II
A strident voice filled the kitchen. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd grunted, half-opened his eyes and then closed them again. For a few blessed moments there was a silence. Then the voice came again, screeching and cutting like a bad circular saw. This time Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stirred, shook himself, and opened his eyes as widely as he could. What he saw astonished him. For years he had opened his eyes in the morning to see the front bedroom of 51 Ogden Street, Bruddersford, and now, for a minute or two, he could not make out where he was. It took him some time to recollect in order the events of the previous night, to realize that this was the first morning of his travels and, incidentally, the last Tuesday in September. The soul of him still slumbered and what was awake was yet only the mere creature of habit, so that the feeling of being uprooted and suddenly dropped in some strange place brought him no pleasure. And he was still heavy and bemused from lack of sleep; his head ached a little; his body was stiff and sore. It was not a pleasant waking. Last night he seemed to have fallen asleep in an atmosphere of friendliness, but now everything seemed to be different. He raised himself so that he could look over the neighbouring table, and caught sight of the enormous back of the landlady, who was padding out of the kitchen into the passage, and a dirty-looking girl in her teens was just coming in from the yard.
“Hello!” he said to the girl. He was standing up now, stretching himself.
She stared at him dully. “ ’Ello!” she said. “Time you woke too.”
‚ÄúWhat time is it?‚Äù he asked. He did not possess a watch. Bruddersford has an elaborate system of factory buzzers‚ÅÝ‚Äîusually known as ‚Äúwhews‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat keeps its humbler citizens informed of the time.
‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôAlf-pass-teight. Missus told me to wake yer.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd looked about him. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre,‚Äù he cried, ‚Äúwhere‚Äôs t‚Äôother two?‚Äù
“Gone.”
“Gone?” He looked at her, bewildered.
“Missus said so. I never seed ’em. They must ha’ gone before I come in.”
He looked out into the yard. No lorry was there. He turned round to find Big Annie herself regarding him with marked disfavour. Grimy, swollen, purple-faced, with little greedy bloodshot eyes, she seemed even more unpleasant and formidable now in daylight than she had done last night.
“That’s right,” she cried shrilly, “they’ve gone an’ long since. Time you went too. I can’t do with yer ’ere.”
“All right, all right, Missis,” he replied, trying to smile at her and not succeeding. “I don’t want to be in t’way. But I’ve no but just now wakened up. Give us a chance. I suppose I can have a bit of a wash like an’ summat to eat, a bit o’ breakfast?”
“No, that yer can’t.” She was quite passionate in her refusal.
“Why, what’s up, Missis? I can pay for owt I have.”
“No, yer can’t pay for it, not ’ere. I don’t want your sort ’ere.”
‚ÄúAr d‚Äôyou mean ‚Äòmy sort‚Äô?‚Äù he demanded, his pugnacity aroused. ‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs wrong wi‚Äô my sort? If you said them sort as brought me here last night, yer friend Nobby an‚Äô t‚Äôother chap, I‚Äôd know what you was talking about. I know that sort, let me tell you‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“ ’Ere,” she cried in a fury, “I don’t want any bloody argy-bargying. They’ve gone, and that’s all about it. You go now, sharp as yer can. I’ve told yer I don’t want yer ’ere.” She turned and went padding away. At the door, however, she wheeled round. “An’ don’t try comin’ ’ere again either, ’cos yer won’t get in, let me tell yer. Huh. My sort!” She gave him another elephantine snort and then turned her back on him again.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd pulled his little brown cap firmly over his head, fastened his mackintosh to the basket trunk again, and took up his bag of tools. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm off then,‚Äù he said to the girl. ‚ÄúI suppose there‚Äôs other places where I can get a wash and a bite. I don‚Äôt seem to be what you might call in favour here. What‚Äôs matter with her?‚Äù
“I dunno. Old bitch!” the girl said vindictively.
‚ÄúWell, you know her better ner I do,‚Äù observed Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúAnd I must say this going out mucky an‚Äô empty‚Äôs nowt i‚Äô my line. Nar where do I get to from here? Where‚Äôs t‚Äônearest place where I can get a bit of a wash and suchlike, summat to eat?‚Äù
The girl came out into the yard with him. “Yer best way’s to yer right, straight on then,” she said. “Capbridge is first, but that’s no good, only a little place. Yer want to foller the road on to Everwell. Yer’ll be all right there. There’s tearooms and all sorts in Everwell.”
‚ÄúI should think so with a name like that,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúAnd how far‚Äôs this Everwell then?‚Äù
“Five or six miles. Turn to yer right and straight on then, through Capbridge, and straight on again. Yer can’t miss it.”
“Any trams or buses or owt?”
“There’s a bus comes past ’ere at two,” she replied.
“Two! I’ll ’a’ pined to death afore two,” he cried. “I mun walk, that’s all. And tell your missis from me not to kill hersen wi’ doin’ ower many good works an’ kind actions, tell her she owt to look after hersen a bit more, she’s wearing hersen away to t’bone.” And still chuckling over these ironical thrusts, he turned away and made for the road on the right, a bag in each hand.
There were signs that the day would be warm later on. Already the heavy autumn sunlight was dispersing the light mists, and though there was still a faint chill in the air and a glitter of dew on branch and stem, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stopped shivering after he had gone a dozen yards and very soon found himself quite warm. Not that he felt much better than he had done. His eyes were still weighted with sleeplessness; his unwashed face felt unpleasantly stiff; and he was so empty inside that he discovered that his first pipe of Old Salt would have to be postponed until after breakfast, whenever that would be. He walked for a mile down the narrow twisting road without meeting anybody, then, on hearing a light cart come rattling up behind him, he set down his two bags, which were beginning to make his arms ache, and waited at the side of the road.
“Hey!” he cried, when the cart was almost upon him. “You going to Everwell, mate?”
“No, I’m not,” said the driver, and passed him without another word or glance.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs another o‚Äô Big Annie‚Äôs tribe, I‚Äôm thinking, lad,‚Äù muttered Mr.¬ÝOakroyd as he watched the cart disappear round the next corner. He picked up his bags and set off again, not quite so briskly this time.
Another twenty minutes brought him to Capbridge, which consisted of seven ruinous brick cottages, a few hens, two dirty children, a brown mongrel limping about uneasily, and an actual bridge not quite three yards long. It was at this bridge that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd halted again, to rest his arms and to look about him in disgust. Somehow the sight of the place annoyed him. ‚ÄúDaft little hole,‚Äù he told himself. ‚ÄúI wouldn‚Äôt ha‚Äô a bit o‚Äô food given here, I wouldn‚Äôt.‚Äù There was an ancient signpost near the bridge that said: ‚ÄúEverwell 4¬Ýmls.,‚Äù and after casting a somewhat melancholy glance at this, he moved on again. ‚ÄúThey don‚Äôt know a mile when they see one round here,‚Äù he concluded angrily. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve come three now if I‚Äôve come a yard, and I‚Äôll bet this next fower mile‚Äôs more like ten.‚Äù
He had not covered the first of those miles, however, when luck favoured him at last. He met a cart turning in his direction out of a field and this time he was able to beg a lift, though it took several minutes to explain to the driver, a little old whiskered fellow nearly as deaf as one of his own sacks, exactly what he wanted. And by the time he had made it plain to his companion that he was travelling about, that he wanted a wash and brush-up and some breakfast, Everwell itself was in sight. It was a straggling dingy little place that looked somehow as if it had been dropped there, as if a dozen streets or so from some dreary district in a city had been plucked out and suddenly planted there, and not at all as if it had ever grown.
“Y’oughter go to Poppleby’s,” quavered the ancient driver. “Poppleby’s eatin’ place. It’s rare and good there, it is.”
‚ÄúRight you are,‚Äù roared Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll go there. Where is it?‚Äù
“Yes, it’s the best there is. I goes every Saturday night and has meat-and-’tater pie, every Saturday. I ’as a pint over at Old Crown, then goes for me meat-and-’tater pie.”
“I said ‘Where is it?’ ”
“Ay, cheap enough for them as can afford it,” said the old man. Then, when they turned the next corner, he pointed with his whip. “Yon’s Poppleby’s. Yer can get down ’ere.” He pulled up.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd descended and collected his luggage. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôll do me nicely,‚Äù he cried loudly. ‚ÄúAnd thanks for the lift.‚Äù
“Eh?” The old man leaned forward.
‚ÄúThanks for the lift.‚Äù By this time Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was hoarse. ‚ÄúI say, thanks for the lift.‚Äù
‚ÄúO‚Äô course you can, any time,‚Äù replied the old man mysteriously. He looked at Mr.¬ÝOakroyd reproachfully. ‚ÄúI call that a silly question,‚Äù he said at length, and he drove away, grumbling.
The notice, in large if faded letters, ran: Good Pull Up. Poppleby‚Äôs Dining-Rooms. Cyclists Catered For. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd regarded it with satisfaction. In the window were some yellow lace curtains, two bottles of lime juice and soda, four withered oranges on a plate, a slab of boldly checkered brawn, labelled Poppleby‚Äôs Best, some little cakes covered with what had once been bright pink icing, and innumerable generations of flies. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did not stop long examining the window, but the sight of it did not lessen his satisfaction. He opened the door and was immediately assailed by the smell of food, which was strong enough to suggest that people had been eating day and night without cessation in that room for the last thirty years. It made Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs mouth water. For the last hour and a half he had wanted food, and here, it was plainly evident, was food in plenty. So richly steeped was this dining-room of Poppleby‚Äôs in the atmosphere of cooking and eating‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe oilcloth on the tables was covered with crumbs and the stains of recent meals, the very walls and furnishings were greasy with fat, and the air itself was boiled and toasted and fried‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat only to walk into it was to be nourished at once. A person who was not very hungry or not very robust might find a mere entrance sufficient to satisfy or blunt the appetite, but such a hungry and robust person as Mr.¬ÝOakroyd could only walk in to discover that he was even hungrier than he imagined, to wait for Mr.¬ÝPoppleby with a watering mouth.
This is exactly what Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did. The room was empty and only the flies were stirring. He sat himself down on one of the benches, coughed and tapped his feet, then finally tapped on his table with a pepper-pot.
‚ÄúMorning.‚Äù The man shot up from behind the counter as if he were part of a conjuring trick. It could only be Mr.¬ÝPoppleby himself. All of him that was visible, his large round face, the top of his long apron, his shirtsleeves and the arms that came out of them, was the same shade‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhitish and faintly greasy. Even his eyes were a pale grey, had a jellied look.
‚ÄúMorning,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, still staring. ‚ÄúEr‚ÅÝ‚Äîlemme‚ÅÝ‚Äîsee‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúTea-coffee-cocoa-bacon-and-egg-bacon-and-sausage-kipper-boiled-egg-plate-of-cold-meat-bread-and-butter,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝPoppleby, keeping his prominent eyes fixed on Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs with never a blink.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd gazed at him with admiration, then removed his little brown cap, possibly as a tribute. ‚ÄúThat sounds a bit of all right. I‚Äôll ha‚Äô a pot o‚Äô tea and you can do me two rashers and two eggs. And plenty o‚Äô bread, Mister,‚Äù he added.
‚ÄúPot‚ÅÝ‚Äîof‚ÅÝ‚Äîtea‚ÅÝ‚Äîtwo‚ÅÝ‚Äîrashers‚ÅÝ‚Äîtwo‚ÅÝ‚Äîeggs‚ÅÝ‚Äîfour‚ÅÝ‚Äîslices‚ÅÝ‚Äîbread.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝPoppleby turned away.
‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre, I say,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúCan I have a bit of a wash afore I start? Been on t‚Äôroad most o‚Äô t‚Äônight‚ÅÝ‚Äîwi‚Äô a lorry,‚Äù and he added this not without a certain touch of pride.
‚ÄúCertainly you can ‚Äôave a wash, my friend, certainly,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝPoppleby with impressive gravity. ‚ÄúYou just come this way and I‚Äôll find you a wash. I‚Äôm not saying it‚Äôs usual‚ÅÝ‚Äîit isn‚Äôt usual‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut it‚Äôs no worse for that, is it? You don‚Äôt want to sit down to your food all dirty, an‚Äô I don‚Äôt want to see you sitting down to it all dirty, and we‚Äôre two feller men, aren‚Äôt we? That‚Äôs right, isn‚Äôt it? Well, you come this way then.‚Äù And off he went, with Mr.¬ÝOakroyd in attendance. They arrived at a tiny scullery, and Mr.¬ÝPoppleby waved a hand to indicate the presence of a little enamel bowl, a large bar of yellow soap, and a towel that had seen long and desperate service. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre you are, my friend,‚Äù he continued. ‚ÄúYou can wash ‚Äôere to your ‚Äôeart‚Äôs content. And while you‚Äôre ‚Äôaving your wash, we‚Äôll be dishing up your bacon and your eggs. That‚Äôs fair dealing between man and man, isn‚Äôt it? Give a man what he asks for‚ÅÝ‚Äîin reason, y‚Äôknow, for there‚Äôs reason in everything‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut anyhow, try to give a man what ‚Äôe asks for‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs my motto.‚Äù And thus concluding a trifle unctuously, Mr.¬ÝPoppleby withdrew.
‚ÄúWho does he think he is‚ÅÝ‚ÄîLloyd George?‚Äù muttered Mr.¬ÝOakroyd as he took off his coat. He saw that the envelope was still safely stowed away in the breast pocket. ‚ÄúTo hear him talk, you‚Äôd think he was offering me a steam bath wi‚Äô shampoos an‚Äô fingernail cutting to foiler.‚Äù Nevertheless, when he had spluttered over the enamel bowl and had rubbed himself hard with the only corner of the towel that was not slippery, he felt twice the man he had been, and when he returned to the dining-room, passing on his way through a zone newly enriched by the smell of frying bacon, he gazed benevolently at the impressive figure of Mr.¬ÝPoppleby, who was engaged in depositing a pot of tea beside a plate of bread, a cup and saucer, a long pointed knife, and a two-pronged fork.
‚ÄúYour bacon and your eggs‚Äôll be ready in one minute,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝPoppleby, returning to his counter.
‚ÄúGood enough,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, rubbing his hands. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm fair pining, I can tell you.‚Äù
“We’ll soon put that right.” And no consulting surgeon could have said this more impressively. “So you’ve been on the road, eh?”
‚ÄúI have an‚Äô all,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúCome down t‚ÄôGreat North Road last night.‚Äù But, somewhat to his surprise, this did not appear to impress his host.
‚ÄúWell, what I say is this,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝPoppleby began even more weightily than before. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs all right if you take it all in the right way. What I mean is, if it makes you more yuman, it‚Äôs all right. If it doesn‚Äôt it‚Äôs all wrong. If I‚Äôve said it once to customers ‚Äôere, I‚Äôve said it a thousand times, just standing ‚Äôere like I am now, talking to somebody like yourself. ‚ÄòDoes it,‚Äô I said, ‚Äòmake you more yuman? ‚ÄôCos if it doesn‚Äôt, keep it.‚Äô I take a broad view, and when I say yuman, I mean yuman. I believe‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù and here he fixed his prominent eyes unwinkingly upon Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúin yumanity.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right, Mister,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd heartily but with a certain philosophical sternness. ‚ÄúI see your point and I‚Äôm with yer.‚Äù He would have been better pleased, however, he admitted to himself, to have seen the bacon and eggs. A knocking from some place behind suggested that they were now ready.
‚ÄúWhat I say is, ask yourself all the time ‚ÄòIs it yuman?‚Äô If it isn‚Äôt, don‚Äôt touch it. Let it alone. Pass it by. That‚Äôs my motto‚ÅÝ‚Äîyumanity first‚ÅÝ‚Äîand that‚Äôs the rule ‚Äôere, as you saw right off when you asked for a wash. Take the yuman line, I say, and it‚Äôll pay you every time.‚Äù He now condescended to hear the knocking, and brought out the bacon and eggs. ‚ÄúThere you are, my friend,‚Äù he said, and he said it in such a manner that it was impossible to believe that he had merely carried the dish a few yards. He seemed not only to have done the cooking but to have gathered the eggs from distant roosts, to have cured the bacon himself, to have made the very crockery.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, after telling himself that he wished the cooking had been done by someone a little less human (for the eggs were fried hard), ate away with the utmost heartiness and dispatch. Every mouthful seemed to be taken in under the auspices of Mr.¬ÝPoppleby, who leaned over the counter and never took his eyes off his solitary customer. By the time he had arrived at his third slice of bread, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was ready to open the conversation again. He felt friendly, expansive.
“What allus beats me,” he announced, “is this here ‘Cyclists Catered For.’ What’s difference between cyclists and t’other folk as comes?”
‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôAm chiefly,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝPoppleby thoughtfully. ‚ÄúCyclists is great on ‚Äôam. I‚Äôve seen the day when one of these cycling clubs would run me right out of ‚Äôam by six o‚Äôclock Saturday. Mind you, I‚Äôm not talking about last week, nor the week before, nor last year, nor the year before that, I‚Äôm talking about before the War. Properly speaking, there‚Äôs no cyclists now, not to call cyclists. You might get one now and again, coming on a bike, but there‚Äôs no real cycling, couples off together, and clubs, and suchlike. That‚Äôs gone, that‚Äôll never come back. When I started ‚Äôere, it was all traps and carts and whatnot on weekday, and then cyclists‚ÅÝ‚Äîwith a few regular locals coming in, of course‚ÅÝ‚Äîat weekends. Now, it‚Äôs all cars and lorries. And what ‚Äôappens? They don‚Äôt stop at a place like this but goes on to big towns and stops there. That‚Äôs what‚Äôs hit this business so ‚Äôard, my friend. It isn‚Äôt what it was, I can tell you.‚Äù
‚ÄúNowt‚Äôs what it wor,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd with a kind of cheerful melancholy. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve seen some changes i‚Äô my time. You take textile trade nar‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
But Mr.¬ÝPoppleby was not taking it. ‚ÄúThat is so. And what‚Äôs it amount to, what‚Äôs the real difference between them times and these? That‚Äôs the question I always ask.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd you‚Äôre quite right, mate, to ask it,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd put in warmly.
‚ÄúAnd what‚Äôs the answer? What‚Äôs the answer?‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝPoppleby hurried on so that he could supply it himself. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs less yuman, that‚Äôs the difference.‚Äù And he paused, triumphantly, gazing at Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was busy lighting the pipe for which he had long been waiting. Secure on a foundation of bacon and eggs, Old Salt was again delicious. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd slowly sent a few of its kindly blue clouds rolling through the air, and waited for Mr.¬ÝPoppleby to continue.
‚ÄúI‚Äôve no need to tell a man like you what I mean by ‚Äòyuman,‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù Mr.¬ÝPoppleby went on. ‚ÄúI mean there‚Äôs less of the good old man-to-man spirit. It‚Äôs take what you can get and run, nowadays. Money and grab and rush, that‚Äôs what it is. When you‚Äôre running a business like this, you see life, you know what‚Äôs ‚Äôappening in the world, you talk to all sorts. Of course there‚Äôs some men in the catering that‚Äôs as ignorant as you like‚ÅÝ‚Äîand why?‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôcos they don‚Äôt make use of the hopportunities of the business; they see a customer come in, gets ‚Äôis order, serves it, takes the money, and finish. I like to live and learn. I talk to my customers and they talk to me, and that‚Äôs ‚Äôow I go on. I‚Äôm learning from you.‚Äù
‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who could not help wondering, however, what it was that the other was learning from him. ‚ÄúHe doesn‚Äôt gi‚Äô me a chance to tell him nowt,‚Äù he told himself, and, feeling that he had had enough of Mr.¬ÝPoppleby‚Äôs conversation, he said: ‚ÄúWell, what‚Äôs t‚Äôdamage?‚Äù
‚ÄúLemme see,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝPoppleby. ‚ÄúPot-of-tea-two-rashers-two-eggs-four-slices-bread. That‚Äôll be one and eight. And a fair price if you ask me.‚Äù
‚ÄúAy, I dare say,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who thought it stiffish. He felt in his pockets and once again produced the solitary sixpence. ‚ÄúI shall ha‚Äô to ask you to do a bit o‚Äô changing for me,‚Äù he remarked, producing the envelope from his breast pocket.
‚ÄúWe‚Äôll try to manage that.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝPoppleby made a noise that faintly suggested he was laughing. ‚ÄúYou want the change and I want you to ‚Äôave it, and we‚Äôre both satisfied and nobody‚Äôs the worse. That‚Äôs the yuman line, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù
But Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was staring in front of him open-mouthed. The envelope was not empty, but all that it contained was a dirty half-sheet of paper on which was scrawled ‚ÄúWishing you a Merry Xmas¬Ý& a Happy New Year. XXX.‚Äù All four banknotes had disappeared. He ran through all his pockets, hoping against hope that somebody had merely played a trick upon him. But no, they had gone. He had been robbed. And now he understood why he had been given the sofa to sleep on last night, why Nobby and Fred had departed so early, why the landlady had hustled him out of the place before he had time to think.
‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre,‚Äù he cried, ‚ÄúI‚Äôve been robbed. Look at this. I‚Äôd twenty pound i‚Äô there last night, fower five-pound notes, and sitha, there‚Äôs nowt there but a bit o‚Äô paper. I‚Äôve been robbed and I know who did it.‚Äù But when he looked at Mr.¬ÝPoppleby, he saw that that gentleman was regarding him coldly, with raised eyebrows.
‚ÄúIt‚Äôll be one and eight,‚Äù repeated Mr.¬ÝPoppleby.
This made Mr.¬ÝOakroyd very angry. ‚ÄúI tell you I‚Äôve been robbed o‚Äô twenty pound. I haven‚Äôt one and eight. I‚Äôve got sixpence, and there it is, and that‚Äôs all I have got. And I know who did it and where it happened too. It were two fellers wi‚Äô a lorry at t‚ÄôKirkworth Inn last night.‚Äù
‚ÄúAre you trying to tell me you lost twenty pound, four five-pound notes, at the Kirkworth Inn last night?‚Äù demanded Mr.¬ÝPoppleby. ‚ÄúBecause if you are, I‚Äôm going to ask you what you was doing with so many five-pound notes and at such a place. It sounds fishy to me. But that‚Äôs no business of mine; you go your way and I‚Äôll go mine‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough the sooner you get back to where you come from, the better, I think, my friend; but in the meantime you owe me one shilling and eightpence, whichever way you look at it. And that‚Äôs what I want from you‚ÅÝ‚Äîone and eight.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd that‚Äôs what you can‚Äôt get from me, Mister,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, exasperated. ‚ÄúAren‚Äôt I telling you that I‚Äôve nobbut sixpence in t‚Äôworld? ‚ÄôEre, look ‚Äôere.‚Äù And rising to his feet, he turned out his trousers pockets. ‚ÄúTwenty pounds I‚Äôve lost, all I‚Äôd got but this here sixpence. Eh, but I was a gert blunder-heead!‚Äù
‚ÄúYou‚Äôre not the first that‚Äôs tried it on,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝPoppleby, steadily.
‚ÄúAr d‚Äôyou mean?‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm not trying anything on. When I come in here, I thought I‚Äôd twenty pound i‚Äô my pocket. I didn‚Äôt know I‚Äôd been robbed.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd I didn‚Äôt know, neither,‚Äù observed the other, eyeing him suspiciously. ‚ÄúThis has happened before ‚Äôere, I‚Äôll tell you. And I go on trusting people. You come in ‚Äôere and you ‚Äôave my eggs and my bacon and my tea‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúAy, and your bread and your lump o‚Äô washing soap and your mucky towel and your drop o‚Äô water,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd added with great bitterness. ‚ÄúGo on, go on. You‚Äôve lost one and eight and I‚Äôve lost twenty pound, and it‚Äôs bad luck for both on us, but it‚Äôs a dam‚Äô sight war for me. ‚ÄôEre, there‚Äôs sixpence, and that knocks it down to one and two. Well, I‚Äôll settle wi‚Äô thee, lad.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, in a frenzy of irritation, rushed to his bag of tools and took out a chisel. ‚ÄúYou see that chisel? It‚Äôs worth more ner any one and two, is that, and you can ha‚Äô that for your one and two. And when I can pay your fowerteen pence, I will, for I‚Äôd rather ha‚Äô that chisel than all t‚Äôshop you‚Äôve got. Ay, even if you cleaned it up,‚Äù he added vindictively.
Mr.¬ÝPoppleby came forward, picked up the sixpence, and examined the chisel. ‚ÄúA chisel‚Äôs no good to me,‚Äù he said slowly, ‚Äúbut I suppose I‚Äôd better let you go. I like to take a yuman line‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúYuman line! T‚Äët‚Äët‚Äët. Yuman nothing!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was very scornful as he gathered his things together.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôll do, that‚Äôll do,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝPoppleby‚Äôs philosophical vanity was hurt now. ‚ÄúBut let me tell you, my friend, you can‚Äôt do these sort o‚Äô things ‚Äôere. Don‚Äôt try it again. I tell you, you can‚Äôt do it.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd let me tell you summat, Mister,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, moving to the door. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs summat you can‚Äôt do, neither.‚Äù
“Ho, indeed! And what’s that?”
‚ÄúYou can‚Äôt fry eggs.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, chuckling, closed the door behind him.
Down the sunny length of Everwell he wandered, a man desperately situated. He had not a penny, was far from home and, indeed, not certain where he was, had no work at a time when work was scarce, and had not even an insurance card. Yet before he reached the southern end of the town he was chuckling again.
“I had him nicely about them eggs.” And he lifted to the sun a face still wrinkled and brightened by the pleasures of repartee.