IV
A Benefit Performance
I
The last time we were actually present when the Good Companions began a performance was on a Saturday night, the first real Night they had, at Sandybay, months ago. That was a tremendous occasion‚ÅÝ‚Äîor so it seemed then‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut it was nothing to this, a Saturday night at the Gatford Hippodrome. Susie‚Äôs birthday, Susie‚Äôs benefit, with Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer due to arrive almost any time, and every seat in the house taken‚ÅÝ‚Äîeven the box. Yes, the Gatford Hippodrome had a box‚ÅÝ‚Äînot four boxes, not two boxes, but one solitary box. Its curtains were rather dingy, and it was difficult to make out whether its four little chairs were gilded or not, but nevertheless it was a proper box, ready to receive any great personage visiting the town who expressed a wish to attend a performance at the Hippodrome. And of course it could be booked, in the ordinary way. But as great personages rarely visited the Hippodrome and other people preferred to sit in comfort, this box was not often occupied, though professional friends of the manager would occasionally accept a seat in it for an odd hour. But now, on this great night, it had been taken. Nobody knew who had taken it, or at least nobody admitted having any knowledge. Thus, Jerry Jerningham might possibly have known something about it. He was not asked, partly because he was not there to be asked until there was barely time for him to change and make up for the opening chorus, and then again because no one imagined he would know anything about it. Mrs.¬ÝJoe might have asked him, because she was more pleased, excited, and curious about that box than anybody else. In her opinion, the box gave Tone to the whole evening. She looked forward to catching the gleam of a white dress front, to hurling a good chest note at a possible diamond tiara. And then again, as she pointed out, with a box you never never knew; anybody might be in that box, and anything‚ÅÝ‚Äîa solid contract for Bournemouth, for example‚ÅÝ‚Äîmight come out of it. She was interested, excited, and made no secret of the fact. Perhaps the prophetic instinct was working in the depths of her mind‚ÅÝ‚Äîall conscientious contraltos, after all, sound prophetic‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor it must be admitted that that box was important.
Indeed, everything is important now. The sands are running out, so that every grain has some significance.
That is why we must be there in time to see the curtain rise. We have done it before, but we must do it again because this is the last time the curtain will rise on the Good Companions. There will never be another opening chorus for them all after this one. That is what none of them knows, not even Mrs.¬ÝJoe, who has the deep notes of Cassandra herself. They are all eager to make this night a success, and the thought of the packed house recurs to them continually, warming them like wine. But most of them are still wondering about things. Miss Trant, having a word here, a word there, behind the scenes, still wonders what she is to do about it all, and now and then remembers the figure of a man in a car, a man so like the ghost that has long haunted the dim corridors of her mind. The older players are still wondering about the future, that Bournemouth offer. Inigo and Susie are troubled by thoughts of Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer. Jerry Jerningham obviously has concerns of his own, which he keeps to himself. Even Miss Mamie Potter keeps asking herself what these propose to do and whether she had better stick to them through the summer and then take a chance in town in the autumn. And Mr.¬ÝOakroyd wonders what is going to happen to him, and what is happening in Canada, and what is happening in Bruddersford, for no news has trickled through from Ogden Street for some time. There they are then, all as eager and excited as you please but all busy wondering and wondering and planning a little. And not one of them guesses that this is the last time they will troop on together, that their semicircle is about to be broken forever, that already the powder has been heaped and the train set and fired.
They have crowded in from Mundley and Stort as well as from Gatford itself, and many of them have seen the show before and know who Susie is and why she is having a benefit. Mechanics, fitters, electricians, clerks, and cashiers from the motor works, with their wives and sweethearts; typists and milliners and elementary-school teachers; women who might be anybody‚Äôs wife or nobody‚Äôs; men who might at any moment be awarded a medal or given five years‚Äô penal servitude, who might be heading for the town council or the gutter; lads who gape and nudge one another and guffaw; girls who wriggle their shoulders, slap their companions, and giggle; quiet girls whose lives are as yet only a vague dream; decent young men who slip in and out of the works and their lodgings, always near a crowd and yet as lonely as Crusoes; jovial middle-aged fellows who earn good money and can eat anything, and their tired wives, who have been fighting, right up to six o‚Äôclock this very evening, the week‚Äôs long battle for cleanliness and respectability; wistful virgins who are eager to feast their eyes on the face of Jerry Jerningham, and amorous gentlemen who have a fancy for Miss Mamie Potter‚Äôs legs; people who ought to be in hospital, people who ought to be in prison, people who ought to be attending the Victoria Street Wesleyan Chapel concert, the Triangle Girl Guides Rally, the debate at the Mundley Y.M.C.A., the Gatford Cycling Club Whist Drive, people who ought to be helping their father in the shop, people who ought to be in the Blessed Isles, so long and hard have they laboured in this unblessed island; they are all here, staring, chattering, eating chocolates, reading football scores in the paper, turning over their programmes. And now, just when they are all tired of amusing themselves, out go the lights above and up come the footlights illuminating the lower folds of the curtain in the old enchanting way. Is the curtain going up now? No, they will play something first; they always do. There it goes: Rumpty-dee-tidee-dee, Rumpty-dee-tidee. Some of the audience know this tune. It is a song called ‚ÄúSlippin‚Äô Round the Corner,‚Äù and that good-looking young fellow, who dances, sings it. Is‚Äëern‚Äëtit lovely? And at this moment, as it comes softly twirling through the magically lighted curtain, the mischievous lilt of it working like leaven in the dark mass of the audience, it is lovely indeed, a rhapsody of love and idleness, news from another and brighter world than this in which we portion out our wages. It dances Gatford clean away; the streets, the factories and shops, the long rows of houses, the trams and lorries, the ugly little chapels and the furtive pubs, they tremble a little, they sway, they rock violently, and then off they go, jogging away into nothing, slipping forever round some vast unimaginable corner. A little louder now, as if in triumph. Nothing remains but clean earth and a blue spangle of stars, and the lilt and the beat and the Rumpty-dee-tidee pulsating in the velvet darkness. Louder still now, more triumphant. And up it comes, shaped and coloured anew by the sorcery of the flying crotchets and quavers, this other Gatford, shining and fair, a suburb of Old Cockayne, with fountains sprouting the alternate black and gold of Guinness and Bass, gold-flake and honeydew heaped in the streets, arcades of meat and pudding done to a turn, silk stockings and jumpers to be picked where you like, dances round every corner and a prize for everybody, goals to be scored at any hour of the day, girls like laughing and passionate queens, boys who would love you forever and always in evening dress, and children, swarms of them, rosy and fat, with never a white drawn face or a twisted limb, scampering everywhere, running and tumbling out of the happy houses, out of the depths of memory, out of the very grave.‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ
Ah, that was good, that was. Took you back, took you out of yourself, took you somewhere, you didn‚Äôt know where. It deserves a clap. And tonight it‚Äôs getting one. The piano by itself now. The curtain‚Äôs going up. There they are, singing away, pretty as a picture. Give them another good clap. The two girls look lovely, don‚Äôt they? You can‚Äôt call that other one a girl; she‚Äôs getting on, she is; but she‚Äôs a fine singer for all that, a real good turn. But the two girls look lovely. That‚Äôs the new one, the one in the blue. But the other‚Äôs the one, her in the red, Susie Dean. It‚Äôs her that‚Äôs having the benefit. Make a cat laugh, the way she takes people off, but she‚Äôs nice and pretty too. Look at her smiling. That red dress just suits her, dark eyes and dark hair. Well-made too, that girl. She‚Äôll be married though, they always are. If she isn‚Äôt, she‚Äôll be marrying that nice-looking boy, Jerry they call him. Oh, he‚Äôs a good turn. Just watch his feet. And there‚Äôs the comic, the little one at the end, twisting his face about, Jimmy Nunn. He‚Äôll come on as a postman soon‚ÅÝ‚Äîand laugh, he‚Äôd make you die laughing! That tall one‚ÅÝ‚Äîno, the very long thin man, him with the eyebrows‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe plays the banjo and then he does conjuring. They say he‚Äôs played before the King and Queen or something like that. Quite a comic too, in his way, when he‚Äôs conjuring. That other one, with the big shoulders on him, is a singer. He usually starts them off. That‚Äôs right: ‚ÄúCourtney Brundit will sing Number Twenty-seven on the programme.‚Äù That‚Äôs him. And that young fellow at the piano can play all right, my word he can! It‚Äôs a gift to be able to play like that. They say he‚Äôs just married that new one, but of course you can‚Äôt believe everything you hear.
The curtain is up, the show has begun. It is time we left the audience and went behind the scenes. We shall never find our way there again, after this night.
II
The trouble began when Joe was singing, at the very opening of the programme. It was a cloud no larger than a man’s hand, but there it was. As usual, Joe was giving his audience, whom he apparently imagined to be a company of would-be navigators, some advice concerning the Deep, the Moi‑oi‑oighty Dee‑ee‑eep. Just as he was imploring them, for the fourth or fifth time, to Beeware (many Brave Hearts being asleep in this Deep), a horribly raucous and penetrating voice told him to “pur a sock in it.” It came, this voice, from the back of the pit, which was the cheapest part of the house, there being no gallery. And it raised a loud and jeering laugh from that quarter, though the rest of the audience immediately made shushing noises. Joe himself seemed to pay no attention to this voice; he went on with his song; but Inigo at the piano noticed that his great fists were clenched and that certain veins in his forehead were swelling ominously. Joe, it was clear, was very annoyed, as he had every right to be. Besides, it was not the first time that voice had jeered at them. It had been heard one or two nights before.
When Joe had finished his first song, he was warmly applauded, the audience‚ÅÝ‚Äîbless them!‚ÅÝ‚Äîbeing as usual all the more enthusiastic because some of their number had been rude enough to interrupt. But from that same place at the back there came boos and groans and ironic cheers and they were so prolonged that they outlasted the applause. Joe was furious. ‚ÄúBloody swine!‚Äù he muttered to Inigo, across the piano. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôre at it again.‚Äù
‚ÄúLadies and gentlemen,‚Äù he cried, ‚Äúby special request‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄòThe Trumpeter.‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù
“Shurr up!” the voice jeered, before anybody else could make a sound.
Some people laughed. The remainder indignantly shushed again and then clapped.
“If the gentleman at the back doesn’t shut up,” roared Joe, his honest face inflamed even through the makeup, “he’ll be soon made to shut up.”
“Steady, Joe boy, steady!” whispered Jimmy, who was sitting just behind him. Most of the others had left the stage, as they usually did during an individual act.
The gentleman at the back and his friends signified their contempt for this threat, but other people in the audience, not having paid their money to listen to the town roughs, welcomed it. “Turn him out,” they cried. For a minute or two there was quite an uproar in the place. Joe grimly waited until there was quiet again, and then began his series of apparently idiotic questions to a trumpeter.
Meanwhile, Mrs.¬ÝJoe, in the wings, was very agitated indeed. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm convinced now,‚Äù she declared, ‚Äúthat it‚Äôs all a put-up affair. Before, I wasn‚Äôt, though I had my suspicions. I know what you‚Äôre going to say, Susie and you, Miss Trant, that some pros always think it‚Äôs a put-up affair if there‚Äôs ever a bit of booing or stamping. And so they do, and very silly too I call it. But there‚Äôs a Limit.‚Äù
“It’s disgusting,” said Miss Trant, “and we’ve certainly had more than our share of it this week.”
‚ÄúPerhaps it‚Äôll stop soon,‚Äù said Susie hopefully, still busy with thoughts of Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer. ‚ÄúThey may settle down when the show‚Äôs got going.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd they may not,‚Äù retorted Mrs.¬ÝJoe, who perhaps did not like the suggestion that the show had not got going when her husband was actually on the stage. ‚ÄúIt sounds bad to me, and put-up. And whatever will those people in the box think! Booking it specially like that and coming in evening dress and then hearing such‚ÅÝ‚Äîsuch‚ÅÝ‚ÄîDevilry!‚Äù For there were people in the box now, and Mrs.¬ÝJoe had caught sight of a white shirt front and a bare arm on the ledge.
“Well, if there’s any more of it,” Miss Trant announced with decision, “I’m going to have them turned out. It’s vile and unpardonable, and I’m not going to have it.”
‚ÄúIf they spoil it for me tonight,‚Äù Susie said fiercely, ‚ÄúI‚Äôll‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôll kill them, the beasts.‚Äù
‚ÄúDon‚Äôt say that, my dear,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe. ‚ÄúAnd if there‚Äôs to be anything of that sort, Joe will do it. Just listen to that! The temper he‚Äôll be in now, it won‚Äôt bear thinking of. It‚Äôll take me all my time to keep him quiet. You‚Äôve no idea what Joe‚Äôs like when he‚Äôs thoroughly roused,‚Äù she added, with a droll mingling of shame and pride. ‚ÄúTake a peep at him now, my dear. He‚Äôs fairly bursting.‚Äù
Miss Mamie Potter strolled up. She was on next. “I say,” she said, turning her round features from one to the other of them, “what’s up? They’re not giving out the bird, are they? If they’re starting that, I’m through. I shall just walk off. I will. I can’t stand it.”
“If there is any trouble while you are on, Miss Potter,” Miss Trant told her, “don’t take any notice of it. I’ll have it stopped somehow or other, if I’ve got to go and do it myself.”
“That’s all right,” replied Mamie dubiously, “but I’m not used to it.”
“Neither are we,” Susie put in, like lightning. “And I’ll tell you something for your own good. Monte Mortimer’s going to be in front tonight.”
“Monte Mortimer! The big revue man! That’s likely, isn’t it? I’ve heard those yarns before, Miss Dean,” Mamie scoffed.
“All right then, don’t believe me.” And then, in reply to the wondering glances of the other two, she went on: “It’s true. Inigo went up to town today, saw him, and persuaded him to come and see us tonight.”
‚ÄúWell, I never did,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝJoe gasped. ‚ÄúNot that he‚Äôs any use to me‚ÅÝ‚Äîor Joe, of course. But it‚Äôs your Chance, Susie. What did I tell you, only the other day? You see, you never know.‚Äù
“I say, d’you mean it?” Miss Potter was apparently convinced now. “Where’s he sitting? Is he here now?”
“Fourth row of the stalls,” Susie replied shortly. “I know because Inigo showed me the seat before we started. He’s not come yet, but he’s coming all right. Inigo got a wire after he had started.”
“And my God, I’ve got to go on now. That’s a nice trick, anyhow,” cried Miss Potter, looking angrily at Susie. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because I hadn’t a chance. Nobody’s trying to crab you. He’ll see plenty of you before the night’s out. Lord, listen to that! Joe’ll be furious.”
He was. They were applauding him loudly enough, but you could plainly hear the catcalls and booing from the back.
‚ÄúHear that?‚Äù he growled, as he joined them, and Miss Potter, looking very uneasy, got ready to take his place. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs somebody at the back there ‚Äôud get such a pug in the lug‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“It’s bad and I don’t doubt it’s deliberate, put-up,” his wife interrupted, putting a hand on his arm, “but don’t let’s us have vulgarities. We can be ladies and gentlemen, I say, even if they can’t.”
“And I say they’d get such a pug in the lug if I could get at ’em. They’d better look out, that lot. I’ve a good mind to go and stand there when some of you are on, and keep ’em quiet one way or the other.”
‚ÄúYou‚Äôve a good mind to do nothing of the sort,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝJoe indignantly. ‚ÄúStarting bother like that, Joe! You don‚Äôt know how it might all end up. And Susie here with such a Chance!‚Äù
“Chance?”
“Of a Lifetime,” she told him, and then hastily explained why this was a night of nights.
Miss Mamie Potter was not faring any better than Joe. Indeed, it was worse for her. She had not much of a voice, and very soon this was pointed out to her by the back of the pit. By the time she had struggled through to the end of one feeble little song, Jimmy signalled to her not to sing any more but to do her dance and then finish the act. It is not easy to interrupt a dance but the roughs at the back did what they could. Miss Potter really could dance, and her beautiful flashing legs provoked a fine outburst of applause, but still the row at the back could not be drowned. And the audience was growing restless.
Jimmy dashed off while Miss Potter was taking her call. “We’ll do that Shopping concerted number next,” he cried. “Must do something noisy. Can’t you tell them to stop that row, Miss Trant, please?”
“I’m going to, now,” she replied. And she went, there and then. The manager was not to be found anywhere in the building, and nobody appeared to know where he was. There were only two men attendants for the auditorium, and neither of these was young, strong, and determined. The man in the pit, a decrepit fellow, protested that he was doing his best to stop the constant interruptions. “But they’re a tough lot, Miss,” he whispered. “I give you my word. Don’t know what they’re doing here at all, I don’t.”
“Send out for a policeman,” she said.
“Ought to be a bobby about,” he replied doubtfully. “Usually looks in, but don’t seem to have come this way tonight. However, there’s one at the corner could look in, dare say. Keep ’em quiet, p’raps, if they saw him.”
Five minutes later, a policeman arrived and stood just behind the noisy fellows, after letting them know, by a familiar ‚ÄúNow then, there! Give order!‚Äù that the Law itself in all its blue and silver majesty was taking charge. It happened though that there was little need of him. The concerted item they were giving now was a noisy rollicking affair that offered great scope to Susie and Jimmy for droll byplay. And they hardly begun singing the first verse, which was a mere excuse for the drolleries that came after, when Susie remarked a stir in front. Someone had just arrived, was finding his place in the fourth row, the end seat on the left of the gangway. It must be‚ÅÝ‚Äîcould only be‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe great Monte Mortimer. Susie flashed a glance at Inigo, who lifted an eyebrow in reply. For a minute or two, she felt horrible, wobbly on her legs and hot and dry in the mouth; everything went out of her head, words, business, everything; and she felt she could never be amusing on the stage again. Then a huge friendly laugh came over the footlights to her from the audience, tickled by some bit of business she had gone through quite mechanically. And then all her nervousness fell away from her, leaving her excited somewhere inside but feeling clear, masterful, full of wonderful tricks. She hurled herself into the little scene, became a laughing whirlwind of fun. She acted everybody, Jimmy included, clean off the stage. All the silly shopgirls she had ever seen, the girls who sniffed, the girls who were short, sagging, and wistful, the girls who were tall, haughty, and spoke through their noses, the girls who knew nothing and the girls who knew everything, were vividly present in her mind, and in a happy fury of inspiration she brought out the lot, created and destroyed them in a few seconds. The audience laughed; they roared; they leapt at her. Even those people in the box‚ÅÝ‚Äîand who were those people in the box?‚ÅÝ‚Äîseemed to be laughing, leaning forward; and once she thought she heard a voice she knew. As for Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer, she could not see him and did not know what was happening to him; but if he did not like this, he could do the other thing.
“Must keep it going now,” cried Jimmy, as they bustled off. “You next, Jerry. Keep ’em going, boy. Show ’em what you can do.”
And Jerry did. He slipped round the corner for them. While he sang it, there was nothing there but a good little tune, but once he began dancing it was soon packed with meanings that had escaped both words and music. His long graceful legs and twinkling witty feet held the crowd in thrall. When finally he appeared to hurl away the last shreds of restraint, capering crazily and yet still keeping it all as deft and neat as surgery, and Inigo tossing his lock of hair over the piano was joined by Jimmy with his drums, Mitcham with his banjo, and the others as chorus, the house rose at him. A last double kick‚ÅÝ‚Äîpom-pom‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he was standing there, glittering a little and gasping, smiling at them. They pounded and thundered their approval. He bowed, flashed a smiling glance at the box, bowed again, then retired. Back he had to come, and for another delicious five minutes his feet told them how amusing life was. Another storm, and this time the girl attendant who looked after the stalls came forward and handed up some small parcels, one of which apparently demanded another smiling glance at the box, to say nothing of innumerable bows to the rest of the house. The others in the wings, clapping too, caught a glimpse of a gold cigarette-case. The other tributes were boxes of cigarettes and chocolates, customary offerings on the altar of hopeless passion. But that cigarette-case did not suggest Gatford. Even the most devoted typist or shopgirl could not have given him that lovely glittering thing. Jerry, however, who appeared to be becoming more mysterious every minute, rushed down to his dressing-room, and offered no explanations.
It had been arranged that Susie should go on next. She had begged Jimmy, whose original programme was now in ruins, for the next single act‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúwhile the going was good,‚Äù she said‚ÅÝ‚Äîand as this was her night, he could not refuse.
They clapped when they heard her name announced, and clapped still harder, cheered even, when she actually appeared. She gave them, with a wealth of byplay, that song of Inigo‚Äôs about going home, and they loved every word and note and gesture of it all. Most of them had seen her before. She was the youngest, a favourite, and this was her night, so that there was every excuse for giving her a great reception. But if they had never set eyes on her before, it would have been just the same. This was indeed her night. She was entertaining them all at a birthday party. They were all old friends together, it seemed, and only because she happened to be the prettiest and gayest girl there, she was in the limelight and they were staring and listening in the dark. That first tight ‚ÄúNow or never‚Äù feeling had left her long ago; she knew the great Monte was there, but she no longer bothered her head about him; and she carried everything before her, swept everything dull and heavy clean out of the world, with her gigantic rush of high spirits. Inigo, vamping idly at the piano, was amazed, almost frightened. This was Susie; everything‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe adorable everything he knew so well‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas there, but she was larger and brighter than life. The girl herself was lost in this public. Susie, this tremendous Susie-for-everybody, who was so obviously ready to take possession of any stage, any audience, to charge into the very centre of that daft wonderland of the morning and early afternoon, that world of vast electric signs and photographers and interviewers and press agents and enormous cars and expensive lunches for everybody in glittering noisy rooms. All of it seemed hers now by right. She had only to lift a finger and they would all be gathering round her and up would go the spangled lights, spelling her name in the crazed empyrean of Shaftesbury Avenue. In a flash he saw even the formidable Ethel Georgia slinking away, a little faded, tired, when she appeared. It seemed to him that that wonderlandish world was closing round her already. He did not know whether he liked it or not. Something hurt, though there was sweetness in the wound. One moment he felt he wanted to stop playing, to seize her by the arm and rush her away into the dark, just to sit in a tram with her, take her back to dingy lodgings, drop into the old round of Sunday trains and dry sandwiches and little halls and companionable shabbiness. The next moment he wanted to go on and on, to play and play until she had laughed and pirouetted herself into being everything she thought she wanted to be, and all the good things were heaped before her, and he was‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, dodging about somewhere in the background, looking on at the spectacle of her gigantic, her immortal happiness. But then again‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut what then? Oh, he didn‚Äôt know. He seemed to have been up and doing for several weeks without a break of comforting brute senselessness, good old sleep. He must be tired. But he didn‚Äôt feel tired, he felt drunk, a trifle mad. Tiddly-iddly-om-pom, tiddly-iddly-om. Quite mad, in fact‚ÅÝ‚Äîabsolutely. Tom-pom.
Susie gave one encore, she gave two encores, and even then the riot was not subdued. There were some little parcels for her too, and some flowers, including a bouquet‚ÅÝ‚Äîa real Grand Opera sort of bouquet, something undreamed of in the pierrot world‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat was handed down from the mysterious box. She tried to say something, but was far too excited and breathless. Jimmy hustled the others on for a concerted number and left her happy and gasping in the wings, where she received the congratulations of Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
‚ÄúI ought to go and sit down and be quiet in the dressing-room, Jess lad,‚Äù Susie told him, ‚Äúbut I just can‚Äôt. Look at this. Isn‚Äôt it sweet? Oh!‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôm nearly bursting. What a night!‚Äù
‚ÄúChampion!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, rising to heights of enthusiasm hardly known in Bruddersford. ‚ÄúEh, that were a right treat, Soos lass. An‚Äô they tell me ther‚Äôs one o‚Äô t‚Äôbig men o‚Äô the the‚Äëater business in t‚Äôhouse.‚Äù
“There is,” cried Susie. “And I expect him to come round any minute and say, ‘Miss Dean, I’ve been looking for you for years. Open a week on Tuesday at two hundred and fifty pounds a week. If that’s not enough, let me know.’ Something like that. What d’you say?” But before he could say anything, she waltzed him round a few times.
‚ÄúSo that‚Äôs it, is it?‚Äù he said, when she had let him go. ‚ÄúAnd what about poor owd Good Companions? We‚Äôll nivver see you ner more, unless we go up on a day trip and pay to go in. Never you mind, Soos lass,‚Äù he went on, when it appeared she was about to break in, ‚Äúyou look after yersen and if yon feller does offer you ten pound a week to go up to London or owt like that, tak‚Äô it on. So long as there‚Äôs nowt shameless about it, coming on naked and suchlike. You‚Äôll ha‚Äô to mind there, I‚Äôm thinking, for they‚Äôre a bit of a foul lot i‚Äô London, they tell me. But if it‚Äôs decent, tak‚Äô it. Eh, I‚Äôd right miss you if you went, I would an‚Äô all‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Darling!” cried Susie, who had been ready to laugh and cry all at once for some time, and now felt more like it than ever. She took hold of his arm and squeezed it hard. “I think you’re marvellous, Jess lad, and I’d miss you too. Let’s run away to Canada together, shall we?”
‚ÄúEh‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîa very long-drawn-out one this time‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúther‚Äôs nowt I‚Äôd like better. We would have a do.‚Äù He stopped for a minute to contemplate rapturously the ‚Äúdo‚Äù they would have, before returning to the world of fact. ‚ÄúBut listen here. Never you mind about t‚ÄôGood Companions. Tak‚Äô what‚Äôs offered if yer can benefit yersen. ‚ÄôCos ther‚Äôs bound to be a bust-up i‚Äô t‚Äôparty afore so long. Summat‚Äôs going to happen. I can feel it coming. Ay, you can laugh, but I‚Äôve a right knack that way. When t‚ÄôUnited won t‚ÄôCup, I said they would right from t‚Äôstart that year, and they all laughed at me at t‚Äômill, but I wer right. An‚Äô I‚Äôll tell you another thing,‚Äù he added, taking breath.
‚ÄúGo on, Mr.¬ÝOld Moore,‚Äù she said, laughing at him.
“I thowt ther wer going to be a right bit o’ bother here tonight. An’ I’m not so certain it’s all ower yet, either.”
“You mean that lot at the back?”
“That’s right. I’ve had a look at ’em and wer talking to t’owd chap that looks after t’pit, an’ yon lot’s game for owt. Ther’s summat wrong there, let me tell yer. I can’t mak’ it out at all, I can’t. Here, Jimmy’s wanting you to join in, afore t’interval.”
So Susie went on again and helped to bring about a rousing curtain. Jimmy had cut the first half, perhaps in the hope that the roughs at the back of the pit would clear out at the interval and not come back, though for the last half-hour or more they had not made a sound. When the house lights went up, after the curtain had fallen, Inigo, peeping through with the excited Susie, had just time to see Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer leaving his seat. Was he coming round to see them? Or was he slipping out for a drink? As the minutes passed and he did not appear, Inigo came to the conclusion that Monte had wanted a drink, a cheerful conclusion compared with Susie‚Äôs, which was that he had retired for good and all, in disgust. Just before it was time to begin again, however, they saw him back in his seat, and Susie was able to have a peep at his distinguished Assyrian features.
“He doesn’t look bad,” she remarked. “I’d like to scream at him ‘Well, what about it?’ Wonder what he’s thinking. Doesn’t look as if he’s thinking anything. Look, he’s yawning. Oh, don’t yawn. Fancy coming here and yawning!”
“Damn cheek, I call it,” said Inigo. “He’s probably eaten too much. He had enough lunch for five, and I’ll bet he’s been eating and drinking ever since.”
‚ÄúPig! No, I won‚Äôt say that. You never know, he might sort of‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat d‚Äôyou call it?‚ÅÝ‚Äîknow what I‚Äôm saying. Please, Mr.¬ÝMortimer, I want a nice fat engagement. Thank you. Oh, this is awful! I feel sick. If he doesn‚Äôt do anything about it, everything‚Äôs spoilt, isn‚Äôt it? I mean it‚Äôll be ghastly just going on in the old way. I wish it was time to begin again. I‚Äôm not going to look at him any more. There‚Äôs nobody in that box now. I wonder who they are. Marvellous bouquet they gave me, and no name on it at all. It‚Äôs a very handsome young millionaire‚ÅÝ‚Äînot too young, you know, not like you, Inigo‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho‚Äôs fallen madly in love with me. Hello, here we are.‚Äù
‚ÄúWell,‚Äù said Jimmy, beaming at them all, ‚ÄúI thought we were in for it, one time‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúThought somebody else was,‚Äù growled Joe. ‚ÄúJust let me catch one of them fellows, that‚Äôs all‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Those fellows, Joe, not them fellows,” his wife told him. “And you’ll do nothing of the kind.”
“It’s all right now, though,” Jimmy continued. “Got ’em all going in great style.”
‚ÄúA riot,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham observed gravely.
And a riot it proved to be, though not the kind of riot mentioned in the columns of The Stage. When the lights went down again, all the people in the pit were back in their places, but the policeman was not there. He had seen nothing to worry about, and so he had majestically departed during the interval, leaving behind him‚ÅÝ‚Äîalas!‚ÅÝ‚Äîa fine chance of promotion.
“Shurr-up!”
“Oorder, please!”
“Sh-sh-sh.”
“Gerr-outcher!”
“Give order, please!”
“Send ’em out!”
“Sh-sh-sh.”
“Give order, gentlemen, if you please!”
“Ow! Ah-oo-er! Pur a sock in it!”
‚Äú‚Ķ¬Ýbehalf of my fellow-artistes, like to appeal to those members of the audience at the back there to keep quiet (Hear, hear!), like them to remember that other people have paid their money and want to hear the show properly‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ (Turn ‚Äôem out!)‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ fair play‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ British sportsmanship‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ thanking you one and all‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ‚Äù
The audience loudly applauded this speech of Jimmy‚Äôs, but the noise was even worse afterwards. Poor Mrs.¬ÝJoe, imploring the Red Sun to sink in-toe the West (just as if she thought it was uncertain in its movements for once, and feared some cosmic catastrophe), could hardly be heard, for the people who were indignant at the constant interruptions were as noisy as the people who interrupted. In vain she paused between verses, a figure erect and contemptuous, the Duchess of Dorking standing before a revolutionary tribunal. The silence she waited for never arrived. With a glance of despair not unmixed with pleading, addressed to the shirt front and bare arm in the box, she plunged into her second song. She was a Highland lassie now, a passionate tragic creature of the moors and the glens, waiting and watching for our old acquaintance, Angus MacDonald. Would he or would he not, she asked in her deepest chest notes, come from his camp o‚Äôer the sea? Did she hear the call of the pibroch? Apparently she did, though to everybody else it sounded like the last despairing bleat (‚ÄúOrder, gents, please!‚Äù) of the aged attendant in the pit. She also heard the marching of men, but everybody else heard something like this too, a stamping of feet at the back. Yes, it was Angus Her Own coming home from the war. She asserted this triumphantly at the top of her voice, and even then she could hardly be heard. It seemed as if Angus was bringing the war home with him. Pale, trembling, she stalked off tragically at the end of her song, and did not return to face the uproar, though most of it was honest and admiring applause.
Meanwhile, it was taking Miss Trant and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd all their time to restrain Joe in the wings from descending into the auditorium and ‚Äúknocking a few blasted heads together.‚Äù When Mrs.¬ÝJoe came off, however, he had to attend to her, for after smiling wildly and elaborately shrugging her shoulders and raising her hands, she suddenly burst into tears. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve not been so‚ÅÝ‚Äîso‚ÅÝ‚Äîso insulted since that awful time at Grimsby,‚Äù she sobbed, ‚Äúwhen they were all drunk‚ÅÝ‚Äîand threw the fish.‚Äù Joe, muttering that somebody was going to get something worse than fish, gave her all the support of his stalwart person, and finally she was persuaded to rest in her dressing-room, where Miss Trant administered eau de cologne and soothing words. Four of them were now struggling fairly successfully through a noisy quartette, full of comic ‚Äúbusiness.‚Äù The attendant in the pit had given up his task of restoring order in despair. One or two members of the audience, pugnacious men, had attempted to take over his duties, with the result that there were loud arguments at the back for some time, and once or twice the sound of a slight scuffle. The remainder of the audience was becoming very restive indeed. One of the loudest and most indignant members was no other than our friend, Mr.¬ÝMonte Mortimer, whose professional sense of decorum was outraged by these constant interruptions, as well they might be, for he had heard nothing like it for years. If a few first-nighters in the gallery ventured a timid hiss or boo at Mr.¬ÝMortimer‚Äôs productions, he filled the papers next day with wild talks of conspiracies and terrible threats. Now, his was one of the loudest of the hushing voices, and every now and then he half rose from his seat and looked round, as if he were inclined to take charge of the proceedings himself.
‚ÄúLeave it to me, Jimmy,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham whispered, with all the confidence of a man who has been four times round the world. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve managed tougher crowds than this. Let‚Äôs put on my conjuring act, with you gagging in the house.‚Äù
There was something to be said for this. It meant that Jimmy would pretend to be a very rude member of the audience, who from the back of the pit would carry on an argument with Mr.¬ÝMitcham who would finally ask him to step on to the stage, along with some other bona fide members of the audience, to ‚Äúwatch him closely.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham was an old hand, and was clever at getting laughs at the expense of his assistants from the audience. This might do the trick, creating order out of deliberate disorder. Jimmy had some misgivings, but thought it was worth trying, and off he went to change his costume and then sneak round to the back, leaving Mr.¬ÝMitcham in possession of the stage. Mr.¬ÝMitcham began by playing the banjo, but soon gave that up. Joe brought on his conjuring apparatus for him, and the two of them started gagging.
‚ÄúI shall now require a few members of the audience,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham announced, in his harsh deep drawl, ‚Äúto assist me and to prove to you, ladies and gentlemen, there is absolutely no deception.‚Äù
This was the cue for Jimmy, at the back, to open the comic dialogue. But something went wrong, apparently, for all that could be heard from the stage was a real argument. Then Jimmy’s voice was raised in genuine protest: “Here, half a minute, you chaps!” he was crying. “Here, what are you doing? Let go.”
‚ÄúA few members of the audience, please,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham was repeating.
This was where chaos broke in, and an ordered narrative, even if it were possible, would no longer fit the occasion. There was a movement towards the stage, vague in the darkness. ‚ÄúHouse lights!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham hissed, but they did not come on. There was a door at the right of the proscenium that led directly through a short flight of stone steps bringing you into the wings. It seemed some people from the back were making for that door. There was also a central gangway running through both pit and stalls, there being no barrier, only a thick cord, between them, and down this gangway came several figures, now moving forward, now scuffling. And Jimmy‚Äôs voice was heard from this group, still raised in protest. So far, so good, but now comes chaos, bewildering alternations of light and darkness, hurtling fragments of event.
“Let go, can’t you!”
“ ’Ere, what’s the ruddy idea?”
“Turn ’em out.”
“Lights up, there, you fools!”
“Oh, will you!”
And shouts from some of the men and screams from some of the women. There seemed to be a struggle going on in the gangway, not far from the stage now. Jimmy was in it.
Then a large figure sprang up from nowhere, charged into the scuffling group, and sent one or two men flying. It was Joe. “Oh, you get out of it,” he was heard to bellow. And then somebody did get out of it. There was a crack; there was a thud; somebody had taken a full punch from the furious Joe. More shouts, screams, and cracks. That unconscious somebody, it seemed, was being lifted out of the way. Then the lights came on, uncertainly, as if they did not like it.
‚ÄúMy God!‚Äù cried Inigo, starting up from the piano. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs Monte Mortimer.‚Äù And it was. Mr.¬ÝMortimer had interfered in the dark; he had got in the way; he had received Joe‚Äôs punch; and he was now beyond those voices, where there was peace. We shall never meet him again. Farewell, Monte!
Somebody was shouting for the curtain to be dropped; twenty people were roaring for the police; and about a hundred more were shouting at random. Out went the house lights again, suddenly this time. Next minute, the stage lights vanished too. The whole place was in darkness, a black pandemonium.
‚ÄúHey!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had cried, as three or four of them came clattering up the steps and round the corner. A rough lot they looked, too. ‚ÄúWhat you doing here?‚Äù
“Coming on the stage,” one of them had replied. But another had just put his lip out and growled “Gairrr away!”
“Nar, tak’ your hook,” he had told them, angrily.
Then he got a shove in the back that sent him banging against one of them, a big one. This fellow gave him another shove that sent him spinning. Then all the lights went out. Somebody had got at the switchboard. He jumped forward, bumped into a fellow, got a crack on the head, but was able to give somebody something to be getting on with. The stagehand was shouting somewhere. So were a lot of other people. He charged at the switchboard, but people and things got in the way. Then he found himself grappling with somebody, got tripped up, went flying in the dark, with several people falling over him.
“Fire! Fire!” a voice shouted, not far away.
“Fire! Fire! Fire!” Innumerable voices took it up, voices rising to screams.
Desperately Mr.¬ÝOakroyd picked himself up. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs no bloody fire,‚Äù he was yelling, in despair.
“No fire,” somebody was shouting on the stage. “Keep your seats please!”
The uproar now was terrific, horrible. There were huge crashes all over the place. “Get them lights on,” roared a voice. “The lights, the lights!” And from further away: “Fire! Fy‑yer! Fy‑yerr!”
Another dash for the switchboard. Somebody else making for it too. Joe. ‚ÄúCome on, Joe, Joe lad,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. Somebody there. Two of them. ‚ÄúTak‚Äô that, yer‚ÅÝ‚Äî,‚Äù from Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who landed one in first, this time. The other fellow gave a yell, his companion a grunt, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd grabbed a switch or two. The lights that came on now showed Joe leaping after one of the men; the other had dropped. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd dashed on to the stage, to shout that there was no fire. The place was like a madhouse. Everybody was shouting and screaming, pushing and struggling. ‚ÄúKeep your seats!‚Äù they shouted from the stage, he and Jimmy and Morton Mitcham and Inigo, with the women of the party beside them now, pale, amazed. But he had not been there a minute before all the lights but two or three, high up and giving the merest glimmer, went out again. That switchboard. He collided in the wings with a woman who had just dashed up the steps from the front, a large woman, screaming something‚ÅÝ‚Äîsounded like ‚ÄúJerry.‚Äù Must have been too, because the next moment, Jerry Jerningham appeared from nowhere, was immediately grabbed by this large woman, and whisked off, somewhere at the back. From somewhere too there came a series of crashes. Things were being overturned. Electric bulbs were going too. Chaps came jumping out of the big shadows, making off. They were still shouting ‚ÄúFire!‚Äù somewhere. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd got some more lights on. There was a smell of burning too; it seemed to be coming over from the other side. He called to the others and hurried across. Plenty of smoke. It seemed to be coming from that pile of old curtain stuff there. He and Inigo got two extinguishers on it. No flame, but the smoke was worse, blinding and choking. Something rickety there too, wobbling a bit. Joe was shouting down from the top. He heard the swift rustle behind him. The curtain was coming down, moving by itself, it seemed, for he could not see anybody lowering it. A chap went tearing past. Wasn‚Äôt that Joe coming down, still shouting? These big side pieces‚ÅÝ‚Äîpart of the theatre‚Äôs standard set, and very old‚ÅÝ‚Äîdidn‚Äôt seem any too safe. Here, they‚Äôd better look out. Something gave a nasty shake.
“Look out!” he yelled to them at the back. “Get out of t’way, sharp!” Miss Trant, Jimmy, Susie, with her arms full of music, were still there. He shouted again, ran forward, waving his arms at them.
You would have thought the whole theatre had fallen in, it fell with such a crash, that piece of scenery. Susie and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd were untouched. Jimmy was sitting on the stage, his head in his hands. But Miss Trant was lying there, white and still. The police were coming now, were actually here. There was the clamour of a fire-engine coming from somewhere outside. Miss Trant never moved as they bent over her, crying her name.
III
‚ÄúWell, you‚Äôve made a benefit of this all right,‚Äù said the Inspector grimly. His audience was composed of Inigo and Joe, still in their stage costumes, which were torn and filthy, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, all bruised and blackened, and two members of the staff of the Gatford Hippodrome. The rest had gone, most of them between half an hour and an hour ago. It was nearly an hour since Miss Trant had been taken away to the hospital, with Jimmy, still groaning, in attendance.
‚ÄúWhat do they say at the hospital‚ÅÝ‚Äîabout Miss Trant?‚Äù Inigo asked, shakily. He had never felt more tired in all his life. He could not stand on his feet any longer. He felt dizzy, sick.
‚ÄúI‚Äôm getting that through for you,‚Äù replied the Inspector. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll have a word in a minute or two. You chaps had better be getting along home now. You‚Äôre played out, I can see that. Meantime, I‚Äôve got to be making out my report.‚Äù He looked about him with a sardonic eye. The fire had not done very much damage; indeed, it was almost out when the fire-brigade arrived. Nevertheless, the Gatford Hippodrome looked a wreck. The stampede had left its traces on the body of the theatre; and the stage was a blackened and watery ruin. ‚ÄúThis part of it‚Äôs nothing,‚Äù the Inspector went on, ‚Äúthough I don‚Äôt say it isn‚Äôt bad enough. Nobody‚Äôll be giving a turn here for some time. It‚Äôs life though, not property, that matters. There might have been dozens of lives lost‚ÅÝ‚Äîdozens, yes, scores‚ÅÝ‚Äîwith people all trying to get out at once. Matter of fact, there isn‚Äôt any so far, and doesn‚Äôt look like being any. Lucky, I‚Äôll tell you, very lucky. Seven people injured, that‚Äôs all the figure I‚Äôve got‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs in the audience, not counting your two.‚Äù
‚ÄúIt ‚Äôud ha‚Äô been all nowt, Inspector,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd earnestly, ‚Äúif they hadn‚Äôt ha‚Äô gone an‚Äô shouted ‚ÄòFire!‚Äô like that. I knew what it ‚Äôud be. We tried to stop ‚Äôem.‚Äù
“But there was a fire,” said the Inspector.
“Nay, ther wasn’t, not when they were shouting. It come after, did t’fire, and it were nowt when it did come. Me an’ him put most on it out oursens, easy.”
“That’s true,” said Inigo wearily.
“Well, who started it all?” said the Inspector.
‚ÄúI‚Äôve told yer,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúChaps ‚Äôat came from back o‚Äô t‚Äôpit started it all. Turned t‚Äôlights off to begin wi‚Äô, and it must ha‚Äô been them as shouted ‚ÄòFire!‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù
“Sure of it,” said Joe, and explained what happened to him when all the trouble first began.
“We’ll have to look into this,” said the Inspector dubiously. “Pity they got away, that’s all. Nothing to work on at all.”
‚ÄúNay, you‚Äôve got one on ‚Äôem, t‚Äôchap Joe an‚Äô me were sitting on so long,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúHey, Sergeant, didn‚Äôt you tak‚Äô yon chap wi‚Äô t‚Äôred scarf? He were one on ‚Äôem.‚Äù
“That’s right, sir,” said the sergeant, coming up. “We got him all right. It’s Tulley.”
“Oh, it’s Tulley, is it? We know him all right. An old friend of ours, Tulley is. What’s he got to say?”
“Knows nothing about it, sir. Happened to be in the audience he says, and was getting out this way.”
‚ÄúHe‚Äôs lyin‚Äô,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd declared.
“We’ll see about that,” replied the Inspector, who was still busy taking stock of the situation. He poked about for a few minutes and made some notes, while the tattered remnants of the Good Companions looked on listlessly. They said nothing, for there seemed to be nothing to say now until they had had news from the hospital. At last, however, a policeman arrived with the message, which he delivered into the Inspector’s ear as if it were a state secret.
‚ÄúWell, it‚Äôs not so bad,‚Äù said the Inspector, turning to them. ‚ÄúIn fact, it‚Äôs good. The lady‚Äôs suffering from shock and a fractured arm, that‚Äôs all. No need for anybody to worry‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
They gave huge sighs of relief.
‚ÄúAnd your other friend‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe little man, Nunn‚ÅÝ‚Äîonly got a crack on the head. They‚Äôre keeping him there overnight, but he‚Äôll probably be out tomorrow or the day after. He‚Äôs all right, though there won‚Äôt be any song-and-dance for him for a week or two, I should say.‚Äù
Inigo found himself giggling in a helpless sort of way. Everything had been rather crazy for some time now, of course, but still he didn’t want to giggle about it.
“You change your clothes and get to bed, my boy,” said the Inspector. “Have a bite of food and a drink of something and then turn in, quick. You chaps too. Off you go. You can’t do any more here. And, I say, don’t leave the town until I’ve seen you again. I’ve got your addresses, haven’t I? All right then, pop off.”
They had changed and were just straggling off, like a little company of shipwrecked sailors, when they met Susie, who looked like a fantastic little ghost as she came through the stage door. She was still wearing her stage costume, though she had a big coat over it, and there were traces of makeup on her face, a pale ruin of rouge and tear stains.
“Have you heard?” she cried, and when they said they had, she explained she had just come from the hospital. “It’s not so bad, is it?” she said, smiling wanly.
‚ÄúBetter ner like,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd agreed.
‚ÄúMrs.¬ÝJoe‚Äôs waiting for you at the digs, Joe,‚Äù she went on. ‚ÄúShe told me to tell you. And you‚Äôd to hurry up because she was going to see there was something hot for supper.‚Äù
‚ÄúTher should be a bit o‚Äô summat for me an‚Äô all,‚Äù remarked Mr.¬ÝOakroyd contemplatively. ‚ÄúI hadn‚Äôt thowt owt about it, but I‚Äôm right peckish nar. Happen ther‚Äôll be a bit o‚Äô meat-and-tater pie warmed up. Yon landlady o‚Äô mine is great on meat-and-tater pie.‚Äù
“Let’s keep out of the main street,” said Susie, first slipping a hand inside Joe’s arm, then taking the expectant arm, Inigo’s, on the other side, and squeezing them both a little. “We don’t want anybody to see us, do we?” They trudged on in silence down the gloomy side-street. Doors were being slammed with a kind of savage finality. Somewhere not far away, a hoarse reveller was shouting:
“ ’E’s a dee-ar old pal,
Ja-holly old pal,
But ’e opens ’is mouth tew wi‑ide.”
It was Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who had just been considering for the first time in true perspective, the whole daft evening, who broke the silence. ‚ÄúWell, by gow!‚Äù he began. ‚ÄúNar who‚Äôd ha‚Äô thowt‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
But he was not allowed to say any more. “Don’t start,” said Susie hastily. “Just keep quiet, Jess lad. It’s been a mess, an awful mess. I’ve cried enough tonight, I don’t want to cry any more. And I don’t want to talk about it now. There’ll be plenty of time to talk about it all next week.”
“Absolutely,” said Inigo wearily.
“I dare say,” said Joe. “Never mind, Susie. What’s going to happen next week anyhow?”
“God knows!”
“I’m sorry, lass. I’ll say ner more. I’ll go on thinking about my bit o’ meat-and-tater pie. We’re not dead yet, though I seem to be stiff’ning a bit. Summat’ll turn up.”
So they went trudging on, as quiet as the four shadows in their grotesque dance on the pavement, lengthening and dwindling between the street lamps.