might have passed on had he not heard, from the back of the van, the sound of sawing, a sound that made him prick up his ears at once. And it took him not more than a minute to arrive at a certain conclusion.
“Yond chap can’t handle a saw,” he announced to himself, and walked across to investigate, emboldened by his plight and the knowledge that he, Jess Oakroyd, could handle a saw. Once at the back of the van, he dropped his bags, lit his pipe, stuck his hands in his pockets, and thus fell easily into his role of spectator.
The man with the saw looked up as Mr.¬ÝOakroyd approached and then dubiously set to work again. He was a thickset fellow in his early forties, with black hair cropped close, eyes almost as black as his hair, and a broad clean-shaven face as red as the scarf he wore in place of collar and tie. Though he was in his shirtsleeves and his brown check suit was shabby, he looked far more dashing and dressy than Mr.¬ÝOakroyd or any of Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs friends. Nevertheless, his appearance did not clash at all with that of the van. There was about him an air of vagabondage that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd recognized at once, though he could not have put a name to it. Without obviously being anything definite himself, the man yet called to mind strolling actors and soldiers and sparring partners and racing touts and cheap auctioneers.
He looked up again after Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had been standing there a minute or two. ‚ÄúNice day, George,‚Äù he remarked with a wink.
‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd; and then, not to be outdone in this matter of handing out names, he added, dryly: ‚ÄúNice enough, Herbert.‚Äù
“ ’Ere,” said the man, straightening himself, “now I ask you. Do I look like Herbert?”
‚ÄúNay, I don‚Äôt know.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd paused a moment. ‚ÄúBut I‚Äôll tell you what you don‚Äôt look like, if you ask me.‚Äù
“Go on, George. I’ll buy it.”
‚ÄúYou don‚Äôt look like a chap as knows how to use a saw,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, softening the severity of this criticism with a companionable grin.
“Oh! Now we’re ’earing something, aren’t we?” He dove into his waistcoat pocket, fished out a packet of Woodbines and a box of matches, and lit up. “Do you know all about saws, George?” he inquired amiably.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs reply to this was to fetch his bag of tools and dump it down at the other‚Äôs feet. ‚ÄúYou tell me what you‚Äôre trying to do, mate,‚Äù he said earnestly, ‚Äúand I‚Äôll soon show you what I know about saws.‚Äù
“ ’Ello, ’ello!” the man cried in mock astonishment. “What’s the ruddy idea? You a tradesman, George?”
‚ÄúI am an‚Äô all,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, not without pride. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm a joiner and carpenter by trade.‚Äù
“Well, I’ll tell you something now. My turn, see. You don’t come from round ’ere. You come from Leeds.”
‚ÄúNay, I don‚Äôt. I come from Bruddersford.‚Äù And this seemed to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd a different thing altogether from coming from Leeds, and so he was triumphant.
“Near enough,” said the other complacently. “Knew you came from that way. Tell it in a minute. Bruddersford, eh? Know Lane End Fair?”
“Tide, you mean.”
“That’s right. Lane End Tide. All ‘tides’ round there, aren’t they? Don’t call ’em fairs.”
‚ÄúCourse I know it,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
“So do I,” exclaimed the man in triumph. “Been there many a time. I gave it a miss this year but was there last year. What are you doing round ’ere? Looking for a job?”
‚ÄúAy, I‚Äôm looking for a job, nar,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd bitterly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll ha‚Äô to get one right sharp, too. I‚Äôve been landed properly, I have.‚Äù And next minute he was telling the story of his lost twenty pounds. It was the third time he had told it that day, but it was the first time he had found a listener who believed him.
“Where did you get the fivers from?” asked the other, at the end of the story. “Back a winner?”
“Nay, I never put owt on horses. But another chap had backed a lot o’ winners seemingly.” And encouraged by the reception of his previous recital, he now told the story of the drunken sportsman and his bulging pocketbook, to all of which his companion, now sitting on the steps of his van, listened with a quick and humorous sympathy.
“Easy come, easy go, that,” he observed. Then he reflected. “What did you say the name of that feller was, the one with the lorry? Nobby Clarke? I’ve known a few Nobby Clarkes in my time. One or two’ud have taken the milk out of your tea. Was he a little feller with a turned-up nose, Cockney twang, bit of a boxing man, lightweight?”
‚ÄúNay, this chap was a big fat feller wi‚Äô a big round bilberry face on him the size o‚Äô two,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúA smoothtalking chap, he wore, though I thought he were a bit of a rogue as soon as I clapped eyes on him.‚Äù
“I believe I know that feller. Nobby Clarke. Nobby Clarke? A feller like that used to go round with Mason’s Magic and Mysteries, and ’e might have called ’imself Nobby Clarke. I shall remember ’im. If I saw ’im myself I should know in a minute. Never forget a dial. I meet a feller and say ‘ ’Ello, saw you at so-and-so five years ago, six years, seven years, ten years ago,’ whatever it is; and ’e says ‘That’s right. I was there. Don’t remember you’; and I says ‘No, but I remember you.’ I’m right every time. Marvellous, isn’t it?”
‚ÄúAnd so you‚Äôre one o‚Äô these as goes wi‚Äô t‚Äôtides‚ÅÝ‚Äîfairs‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike?‚Äù
“That’s me! My name’s Jackson. What’s yours?”
“Oakroyd. Jess Oakroyd.”
‚ÄúOakroyd. Good enough! Well, mine‚Äôs Jackson‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJoby they call me‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJoby Jackson. Everybody in this line o‚Äô business knows me. Been in it twenty years, and been in it longer only I started in the old militia and then joined up again in the War. Done everything‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou ask anybody‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJoby Jackson. Boxing shows, circus, try-your-luck games, everything. I‚Äôve run shows of me own‚ÅÝ‚ÄîHuman Spider and Wild Man o‚Äô the Amazon. You can‚Äôt name a place where they ‚Äôave a fair or a race-meeting I ‚Äôaven‚Äôt been to, you can‚Äôt do it. I know ‚Äôem all. England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Isle o‚Äô Man, Isle o‚Äô Wight, you can‚Äôt lose me. Marvellous!‚Äù He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the van. ‚ÄúOn a steady line now. I‚Äôm selling ‚Äôem something. Got ter do it‚ÅÝ‚Äîisn‚Äôt enough money about for the old games‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôve got to sell ‚Äôem something now. Rubber toys is my line, rubber dolls, rubber animals‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou blow ‚Äôem up‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand here he blew away, for he was a man who illustrated his talk with innumerable rapid and vivid gestures‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúand there y‚Äôare. Seen ‚Äôem? Good line‚ÅÝ‚Äîplenty o‚Äô profit‚ÅÝ‚Äîeasy to carry‚ÅÝ‚Äîall flat, you see, light as a feather. Get a good day and they sell like beer in barracks. Some days you can‚Äôt sell anything‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou wouldn‚Äôt get buyers if you were offering bottles o‚Äô Scotch at ninepence a time. But get a good day‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù and after a little overture of winking, he unloaded in rapid dumb show a host of invisible rubber dolls and animals upon an invisible multitude‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúmarvellous. Only thing is, too much competition! They‚Äôre all tumbling to it, all coming in now. When a few more gets in, I shall get out, see? I‚Äôll try something else, sell ‚Äôem something new. That‚Äôs the idear, isn‚Äôt it, George?‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd you go round i‚Äô this?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd looked at the van.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs it,‚Äù replied Joby, with enthusiasm. ‚ÄúTake a dekko at ‚Äôer. Not exactly a ruddy Rolls-Royce, but she moves, George, she moves. You can‚Äôt get more than twenty miles an hour out of ‚Äôer, ‚Äôcept down steep ‚Äôills, but that‚Äôs enough, what d‚Äôyou say? Got ‚Äôer for fifteen quid‚ÅÝ‚Äîa gift; then ‚Äôad a winder put in, then a bunk, then a couple o‚Äô bunks. If I don‚Äôt want to sleep anywhere else, I sleep in there, see? I‚Äôm sleeping in there tonight. Got a little stove in there, carry all my stock in it, stall and all. ‚ÄôEre, I was trying to patch up the old stall when you come ‚Äôere. It got a nasty knock yesterday. Like to see what you could do with it? I‚Äôm no good with my ‚Äôands. Funny thing isn‚Äôt it? I can sell anything, do the patter, but can‚Äôt use my ‚Äôands; must ‚Äôave been born a ruddy gentleman. Like to ‚Äôave a do at the old stall, George? I‚Äôll see you‚Äôre all right.‚Äù
‚ÄúLeave it to me, mate,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, delighted. ‚ÄúLet‚Äôs have a look at t‚Äôrest of it. Got any nuts and bolts and three-inch nails?‚Äù Together they pulled out from the floor of the van the remaining pieces of woodwork, and Joby discovered that he had some spare nuts and bolts and plenty of long nails. ‚ÄúNar then,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, ‚Äúyou tell me what you want and I‚Äôll set you up i‚Äô no time.‚Äù And in another minute he had his bag of tools open and his coat off and was happily at work.
‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôOw about a drop o‚Äô Rosie Lee?‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝJoby Jackson. He was very fond of this queer rhyming slang, most of which must be omitted from any record of his talk because it is incomprehensible to ordinary people. Even Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was acquainted with this kind of slang, though he rarely used it himself and, indeed, associated it with rather disreputable characters, was sometimes puzzled. But he was not bewildered, of course, by any mention of the famous Rosie, and he was more than ready for a drink of tea. So Joby strolled away to fill the kettle, returned with it to busy himself in the van, and then came out again to sit on the steps and watch Mr.¬ÝOakroyd at work.
“Fond o’ tarts, George?” he inquired.
‚ÄúNay, I‚Äôve had all t‚Äôtarts I want,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd grunted in reply, still bending over his saw. He quite understood that the question did not refer to things to eat.
‚ÄúTarts or booze‚ÅÝ‚Äîor both,‚Äù said Joby reflectively, ‚Äúthat‚Äôs where the bother begins. You wouldn‚Äôt be ‚Äôaving to mend that stall now if it ‚Äôadn‚Äôt been for a tart. I‚Äôve ‚Äôad a pal with me lately‚ÅÝ‚ÄîTommy Muss they call ‚Äôim. Silly name, isn‚Äôt it? Clever little feller, though, Tommy. I‚Äôve known ‚Äôim years. ‚ÄôE used to go round with Oxley‚Äôs Circus, one time, then ‚Äôe ran a little ball-on-a-string game‚ÅÝ‚Äîone o‚Äô them where you gets a watch, that is if you‚Äôre lucky and the, feller that‚Äôs running the game don‚Äôt ‚Äôappen to lean on the board when you‚Äôre ‚Äôaving your go, see‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut ‚Äôe wasn‚Äôt good at it, wasn‚Äôt Tommy. So ‚Äôe come round with me. You can manage by yourself at this, but it‚Äôs better with two. Booze isn‚Äôt Tommy‚Äôs trouble, though he can shift it as well as the next. It‚Äôs tarts. Can‚Äôt keep away from the women, and they can‚Äôt keep away from ‚Äôim. Good-lookin‚Äô little feller, Tommy, an‚Äô got a bit o‚Äô ruddy swank, yer know‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they like it, George, they like it. And ‚Äôe‚Äôs the best mouth-organ player you ever ‚Äôeard in all your natural, easy the best‚ÅÝ‚Äînever ‚Äôeard anybody to touch Tommy with a mouth-organ‚ÅÝ‚Äîplay anything‚ÅÝ‚Äîmarvellous! There was a piece about ‚Äôim once in The World‚Äôs Fair. ‚ÄôE oughter ‚Äôave gone on the stage as a mouth-organ turn. I‚Äôve told ‚Äôim so many a time. ‚ÄôE‚Äôs a mug. ‚ÄôE could ‚Äôave been getting twenty quid a week. ‚ÄôE wouldn‚Äôt bother, though, too busy square-pushing, taking the girls out, see. Well, anyhow, there‚Äôs a tart ‚Äôe‚Äôs ‚Äôad ‚Äôis eye on some time‚ÅÝ‚Äîblack flashing sort o‚Äô bit she is‚ÅÝ‚Äîand ‚Äôer and another woman runs one of these palmistry Gipsy Queen stunts, see. We kept coming across ‚Äôem working the same fairs‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I saw Tommy was working ‚Äôis points. ‚ÄôAlf a minute, we‚Äôll ‚Äôave the Rosie now, George.‚Äù
Joby mashed the tea in a mess-tin, stirred some sweet condensed milk into it, then poured his companion’s share of the rich brew into a large thick cup, across which was written Moseley’s Coffee Taverns Ltd., and retained the mess-tin for his own use. He also brought out of the van a biscuit tin containing two-thirds of a loaf of bread and some butter.
“ ’Ow’s this, George?”
‚ÄúGrand!‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, munching away. He looked about him and would have sighed with pleasure if he had not been so busy eating. Everything was still and the sky was a fine blaze of gold. The tea was exactly the strong and sweet mixture he preferred, and not for years had he enjoyed a slice or two of bread and butter as much as he was doing now. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll make a right job o‚Äô this stall,‚Äù he told himself, turning a grateful glance upon his host. And after a few puffs of Old Salt, he announced: ‚ÄúI‚Äôll get on wi‚Äô t‚Äôjob nar,‚Äù and returned happily to work.
“You were saying summat about yer pal and this here Gipsy Queen lass,” he said, when Joby had cleared away the things and was sitting down again on the steps.
‚ÄúLemme see,‚Äù reflected Joby. ‚ÄúOh yes‚ÅÝ‚Äîabout that bit o‚Äô bother we ‚Äôad yesterday. Well, you see, yesterday we‚Äôre at a little place called Brodley, thirty or forty mile away, where there‚Äôs a bit of a fair. This tart‚Äôs there and Tommy‚Äôs square-pushing ‚Äôer as ‚Äôard as ‚Äôe can go, see. ‚ÄôE‚Äôs the sheek of Araby there all right. But this tart ‚Äôad been going round with a feller called Jim Summers. This feller‚Äôs tried all sorts and just now ‚Äôe‚Äôs running one o‚Äô these try-your-strength things‚ÅÝ‚Äîyer know what I mean‚ÅÝ‚Äîdown with the ‚Äôammer and up she goes and rings the bell‚ÅÝ‚Äîno good now, played out. ‚ÄôE‚Äôs a big feller‚ÅÝ‚Äîfourteen stone easy‚ÅÝ‚Äîand used to be a bit of a fighting-man‚ÅÝ‚Äîa slogger, you know, trained on booze. Well, this tart ‚Äôad been going round with this feller, Jim Summers, and then she‚Äôd given ‚Äôim the go-by, see. You know what they are, and I expect ‚Äôe‚Äôd taken too many loads on and knocked ‚Äôer about a bit. But if ‚Äôe couldn‚Äôt ‚Äôave ‚Äôer, nobody else would, neither‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat was ‚Äôis line, and ‚Äôe‚Äôs a big feller, gilled arf the time and with a nasty temper. Tommy gets away with it and with this tart yesterday properly, and Jim Summers is on the same ground and ‚Äôears about it, comes lookin‚Äô for ‚Äôem. This tart and the other Gipsy Queen‚ÅÝ‚Äîa fattish woman, comes from Burnley‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôad packed up ‚Äôcos there wasn‚Äôt much doin‚Äô anyhow. Tommy comes round the back of the stall. ‚Äò‚Ää‚ÄôEre,‚Äô ‚Äôe says, ‚ÄòI‚Äôm off with this tart for a day or two, and I‚Äôm off now. I don‚Äôt want any bother with a mad-drunk ‚Äôeavyweight like Summers. Join yer later on, Joby‚Äô ‚Äôe say. ‚ÄòRight you are, Tommy,‚Äô I says. I knew ‚Äôe knew what the programme was, see. Nottingham Goose Fair starts a week this Thursday. Ever been? Marvellous! It‚Äôs one of my best pitches, and I‚Äôm getting a fresh lot of stock in for it, pickin‚Äô it up at Nottingham before the fair starts. So I‚Äôm just working a lot of little places, filling time in, like, not too far away. We ‚Äôad it all worked out‚ÅÝ‚Äîme and Tommy, always do, yer know‚ÅÝ‚Äîso that ‚Äôe knew the programme, and I knew ‚Äôe‚Äôd join me soon as ‚Äôe could, might be tomorrow, might be next week. This tart might be working the same places, and if she wasn‚Äôt, ‚Äôe‚Äôd see ‚Äôer at the Goose Fair. So off ‚Äôe went, and where they went to I don‚Äôt know, so I can‚Äôt tell you. It didn‚Äôt bother me. I didn‚Äôt want to foller ‚Äôem in their Abode of Love. But I knew what was coming to me‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJim Summers. Up he comes, just after Tommy‚Äôd gone. ‚ÄôE‚Äôd been in the boozer at dinnertime and ‚Äôe was nasty, very nasty. ‚Äò‚Ää‚ÄôEre,‚Äô ‚Äôe says, giving the old stall a bang or two, ‚Äòwhere‚Äôs that um-pum-pum-bloody-um-pum-pum little pal o‚Äô yours?‚Äô ‚ÄôStrewth, you ought to ‚Äôave ‚Äôeard ‚Äôim. Top of ‚Äôis voice, too. ‚ÄòDon‚Äôt ask me,‚Äô I says‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I don‚Äôt mind telling you, George, I was wishing I was a long way off, though I can use ‚Äôem a bit. ‚ÄòYou know,‚Äô ‚Äôe says, ‚Äòand you‚Äôre going to bloody well tell me or this something-something stall o‚Äô yours goes up in the air.‚Äô And ‚Äôe begins kicking about a bit, see. ‚Äò‚Ää‚ÄôEre,‚Äô I says, ‚Äòyou leave that alone.‚Äô But ‚Äôow‚Äôs the repairs going, George?‚Äù He stood up and began to inspect the other‚Äôs handiwork.
‚ÄúYou tak‚Äô hold o‚Äô that end,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, now in command. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôd better fix her up and see how she stands. Steady, mate, steady! Nar then, drop it in.‚Äù
They spent the next half-hour rigging up the stall, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd making certain improvements at the owner‚Äôs suggestion. When no more could be done‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJoby declaring that it was now better than ever‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey took it down and packed it away in the van, well content.
“I passed a boozer about two miles down this road,” said Joby. “What about ’aving a can or two?”
This brought Mr.¬ÝOakroyd out of his pleasant dream of craftsmanship, and he was troubled. ‚ÄúI could do wi‚Äô one,‚Äù he said dubiously, ‚Äúbut I have nowt. I‚Äôd better be thinking what to do wi‚Äô mysen.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs all right, George. You‚Äôre with me, see. ‚ÄôEre, you‚Äôre not doing anything, are yer? Well, you stay with me till Tommy comes rolling ‚Äôome again‚ÅÝ‚Äîmight be a day, might be two days, might be a week. You‚Äôll ‚Äôave somewhere to sleep, your grub, and I‚Äôll see you‚Äôve something to be going on with when ‚Äôe does come back. I‚Äôm going to a little place called Ribsden tomorrer‚ÅÝ‚Äîgot a weekly market and there‚Äôs a bit of a fair on‚ÅÝ‚Äîand you can give me a ‚Äôand, see? What say?‚Äù
‚ÄúYou‚Äôre not doing this because I have nowt, are yer?‚Äù demanded Mr.¬ÝOakroyd severely, his independence up in arms. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt want‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat‚Äôs it?‚ÅÝ‚Äîcharity, you know.‚Äù
“Charity nothing!” cried Joby. “Oo d’yer think I am? Lord Lonsdale? I want yer to give me a ’and, see. Besides, you’ve done me one good turn already. Can’t I do you one?”
‚ÄúYou can an‚Äô all,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll be right glad to stop till your mate comes back.‚Äù
‚ÄúPut it there if it weighs a ton,‚Äù cried Joby. And they shook hands. ‚ÄúIs everything in? ‚ÄôEre, shove your tools in the van. And put that in as well. Is that yer luggage? Looks like four days at Sunny Southport, that does. ‚ÄôStrewth, I ‚Äôaven‚Äôt seen one o‚Äô them things for years. Get in. We‚Äôll run ‚Äôer down to the boozer‚ÅÝ‚Äîtoo far to walk. Now then, Liz, let‚Äôs give a turn to the old ‚Äôandle. She‚Äôs startin‚Äô, she‚Äôs startin‚Äô. No, she‚Äôs not. Now then, Liz, what about it? There she goes. J‚Äôever ‚Äôear such an engine? Sounds like one o‚Äô them electric planners startin‚Äô. She ‚Äôasn‚Äôt ‚Äôad any oil in ‚Äôer since I left Doncaster. Now then, ‚Äôold tight, George, we‚Äôre off.‚Äù
‚ÄúWhat happened wi‚Äô this chap you were talking about, this chap Summers?‚Äù shouted Mr.¬ÝOakroyd as they went rattling down the road.
“A bobby come round just when the bother began,” replied Joby. “And Summers slung ’is ’ook. I packed up just after that and come down ’ere. Where ’e went to I don’t know. I’m wondering what ’is programme is. Sure to see ’im at Nottingham, but ’e’ll ’ave got over it by then.”
‚ÄúAy, let‚Äôs hope so,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who found that he too kept wondering what the movements of this Summers might be. He could only hope that this chap had never heard of the place they were going to tomorrow, Ribsden. He had never heard of it himself before. After a little while he remarked casually: ‚ÄúI suppose you chaps is allus coming across each other, aren‚Äôt you?‚Äù
“You bet yer life!” replied Joby heartily. “Can’t go anywhere without seeing some o’ the boys. Same old crowd, same old round, year after year. Marvellous!”
‚ÄúAy, I suppose so,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd thoughtfully, and began to think about other things.
They had two pints each at the little public-house, and Joby was the success of the evening there. In less than ten minutes the taproom was his kingdom. His talk became more and more staccato and yet more dramatic; he showered winks and nudges upon his companions; he showed them how Bermondsey Jack went down to a foul from the nigger, how Dixie Jones got in with his left, how his old friend, Joe Clapham‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúbest welterweight we ever ‚Äôad‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut a mug, see‚ÅÝ‚Äîfight anybody‚ÅÝ‚Äîdo it for nothing‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad two years of glory, laying ‚Äôem all out, going through the lot ‚Äúlike a dose o‚Äô salts‚Äù; he took them through fairs and boxing-booths and race-meetings and pubs from Penzance to Aberdeen, and told them about three-card men and quack doctors and bookies and ‚Äôtecs; and the later it grew the more often his ‚ÄúMarvellous!‚Äù rang through the admiring taproom. Even the landlord was impressed and insisted upon standing him a farewell pint. As for Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, he wandered through an enchanted country. Being a respectable Bruddersford workingman, he had no desire to be one of these people or to pass his life in their world. But to hear about them and it, perhaps to meet some of these people, to dive into this fascinating world, this was enchantment. He drank his beer, pulled away at his Old Salt, and sat there, never missing a word or a gesture, dazed and happy. And when they drove back to the convenient harbourage at the side of the road, the talk still went on, and by the time they were settling down in the van, taking off their boots and coats and then stretching out on the bunks and rolling in a blanket each, they had arrived at football and a common enthusiasm, so that it was very late indeed before Mr.¬ÝOakroyd said ‚Äút‚ÄôUnited‚Äù for the last time and Joby Jackson had no more fullbacks and centre-forwards to bring out for his inspection. A grand night.
They were silent. The queer little noises of the night crept into the dark van. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd listened to the strange rustling and scratching for several minutes, and was then startled by a sudden melancholy screech. ‚ÄúEh, that‚Äôs a funny noise, isn‚Äôt it? It gives you the creeps.‚Äù
‚ÄúOwl,‚Äù explained Joby. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt mind it‚ÅÝ‚Äîused to it. Tell you what I can‚Äôt stand. Trams. ‚ÄôOrrible sound at night, trams. If I‚Äôm in a place where there‚Äôs trams, I never go to bed till they‚Äôve stopped. Can‚Äôt get to sleep for ‚Äôem‚ÅÝ‚Äîgives me the ‚Äôeart-ache or the stomachache. Ah, well,‚Äù he added drowsily, ‚Äúnot a bad life this, not while yer can stand up and chew your grub. Keep going and see a bit o‚Äô life, I say, we‚Äôll all be dead soon enough. What say, George?‚Äù
‚ÄúThere‚Äôs summat i‚Äô that,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with true Bruddersfordian caution. But in truth he was really still a little dazed by the wonder of it all. ‚ÄúI maun tell our Lily about this chap,‚Äù he reflected. ‚ÄúShe‚Äôll be right amused.‚Äù And there was a moment, in the shadows of sleep, when he caught her smiling at him across the wastes.