IV
The various encounters of that week may appear to be of little or no importance, but actually all of them, whether real or imaginary (for we do not know whether Miss Trant saw Dr.¬ÝHugh McFarlane or only thought she did), were important to the people who took part in them, and indeed to many other people too. And the last encounter of them all is no exception. It happened on the Thursday evening, in the taproom of the Market Tavern, the public-house that adjoins‚ÅÝ‚Äîas it should‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe space just behind Victoria Street where Gatford still has a weekly open market. The day for that market is Thursday, so that the Market Tavern was fairly crowded when Mr.¬ÝOakroyd visited it, a little after six, on this particular Thursday evening. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd knew that it would be crowded, having been long enough in Gatford to know all about such things. It was his habit to enjoy a half-pint about this time every evening, before he began his night‚Äôs work at the theatre. Sometimes he liked a quiet, peaceful, meditative half-pint, and at other times he preferred a noisy, gregarious half-pint. It depended upon his mood. When a glass of beer is one of a man‚Äôs few pleasures and luxuries, he will not casually swill it down, not caring when or where he drinks it. He will exercise to the full his power of choice. That is why places like Bruddersford are full of public-houses. To the outsider, anybody who does not understand such matters, these public-houses look all alike, but to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd and his friends they are as different from one another as the books in a bedside shelf are to an old reader, and a pint at one of them is entirely different from a pint at the next one.
On this Thursday evening then, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, alone, in need of noise, cheerfulness, company, possibly the company of other men who knew the road, decided for the Market Tavern. The taproom was all a babble and a haze, so crowded that it took him nearly ten minutes to push his way through, order his half-pint, and finally receive it over the dripping bar-counter from Joss, the big barman there. During this anxious interval, he had nodded to a few habitu√©s, and that was all: he had not time to have a look round the place, which was incidentally the largest taproom in all Gatford. There seemed to be a lot of strangers about, but then there usually was on Thursdays, chaps in from the outer districts and the country, and chaps who sold things in the market‚ÅÝ‚Äîgenuine men of the road, though not on the grand scale. Once he had edged away from the bar-counter, taken a pull at his half-pint, and seen that his pipe of Old Salt was going well, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd began to look about him.
“ ’Ow do,” several acquaintances called out.
‚ÄúNa then,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd affably, giving them a nod.
There were so many chaps standing in the middle of the room, a long narrow room, chaps arguing in groups, that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who had not strayed very far from the bar-counter, could not see the other end. But there was no reason why he should see it, and so he stayed where he was, not feeling at all lonely now because he knew quite well he could join any of these groups if he wanted to and talk away as hard as the next man. He was content to muse a little, and take in, without making any effort to listen, the scraps of talk that came flying from every direction. ‚ÄúSo I says to ‚Äôem, I says, ‚ÄòWell, what of it? ‚ÄôOo made you boss of the job?‚Äô And ‚Äôe says, ‚ÄòClever, arncher?‚Äô And I says, ‚ÄòClever, yer bloody self!‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Then, from the other side: ‚ÄúI betcher ‚Äôe did, I betcher. Time me an‚Äô Jimmy went to Birmingham, ‚Äôe did. ‚ÄôEre, Jimmy, ‚Äôalf a minute!‚Äù Somewhere behind was the usual political reasoner: ‚ÄúGovernment can‚Äôt do it, I tell yer. It doesn‚Äôt matter what you say, chum, they can‚Äôt do it. They‚Äôd ‚Äôave to pass a lor before they could do it. Don‚Äô chew believe Government can do what they like, chum.‚Äù And so it went on, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who had heard it‚ÅÝ‚Äîor something like it‚ÅÝ‚Äîmany times before, listened with a touch of complacency. These chaps were all right, but most of them would do better to talk less until they had seen something. He, who had seen a lot in his time and might now see a great deal more before he had finished, was saying nothing. Still, they could go on talking: it did them no harm.
A moment came, however, when most of the chaps who had been talking at the tops of their voices suddenly fell silent, and there followed one of those curious lulls common to all companies. It was then that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd heard a voice coming from the far end of the room. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôE came to the back o‚Äô the stall, see,‚Äù it said. ‚ÄúBig feller‚ÅÝ‚Äîproper fifteen-stoner‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut all blown out, all beer and wind, an‚Äô yeller blobs under ‚Äôis eyes like fried eggs‚ÅÝ‚Äînuthin‚Äô to him. An‚Äô when ‚Äôe gets to the back o‚Äô the stall, ‚Äôe takes a good look at me. ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs right,‚Äô I says, ‚Äò‚Ää‚Äôave a ruddy good dekko, Mister Sexton Blake. An‚Äô bring Pedro the blood‚Äôound nex‚Äô time.‚Äô Oh, you should ‚Äôave seen ‚Äôim! ‚ÄòThat‚Äôll do,‚Äô ‚Äôe says‚ÅÝ‚Äîusual style, see‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù And having heard so much, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd immediately began threading his way through the crowd to that corner of the room. There could be no mistake about it. That was the voice‚ÅÝ‚Äînever to be forgotten‚ÅÝ‚Äîof his old companion of the road, Joby Jackson.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd found him in the farthest corner, the centre of a little admiring group. He wore the same red scarf and if the suit he had on was not the very same brown check he had worn before, it was twin-brother to it. His face was as red and his eyes as bright as ever, and if there was any change in him it was merely that he did not look quite so dashing as he had done last autumn. Winter, his lean period, had left some faint mark upon him. For a minute or two he was too busy concluding his story of the big puffy man, a story that demanded a wealth of illustrative gesture, to notice Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who stood a yard or two away, holding his half-pint and puffing away at his little pipe, too shy to interrupt but determined to be seen.
“Well,” said Joby, having dismissed the big puffy man, to everybody’s admiration, “what about some more pig’s ear. ’Ere, I’m paying for this lot. Same again, boys?”
He jumped up, and caught sight of Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. He stared; he frowned; then delighted recognition lit up his face. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEllo, I know you! It‚Äôs George. George with the little straw basket!‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù grinned Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
Joby pushed his way round the table and clapped Mr.¬ÝOakroyd on the shoulder. ‚ÄúYou mended the old stall. ‚ÄôAlf a minute, where was it? I know. Don‚Äôt tell me. We went to Ribsden, didn‚Äôt we? That time big Jim Summers started ‚Äôis bit o‚Äô bother. But you didn‚Äôt live ‚Äôere, did you? Up in Yorkshire, wasn‚Äôt it? Good old George! ‚ÄôEre, I‚Äôve wondered about you many a time, you an‚Äô your little straw basket‚ÅÝ‚Äîfour days at Sunny Southport that ruddy little basket was‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô your bag o‚Äô tools. ‚ÄôStrewth, George, fancy you turning up agen! ‚ÄôEre, we must ‚Äôave a gill or two an‚Äô then you can tell me the tale. Never mind them fellers, they can wait.‚Äù
‚ÄúAy, I will that,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, one vast delighted grin. ‚ÄúI were fair capped when I heard you. ‚ÄòEh,‚Äô I says to mysen, ‚Äòthat‚Äôs Joby.‚Äô I‚Äôll just sup this off, then we‚Äôll ha‚Äô some more. Well, ar yer getting on, Joby lad? Is trade i‚Äô rubber dolls keeping up these days?‚Äù
‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôAven‚Äôt seen a rubber doll for months,‚Äù Joby replied. He began ordering two half-pints and kept on ordering them until he was served. ‚ÄúNo,‚Äù he said, wiping some of the froth off his face, ‚ÄúI‚Äôm out o‚Äô that now. Did well at Nottingham Goose Fair, then Tommy Muss‚ÅÝ‚Äîremember Tommy, ‚Äôim an‚Äô the tart?‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôe sloped agen‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô then I started beer-shiftin‚Äô, see. Got up Newcastle way and gets playin‚Äô pontoon back of a boozer up there an‚Äô loses the ‚Äôole ruddy issue, stall and all‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat a life!‚Äù
‚ÄúWhat about motter-car?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd inquired sympathetically.
‚ÄúOh, poor old Liz! She was napoo before I got up to Newcastle, just after I cleared out o‚Äô Nottingham, blind to the world. She gets goin‚Äô down a ruddy ‚Äôill, see, an‚Äô I can‚Äôt stop ‚Äôer. Down the other side there‚Äôs one o‚Äô these removin‚Äô vans big as a row of ‚Äôouses coming. I give the old bus a turn at the bottom‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô wallop‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe‚Äôre into the wall with our guts droppin‚Äô out. The poor old bitch ‚Äôad got all ‚Äôer front smashed in. ‚ÄòFinnee!‚Äô I says, an‚Äô gets the stuff out, waits for the first feller with a lorry to give me a lift for arf a dollar, an‚Äô leaves ‚Äôer there, proppin‚Äô the wall up.‚Äù
‚ÄúNowt else to be done, I can see that,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, nodding sagely. ‚ÄúCost you more ner it ‚Äôud be worth. Eh, but it‚Äôs a pity! I‚Äôve thowt monny a time abart yon motter-car, all fixed up to live in. It were champion.‚Äù
‚ÄúYou wait a bit, George. I‚Äôll ‚Äôave another before you can turn round. Any‚Äôow, I‚Äôm properly in the cart after losing the lot in this boozer. I scrounges round a bit, an‚Äô then I meets a feller I know who‚Äôs with Baroni‚Äôs Continental Circus, goin‚Äô round to old skatin‚Äô rinks an‚Äô covered-over swimmin‚Äô baths with a lot o‚Äô cockatoos an‚Äô dancin‚Äô dogs an‚Äô mangy monkeys an‚Äô a couple of old trottin‚Äô ponies‚ÅÝ‚Äîsee? You never saw such a piecan of a circus. I could make a better one out o‚Äô the market ‚Äôere. But this feller‚ÅÝ‚Äîa feller called Johnny Dooley, a bit of a mug‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôe says, ‚ÄòI can get you in. It‚Äôs better than nothin‚Äô‚Ää‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîso ‚Äôe gets me a job. An‚Äô what d‚Äôyou think I was, when I wasn‚Äôt feedin‚Äô the dogs an‚Äô shampooin‚Äô the cockatoos an‚Äô taking the tickets an‚Äô helpin‚Äô to move the how-d‚Äôyou-do‚Äôs? I‚Äôm Tonio the Famous Continental Clown. You oughter see me, my God! An‚Äô gettin‚Äô two pound five a week‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhen you got it! Everybody in that ruddy circus was dying of ‚Äôunger, honest they was. Even the ponies could ‚Äôardly stand up. If you saved up and bought yourself a packet o‚Äô fags, it was as much as your life was worth. They‚Äôd ‚Äôave murdered you for ‚Äôem. They tore ‚Äôem out of your ‚Äôand. When I‚Äôd been with ‚Äôem a month, I‚Äôd forgotten what a piece o‚Äô steak looked like. There was fellers that ‚Äôud eat anything‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôd ‚Äôave eaten you. ‚Äò‚Ää‚ÄôEre,‚Äô I says, ‚ÄòI‚Äôve ‚Äôad enough of this. Time to give the Baronios and Tonios the soldier‚Äôs farewell.‚Äô Then I meets a feller I know who‚Äôs running one o‚Äô these mug auctions, see.‚Äù
All this, and a great deal more, describing Joby‚Äôs adventures during the winter, was poured into Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs ear as they stood close together, at no great distance from the bar. Two more pints, procured this time by Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, had been consumed by the time Joby had neared the end of his recital. He was now, once more, an independent trader with a little stall of his own, but only in a very modest way. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve gone back to an old line,‚Äù he concluded. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll ‚Äôave seen it. Joey in the Bottle. Little glass figgers‚ÅÝ‚Äîput ‚Äôem in a bottle full o‚Äô water‚ÅÝ‚Äîwaggle the cork a bit an‚Äô these Joeys dance about, see. Old‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut clever, amuses the kids! An‚Äô very cheap to buy. Money for dust if you‚Äôve got a good pitch. Don‚Äôt satisfy me, though. I‚Äôm ‚Äôelpin‚Äô a feller too when I‚Äôm not selling Joey‚ÅÝ‚Äîa feller that auctions oilcloth, smart feller. I ‚Äôold the pieces up an‚Äô give ‚Äôem a bang to show it‚Äôll last till you get ‚Äôome. Workin‚Äô ‚Äôard and savin‚Äô up, that‚Äôs Joby just now, see. ‚ÄôEre, George, what you doin‚Äô? I‚Äôm tellin‚Äô all the ruddy tale.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stole a glance at the clock. By this time he was usually at the theatre‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe liked to be there early‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he would certainly have to leave in a minute or two to be there on time at all. So he explained briefly what had happened to him since the autumn. Even then, however, he was interrupted. A big man with an immense grey moustache pushed his way through the crowd and laid a hand on Joby‚Äôs shoulder. ‚ÄúTime to be off,‚Äù he remarked, and disappeared.
“That’s the oilcloth feller,” Joby explained. “ ’Ave to push off, George. ’Ere what did you say this ’ere show o’ yours is called? Did you say they’re ’ere this week?”
“That’s right. ‘Good Companions,’ they call ’em.”
Joby’s eyes widened and his mouth puckered up, to whistle soundlessly. Then he looked grave, confidential. “You ’ad any bother there, George, lately?” he asked quickly, with a rapid glance to left and right.
“Ar d’you mean?”
“Any kind of bother?”
‚ÄúWell, there‚Äôs been a bit o‚Äô calling out o‚Äô t‚Äôback,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúAnd that‚Äôs summat new to us. Giving t‚Äôbird they call it, but funny part is, all t‚Äôrest o‚Äô t‚Äôaudience fair goes off their heads, they likes it so much. It‚Äôs nobbut a few o‚Äô t‚Äôback.‚Äù
“You watch out, George,” said Joby, buttoning up his coat. “You’re in for a lot o’ bother if you’re not careful. Never mind ’ow I know. But I do know, see. You watch it, George. No, I can’t stop. ’E’s waitin’. Come in ’ere agen and look out for me.” And, without another word, he was gone.
And Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did go in again and look out for him. He went in on Friday, and at dinnertime on Saturday, but Joby was not to be found. Curiously enough, there was no more ‚Äúbother‚Äù either on Thursday or Friday nights, and all the Good Companions, little knowing what was in store for them, congratulated themselves on being free at last of the few stamping and jeering hooligans in the audience. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd himself, however, was not so sure. It was all very mysterious. Even Mr.¬ÝJock Campbell, on being consulted, could make nothing of it, though it was his opinion, the result of long experience in arenas, that all crowds were partly composed of lunatics. And though this was all very well, the fact remained‚ÅÝ‚Äîand Mr.¬ÝOakroyd could not ignore it‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat he had been told to look out and watch it by Joby Jackson, who was sane enough, a philosopher of the road.