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’clock 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
“ ’Old on a bit afore you tell me,” the other cried, reaching for the jug. “There’s another sup i’ this for both of us, I’m thinking. Nah then!” 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.
“Well, what I’d say is this; that ther mayn’t be so much of it down there but what ther is ’ud be a better class o’ thing. D’you follow me, Sam?”
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
“I like a bit of a change, Sam.”
‚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.
“Nowt much when you look at it.”
‚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
“Where d’yer want to go, Jess? Down South ag’in? What is’t yer want to see?”
‚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. “I nivvr heard tell much o’ that place,” he said gravely. “Is ther owt special i’ Bedfordshire, Jess?”
‚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
“I’ve a lass o’ mine there, Sam.”
“Ay, so you have, I’d fergetten. But I’ll tell yer what it is. Y’owt to ’a’ been a wool-buyer, Jess, and then yer could ’a’ gone off all ower t’place and been paid for it. It’ud ’a’ suited thee down to t’ground.”
‚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 “Hello!” 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
“Off tomorrow,” replied Ted, a laconic youth who preferred to talk, like a ventriloquist, with a cigarette in his mouth. “Load at Bruddersford. Merryweather’s Tapp Street. Going to Nuneaton. Shan’t get off till late tomorrow night.”
“What time, Ted?” asked his uncle, rather in the manner of counsel in court, as if he already knew the answer himself.
“Ten or eleven. Perhaps twelve. Merryweather’s got a rush on. That’s how we got the job. Travel all night. Deliver in the morning. Hell of a game.” 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
“Nothing doing,” replied Ted. “Wouldn’t 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’ 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 ’em.”
‚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
“Who’s Billy Baxter?” 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.
“Shush! Shush!” said a voice, close to his ear. “Naughty! Naughty!”
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. “Can’t gerrup,” he said. “Can’t poshibly gerrup.”
‚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.
“Well, you’ve got a load on and no mistake,” said Oakroyd. Then he reached out a hand. “Come on, come on. This’ll nivver do. ’Oist yerself up.”
‚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.
“But where do you live, Mister?”
‚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
“Jus’ roun’ the corner, roun’ the good ol’ Johnny Horner,” replied George, with enthusiasm. “We’re all ri’, we’re all ri’. You’re a good fella. You been to racesh thish time?”
“No, I’ve not, nor nowhere else either for a long time. Hold up, Mister, hold up.”
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.
“Warrer say?” George was still busy fastening his pocketbook and putting it away.
“I say I can’t take these,” he repeated, almost pushing the notes in the other’s face.
“Warrer mean can’t take ’em? I tell you, I give ’em. Li’l’ presen’ for good boy.”
‚ÄúIf I take these,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd earnestly and somewhat unwisely, ‚Äúyou‚Äôll be sorry in the morning.‚Äù
This offended George. “Warrer mean sorry in the morning?” he cried aggressively. “Money’s mine, isn’t it? Do warrer like with it, can’t I? Can I or can’t I? Ish it mine or ishn’t it? Can I or can’t I? Answer plain queshuns.” And he brought his face as near as he could.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stepped back and began to feel impatient, but said nothing.
“Come on, come on. Le’sh have answer plain queshuns. Can I or can’t I? Have I gorrer ask you warrer do with it?”
‚ÄúOh, don‚Äôt be such a damn fool, Mister,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, tired of this daft catechism.
“Damn fool, eh? All ri’, all ri’. Thash finish, ab‑so‑lutely finish.” And he made a sweeping gesture that nearly threw him off his feet. “You go to hell now, anywhere. Finish. No frien’ o’ mine.” 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.
“ ’Ere, ’ere! What’s all this about?” said the policeman, flashing his lamp on their faces.
George pulled himself up and saluted. “Good evening, Conshtable. Jus’ going home. You know me, don’t you?”
The policeman took another look at him. “Yes, I think I know you, sir. You live down ’ere, don’t you? Well, the sooner you’re ’ome the better, if you ask me. And what’s all this noise about? Who’s this ’ere?”
‚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
“Rollin’ drunk!” exclaimed George, horror-stricken. “You’re bad bad fella, an’ I told you not to keep following me.”
‚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.
“Didn’t I tell you to be off?” cried the policeman, who had now caught up to him. “Get off and leave ’im alone afore you get into trouble.”
‚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
“Where d’you live?”
“Ogden Street.”
“That’s a good way from ’ere,” said the policeman suspiciously.
“Ay, but this is nearest way to it, and that’s all I care about.”
“Well, walk on the other side then. I shall stand ’ere and watch you. And don’t let me see you round ’ere again tonight.”
‚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.