Book + 

I + 

I + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd Leaves Home + 

I + 

There, far below, is the knobbly backbone of England, the Pennine Range. At first, the whole dark length of it, from the Peak to Cross Fell, is visible. Then the Derbyshire hills and the Cumberland fells disappear, for you are descending, somewhere about the middle of the range, where the high moorland thrusts itself between the woollen mills of Yorkshire and the cotton mills of Lancashire. Great winds blow over miles and miles of ling and bog and black rock, and the curlews still go crying in that empty air as they did before the Romans came. There is a glitter of water here and there, from the moorland tarns that are now called reservoirs. In summer you could wander here all day, listening to the larks, and never meet a soul. In winter you could lose your way in an hour or two and die of exposure perhaps, not a dozen miles from where the Bradford trams end or the Burnley trams begin. Here are Bodkin Top and High Greave and Black Moor and Four Gates End, and though these are lonely places, almost unchanged since the Domesday Book was compiled, you cannot understand industrial Yorkshire and Lancashire, the wool trade and the cotton trade and many other things besides, such as the popularity of Handel‚Äôs Messiah or the Northern Union Rugby game, without having seen such places. They hide many secrets. Where the moor thins out are patches of ground called ‚ÄúIntake,‚Äù which means that they are land wrested from the grasp of the moor. Over to the right is a long smudge of smoke, beneath which the towns of the West Riding lie buried, and fleeces, tops, noils, yarns, stuffs, come and go, in and out of the mills, down to the railways and canals and lorries. All this too, you may say, is a kind of Intake. + 

At first the towns only seem a blacker edge to the high moorland, so many fantastic outcroppings of its rock, but now that you are closer you see the host of tall chimneys, the rows and rows of little houses, built of blackening stone, that are like tiny sharp ridges on the hills. These windy moors, these clanging dark valleys, these factories and little stone houses, this business of Intaking, have between them bred a race that has special characteristics. Down there are thousands and thousands of men and women who are stocky and hold themselves very stiffly, who have short upper lips and long chins, who use emphatic consonants and very broad vowels and always sound aggressive, who are afraid of nothing but mysterious codes of etiquette and any display of feeling. If it were night, you would notice strange constellations low down in the sky and little golden beetles climbing up to them. These would be street lamps and lighted tramcars on the hills, for here such things are little outposts in No Man‚Äôs Land and altogether more adventurous and romantic than ordinary street lamps and tramcars. It is not night, however, but a late September afternoon. Some of its sunshine lights up the nearest of the towns, most of it jammed into a narrow valley running up to the moors. It must be Bruddersford, for there, where so many roads meet, is the Town Hall, and if you know the district at all you must immediately recognize the Bruddersford Town Hall, which has a clock that plays ‚ÄúTom Bowling‚Äù and ‚ÄúThe Lass of Richmond Hill.‚Äù It has been called ‚Äúa noble building in the Italian Renaissance style‚Äù and always looks as if it had no right to be there. + 

Yes, it is Bruddersford. Over there is the enormous factory of Messrs. Holdsworth and Co. Ltd., which has never been called a noble building in any style but nevertheless looks as if it had a perfect right to be there. The roof of the Midland Railway Station glitters in the sun, and not very far away is another glitter from the glass roof of the Bruddersford Market Hall, where, securely under cover, you may have a ham tea or buy boots and pans and mint humbugs and dress lengths and comic songs. That squat bulk to the left of the Town Hall is the Lane End Congregational Chapel, a monster that can swallow any two thousand people who happen to be in search of ‚Äúhearty singing and a bright service.‚Äù That streak of slime must be the Leeds and Liverpool Canal or the Aire and Calder Canal, one of the two. There is a little forest of mill chimneys. Most of them are only puffing meditatively, for it is Saturday afternoon and nearly four hours since the workpeople swarmed out through the big gates. Some of the chimneys show no signs of smoke; they have been quiet for a long time, have stayed there like monuments of an age that has vanished, and all because trade is still bad. Perhaps some of these chimneys have stopped smoking because fashionable women in Paris and London and New York have cried to one another, ‚ÄúMy dear, you can‚Äôt possibly wear that!‚Äù and less fashionable women have repeated it after them, and quite unfashionable women have finally followed their example, and it has all ended in machines lying idle in Bruddersford. Certainly, trade is still very bad. But as you look down on Bruddersford, you feel that it will do something about it, that it is only biding its time, that it will hump its way through somehow: the place wears a grim and resolute look. Yet this afternoon it is not thinking about the wool trade. + 

Something very queer is happening in that narrow thoroughfare to the west of the town. It is called Manchester Road because it actually leads you to that city, though in order to get there you will have to climb to the windy roof of England and spend an hour or two with the curlews. What is so queer about it now is that the road itself cannot be seen at all. A grey-green tide flows sluggishly down its length. It is a tide of cloth caps. + 

These caps have just left the ground of the Bruddersford United Association Football Club. Thirty-five thousand men and boys have just seen what most of them call ‚Äút‚ÄôUnited‚Äù play Bolton Wanderers. Many of them should never have been there at all. It would not be difficult to prove by statistics and those mournful little budgets (How a Man May Live‚ÅÝ‚Äîor rather, avoid death‚ÅÝ‚Äîon Thirty-five Shillings a Week) that seem to attract some minds, that these fellows could not afford the entrance fee. When some mills are only working half the week and others not at all, a shilling is a respectable sum of money. It would puzzle an economist to discover where all these shillings came from. But if he lived in Bruddersford, though he might still wonder where they came from, he would certainly understand why they were produced. To say that these men paid their shillings to watch twenty-two hirelings kick a ball is merely to say that a violin is wood and catgut, that Hamlet is so much paper and ink. For a shilling the Bruddersford United A.F.C. offered you Conflict and Art; it turned you into a critic, happy in your judgement of fine points, ready in a second to estimate the worth of a well-judged pass, a run down the touch line, a lightning shot, a clearance kick by back or goalkeeper; it turned you into a partisan, holding your breath when the ball came sailing into your own goalmouth, ecstatic when your forwards raced away towards the opposite goal, elated, downcast, bitter, triumphant by turns at the fortunes of your side, watching a ball shape Iliads and Odysseys for you; and, what is more, it turned you into a member of a new community, all brothers together for an hour and a half, for not only had you escaped from the clanking machinery of this lesser life, from work, wages, rent, doles, sick pay, insurance cards, nagging wives, ailing children, bad bosses, idle workmen, but you had escaped with most of your mates and your neighbours, with half the town, and there you were, cheering together, thumping one another on the shoulders, swapping judgements like lords of the earth, having pushed your way through a turnstile into another and altogether more splendid kind of life, hurtling with Conflict and yet passionate and beautiful in its Art. Moreover, it offered you more than a shilling‚Äôs worth of material for talk during the rest of the week. A man who had missed the last home match of ‚Äút‚ÄôUnited‚Äù had to enter social life on tiptoe in Bruddersford. + 

Somewhere in the middle of this tide of cloth caps is one that is different from its neighbours. It is neither grey nor green but a rather dirty brown. Then, unlike most of the others, it is not too large for its wearer, but, if anything, a shade too small, though it is true he has pushed it back from his forehead as if he were too hot‚ÅÝ‚Äîas indeed he is. This cap and the head it has almost ceased to decorate are both the property of a citizen of Bruddersford, an old and enthusiastic supporter of the United Football Club, whose name is Jesiah Oakroyd. He owes his curious Christian name to his father, a lanky weaving over-looker who divided his leisure, in alternating periods of sin and repentance, between The Craven Arms and the Lane End Primitive Methodist Chapel, where he chanced to hear the verse from First Chronicles, ‚ÄúOf the sons of Uzziel; Micah the first, and Jesiah the second,‚Äù the very day before his second son was born. To all his intimates, however, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd is known as ‚ÄúJess.‚Äù He is a working man between forty-five and fifty years of age, a trifle under medium height but stockily built, neither ugly nor handsome, with a blunt nose, a moustache that may have been once brisk and fair but is now ragged and mousey, and blue eyes that regard the world pleasantly enough but with just a trace of either wonder or resentment or of both. He lives almost in the shadow of two great factories, in one of those districts known locally as ‚Äúback o‚Äô t‚Äômill,‚Äù to be precise, at 51 Ogden Street. He has lived there these last twenty years, and is known to the whole street as a quiet man and a decent neighbour. He is on his way there now, returning from the match to his Saturday tea, which takes a high rank in the hierarchy of meals, being perhaps second only to Sunday dinner. He has walked this way, home from the match, hundreds of times, but this Saturday in late September is no ordinary day for him‚ÅÝ‚Äîalthough he does not know it‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor it is the very threshold of great events. Chance and Change are preparing an ambush. Only a little way before him there dangles invitingly the end of a thread. He must be followed and watched. + 

II + 

As he moved slowly down Manchester Road, the press of fellow-spectators still thick about him, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd found himself brooding over the hollow vanities of this life. He felt unusually depressed. His physical condition may have had something to do with it, for he was hot, dusty, and tired; there had been a full morning‚Äôs hard work for him at the mill; he had hurried through his dinner; walked to the ground, and had been on his feet ever since. Manchester Road after a match had never seemed so narrow and airless; a chap could hardly breathe in such a crowd of folk. And what a match it had been! For once he was sorry he had come. No score at all. Not a single goal on either side. Even a goal against the United would have been something, would have wakened them up a bit. The first half had been nothing but exasperation, with the United all round the Wanderers‚Äô goal but never able to score; centres clean flung away, open goals missed, crazy football. The second half had not been even that, nothing but aimless kicking about on both sides, a kid‚Äôs game. During the time that it took him to progress three hundred yards down the crowded road, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd gave himself up to these bitter reflections. A little farther along, where there was more room, he was able to give them tongue, for he jostled an acquaintance, who turned round and recognized him. + 

‚ÄúNa Jess!‚Äù said the acquaintance, taking an imitation calabash pipe out of his mouth and then winking mysteriously. + 

‚ÄúNa Jim!‚Äù returned Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. This ‚ÄúNa,‚Äù which must once have been ‚ÄúNow,‚Äù is the recognized salutation in Bruddersford, and the fact that it sounds more like a word of caution than a word of greeting is by no means surprising. You have to be careful in Bruddersford. + 

‚ÄúWell,‚Äù said Jim, falling into step, ‚Äúwhat did you think on ‚Äôem?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThink on ‚Äôem!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd made a number of noises with his tongue to show what he thought of them. + 

‚ÄúAh thowt t‚ÄôUnited‚Äôd ‚Äôa‚Äô made rings rahnd ‚Äôem,‚Äù Jim remarked. + 

‚ÄúSo they owt to ‚Äôa‚Äô done,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with great bitterness. ‚ÄúAnd so they would ‚Äôa‚Äô done if they‚Äôd nobbut tried a bit. I‚Äôve seen ‚Äôem better ner this when they‚Äôve lost. They were better ner this when they lost to Newcastle t‚Äôother week, better bi far.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, a seet better,‚Äù said the other. ‚ÄúDid you ivver see sich a match! Ah‚Äôd as soon go and see ‚Äôtschooil lads at it. A shilling fair thrawn away, ah call it.‚Äù And for a moment he brooded over his lost shilling. Then, suddenly changing his tone and becoming very aggressive, he went on: ‚ÄúYon new centre-forrard they‚Äôve getten‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMacDermott, or whativver he calls hissen‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôll nivver be owt, nivver. He wer like a great lass on t‚Äôjob. And what did they pay for him? Wer it two thahsand pahnd?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd made this monosyllable very expressive. + 

‚ÄúTwo thahsand pahnd. That‚Äôs abaht a hundred for ivvery goal he missed today. Watson were worth twenty on ‚Äôim‚ÅÝ‚Äîah liked that lad, and if they‚Äôd let him alone, he‚Äôd ‚Äôa‚Äô done summat for ‚Äôem. And then they go and get this MacDermott and pay two thahsand pahnd for him to kick t‚Äôball ower top!‚Äù Jim lit his yellow monster of a pipe and puffed away with an air of great satisfaction. He had obviously found a topic that would carry him comfortably through that evening, in the taproom of The Hare and Hounds, the next morning, in the East Bruddersford Working Men‚Äôs Club, and possibly Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday nights. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd walked on in silence, quickening his pace now that the crowd was not so thick and there was room to move. At the corner of Manchester Road and Shuttle Street both men halted, for here their paths diverged. + 

‚ÄúAh‚Äôll tell tha what it is, Jess,‚Äù said his companion, pointing the stem of his pipe and becoming broader in his Yorkshire as he grew more philosophical. ‚ÄúIf t‚ÄôUnited had less brass to lake wi‚Äô, they‚Äôd lake better fooitball.‚Äù His eyes searched the past for a moment, looking for the team that had less money and had played better football. ‚ÄúTha can remember when t‚Äôclub had nivver set eyes on two thahsand pahnds, when t‚Äôjob lot wor not worth two thahsand pahnds, pavilion an‚Äô all, and what sort o‚Äô fooitball did they lake then? We knaw, don‚Äôt we? They could gi‚Äô thee summat worth watching then. Nah, it‚Äôs all nowt, like t‚Äôale an‚Äô baccy they ask so mich for‚ÅÝ‚Äîmoney fair thrawn away, ah calls it. Well, we mun ‚Äôa‚Äô wer teas and get ower it. Behave thi-sen, Jess!‚Äù And he turned away, for that final word of caution was only one of Bruddersford‚Äôs familiar goodbyes. + 

‚ÄúAy,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd dispiritedly. ‚ÄúSo long, Jim!‚Äù + 

He climbed to the upper deck of a tram that would carry him through the centre of the town to within a few hundred yards of Ogden Street. There he sat, his little briar pipe, unlit and indeed empty, stuck in the corner of his mouth, his cap still pushed back from his glistening forehead, staring out of a disenchantment. At times the tram jerked him forward, but only to return him, with a bang, against the hard back of the seat. People who were larger than usual, and all parcels and elbows, pushed past or trod on his toes. It is no joke taking a tram on Saturday in Bruddersford. + 

‚ÄúI call this two-pennorth o‚Äô misery, missis,‚Äù he said to a very large woman who wedged herself into the seat beside him. She turned a damp scarlet face, and he saw that it was Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, whose husband kept the little shop in Woolgate. Everybody in that district knew Buttershaw‚Äôs, for it was no ordinary shop. It catered to both body and soul, one half of it being given up to tripe and cow-heels and the other half to music, chiefly sixpenny songs and cheap gramophone records. Strangers frequently stopped in front of Buttershaw‚Äôs to stare and laugh, but strangers are easily amused: all the people round about recognized that this was a sensible arrangement, for some wanted tripe, some wanted music, and not a few wanted both. + 

‚ÄúEh, well, if it isn‚Äôt Mr.¬ÝOakroyd!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw knew him as both a patron (of the tripe counter) and an old neighbour. ‚ÄúI didn‚Äôt see yer. And ‚Äôow are yer?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúMiddlin‚Äô, middlin‚Äô,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with the air of one determined to give nothing away. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôve been meaning to ask yer for a long time,‚Äù she went on, ‚Äúonly I haven‚Äôt seen yer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôow‚Äôs your Lily doin‚Äô in where‚Äôs it?‚ÅÝ‚ÄîAmeriky?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúCanada,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd announced promptly and rather proudly. + 

‚ÄúCanada‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs it. It‚Äôs all the same, isn‚Äôt it? Only some calls it one thing, and some calls it another. Well, ‚Äôow‚Äôs she getting on there? Eh, it doesn‚Äôt seem more than a week or two since she was a bit of a lass coming in for a pantymine song‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe liked a bit o‚Äô music, didn‚Äôt she?‚ÅÝ‚Äîand now she‚Äôs a married woman in Canada.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúShe‚Äôs doing all right,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, vainly trying to appear unconcerned. ‚ÄúI‚Äôd a letter t‚Äôother day.‚Äù But he did not add that that letter, which began, ‚ÄúMy dear Father and Mother, I write these few lines to let you know we are alright as I hope you are,‚Äù was reposing in his coat pocket, having been carried there‚ÅÝ‚Äîand brought out and reread at frequent intervals‚ÅÝ‚Äîthese last three days. + 

‚ÄúShe‚Äôs settled in, ‚Äôas she?‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, who apparently thought of Canada as a sort of house. + 

‚ÄúAy. She‚Äôs settling nicely, is Lily. Been there nearly a year.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúEh, fancy that! A year! Well, I never did!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw seemed to have these exclamations shaken out of her by the jerky movements of the tram. ‚ÄúWho was it she married? I owt to know, but I‚Äôve fergotten. I shall ferget me own name soon, I‚Äôm that bad at remembering.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúJack Clough, old Sammy‚Äôs youngest lad,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúHe were a fitter at Sharp‚Äôs.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúEh, of course!‚Äù she exclaimed triumphantly. ‚ÄúI knew ‚Äôim well. He were often in, buying a bit of comic song and suchlike. He were a nice lad, an‚Äô a lively card. But then your Lily was a lively lass, full o‚Äôfun.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, lively enough. You knew when she was abaht.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd tried to speak offhandedly, but his voice warmed and his eyes were alight with affectionate reminiscence. He had always adored this only daughter of his. She had been the funniest baby, the cleverest child, and the prettiest girl in that part of Bruddersford, or, for that matter, in any other part. There was something wonderful about everything she did and said. Even her naughtiness‚ÅÝ‚Äîand she had always had a will of her own‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad seemed to him only a special sort of fun and prettiness, as good as a play. + 

‚ÄúYer must miss ‚Äôer. I know I do meself. Even Joe was asking me about ‚Äôer t‚Äôother day. ‚ÄôE didn‚Äôt know she‚Äôd got married and gone away, ‚Äôe knows nowt, doesn‚Äôt Joe; ‚Äôe‚Äôs always a year or two be‚Äôind‚Äôand.‚Äù But she said this in such a way as to hint that Mr.¬ÝButtershaw, with one eye on his tripe and the other on his music, was rather above this business of knowing things, an absentminded genius. ‚ÄúTher wasn‚Äôt a nicer little lass came into t‚Äôshop, and yer can put that feather in yer cap.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was so shaken out of his reserve by this praise that he proclaimed very earnestly: ‚ÄúAy. I miss her all right. I didn‚Äôt know ah could miss anybody so much. Place fair seems empty like sometimes.‚Äù + 

For a minute or two nothing more was said. No doubt both of them felt that this last speech had reached the limits to which confession might be pushed. Beyond were extravagance and indecency, and a good Bruddersfordian left such wild regions to actors and Londoners and suchlike. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd looked out of the window. + 

The day was just crossing the little magical bridge between afternoon and evening. The early autumn sunlight was bent on working a miracle. A moment of transformation had arrived. It hushed and gilded the moors above, and then, just when Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs tram reached the centre of the town, passing on one side the Central Free Library and on the other the Universal Sixpenny Bazaar, it touched Bruddersford. All the spaces of the town were filled with smoky gold. Holmes and Hadley‚Äôs emporium, the Midland Railway Station, the Wool Exchange, Barclays Bank, the Imperial Music Hall, all shone like palaces. Smithson Square was like some quivering Western sea, and the Right Honourable Ebenezer Smithson himself, his marble scroll now a map of the Indies, was conjured into an Elizabethan admiral. The fa√ßades of Market Street towered strangely and spread a wealth of carven stone before the sun. Town Hall Square was a vast place of golden light; and its famous clock, as it moved to celebrate the enchanted moments, gave a great whirr and then shook down into the streets its more rapturous chimes, ‚ÄúThe Lass of Richmond Hill.‚Äù + 

To all this sudden magic, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, sucking at his empty pipe and staring through the window, might have seemed entirely unresponsive. He was not, however. One hand went fumbling up his shabby coat. It would have gone further, would have plunged into the inner pocket, if its owner had not been sharing a seat with Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, who was of a breadth beyond the dreams of the Tramways Department. But if the hand could not bring out a letter, it could feel that it was there, and having done so, it dropped, satisfied. + 

‚ÄúAnd ‚Äôow,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, looking with disapproval at the warehouse of Messrs. Hoggleby, Sons and Co. Ltd., in whose shadow they were, ‚Äúis that lad of yours gettin‚Äô on?‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs face immediately changed, putting on a grim and satirical expression. ‚ÄúI can‚Äôt say. He tells me nowt. I think he‚Äôll be all right as long as there‚Äôs still a good supply o‚Äô brilliantine an‚Äô fancy socks, and plenty o‚Äô young women wi‚Äô nowt to do but look for chaps.‚Äù Leonard might be the darling of his mother‚Äôs heart, as indeed he was, but it was clear that his father had no great opinion of him. + 

Neither, it appeared, had Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw. ‚ÄúI seen ‚Äôim o‚Äô Wednesday,‚Äù she said severely, ‚Äústanding outside a picture place‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI think it were t‚ÄôPlazzer‚ÅÝ‚Äîand yer‚Äôd have thought ‚Äôe owned it. ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs lad,‚Äô I ses to Joe, but Joe didn‚Äôt know him. Joe knows nobody, and bin in a shop for thirty year! Nay, I nivver seen such a man. ‚ÄòYer won‚Äôt know me next,‚Äô I tell him. But when I showed ‚Äôim your lad, Joe ses, ‚ÄòWell, if that‚Äôs Jess Oakroyd‚Äôs lad, ‚Äôe‚Äôs nowt like his father. ‚ÄôE looks a bit of a swankpot.‚Äô ‚ÄòNay, Joe,‚Äô I ses, ‚Äòyer know nowt about t‚Äôlad.‚Äô But I knew what ‚Äôe meant. ‚ÄôE doesn‚Äôt like to see these lads all toffed up, doesn‚Äôt Joe. Where‚Äôs your Leonard workin‚Äô now? Is ‚Äôe still in t‚Äô hair cutting?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, he‚Äôs still at Bobsfill‚Äôs i‚Äô Woolgate,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who did not seem to resent these remarks. + 

‚ÄúWell,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝButtershaw, gathering together her assortment of packages and her immense form, ‚Äú‚Ää‚Äôe‚Äôll niwer get fat on what old Bobsfill gives ‚Äôim. I niwer reckoned nowt o‚Äô barbers, and Bobsfill‚Äôs one o‚Äô t‚Äô meanest. ‚ÄôE‚Äôd go blind lookin‚Äô for a thripenny bit.‚Äù And she heaved herself out of the seat and, as the tram slowed up, went waddling down the aisle. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, beginning to expand again into what he felt to be his natural size, fell to thinking of his daughter and her letter. As soon as Lily had gone, 51 Ogden Street had suddenly shrunk and darkened, and there was no family life in it, no real home, only the three of them there, eating and sleeping and sometimes squabbling, with Leonard and his doting mother on one side and him on the other. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt you have it, Dad. Don‚Äôt you put up with it. You look after yourself,‚Äù Lily had whispered just before she went, breaking up an old and happy alliance. Since then he had had a certain mournful pleasure in not putting up with it, in trying to look after himself. But it was a poor sort of business now. + 

He took the letter out of his pocket, but did not read it again. He had secretly hoped it would contain an invitation to him to go out there. He was ready to go at a word. A handy man like him could easily get work there. Six months‚Äô full time at the mill would easily raise the passage money. But no invitation had come, not a word about it. He hoped she had thought of it, had suggested it, and that it was only because Jack Clough, who was a decent young chap but, like the rest, bent on looking after Number One, had put his foot down that she had never said anything. He had mentioned it once or twice when he had written, just making a sort of little joke of it‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúWhat would your old Father look like in Canada!‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he did not feel like doing more than that. They had their own way to make, and a baby was coming. He looked down at the letter and then slowly tore it up and slipped the fragments under the seat. + 

The tram had ground its way to the Black Swan Inn (known locally as ‚Äút‚ÄôMucky Duck‚Äù), and this was his stop. He walked, rather slowly and heavily, the few hundred yards that brought him to Ogden Street. + 

Nobody could consider Ogden Street very attractive; it was very long and very drab, and contained two rows of singularly ugly black little houses; yet Ogden Street had its boasts, and its residents could claim to have both feet on the social ladder. You could, in fact, have a ‚Äúcomedown‚Äù from Ogden Street, and there were some people who even saw it as a symbol of a prosperity long vanished. To begin with, it was a respectable street, not one of those in which you heard sudden screams in the night or the sound of police whistles. Then too, it was entirely composed of proper houses, all with doors opening on to the street; and in this respect it was unlike its neighbours at the back, Velvet Street and Merino Street, which had nothing but ‚Äúpassage‚Äù or ‚Äúback-to-back‚Äù houses, the product of an ingenious architectural scheme that crammed four dwelling-places into the space of two and enabled some past citizens to drive a carriage-and-pair and take their wives and daughters to the Paris Exhibition in 1867. When you lived in Ogden Street, you did not disdain to talk to the occupants of passage houses, but nevertheless, if you were a woman who knew how to enjoy yourself, you could afford to be sympathetic towards a humble passage-houser or put a presumptuous one in her place. Many of these things had been known to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, an old resident, for many years, but he did not entertain himself now with any recollection of them. + 

The door, which led directly into the single living-room, stood ajar. There was no one in the room, but voices were coming from upstairs. Somebody shouted ‚ÄúHello!‚Äù as he flung his cap down on the end of the shiny black sofa. He grunted a reply, went through to the scullery, where he hastily washed, returning, with eyes still smarting from the yellow soap, to look very dubiously at the table. What he saw made him shake his head. It was indeed the miserable ruin of a Saturday tea. Three dirty cups, pushed to one end of the table, announced that there had been earlier arrivals, and everything had the air of having been closely examined and then rejected. There were two pieces of bread-and-butter on one plate, half a buttered currant teacake and a squashed lemon-cheese tart on another; and on a third‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor the tasty bit, the glory of the meal‚ÅÝ‚Äîwere the mere remains, the washy flotsam and jetsam, of a tin of salmon. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd poked about with a fork in this pink mush, shook his head again, and made little clicking noises. Then he lifted the teapot from the fender, where it had been stewing its contents for some time, sat him down and summoned what was left of a rapidly vanishing appetite. + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôre back, are you!‚Äù This was Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, who had come downstairs. She was a thin woman, with gleaming eyes, prominent cheekbones, a pinched nose reddened at the tip, and a long prow of a chin. She had two passions, one for her son, Leonard, and the other for virtuous discomfort. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm house-proud,‚Äù she reported of herself; and if she could fill the living-room with steaming clothes a few minutes before her husband arrived home from work, she was happy. She had long regarded him neither as a friend nor as a partner but as a nuisance, somebody who was always coming in to upset the house, always demanding food and drink. + 

The nuisance gave her one quick glance, and saw at once that she was pleased about something, though ready at any moment to be quarrelsome about it. ‚ÄúLeonard‚Äôs in this,‚Äù he told himself, gave a nod, then gloomily poured some of the salmon on to his plate. + 

‚ÄúWe ‚Äôad our teas,‚Äù remarked Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, coming forward into the room. + 

‚ÄúAy, so I see,‚Äù returned her husband dryly. ‚ÄúI wish I‚Äôd been here. Ther seems to ha‚Äô been a bit of a party like.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúLeonard‚Äôs ‚Äôere, come home this afternoon and brought Albert Tuggridge with ‚Äôim, so we all ‚Äôad our teas together.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, Leonard‚Äôs here, is he?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stared rather aggressively at his wife. ‚ÄúAnd what‚Äôs Leonard doing here at this time o‚Äô day? I suppose nobody i‚Äô Woolgate district wants a shave now o‚Äô Saturday.‚Äù As this was the only day on which many Woolgate residents ever did want a shave, this remark was the grimmest irony. + 

There was an added gleam in his wife‚Äôs eyes. ‚ÄúLeonard‚Äôs done wi‚Äô Woolgate. Left this morning. And not afore ‚Äôe told old Bobsfill a thing or two either. Trust ‚Äôim,‚Äù she added proudly. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd laid down his knife and fork. ‚ÄúGotten t‚Äôsack, has he, or marched out? And what‚Äôs he going to do now? I call that daft. Lad‚Äôs got too big for his boots.‚Äù + 

The gleam was really triumphant now. She raised her voice: ‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell yer what he‚Äôs going to do. He‚Äôs going to work at Gregson‚Äôs. There‚Äôs a chap finishing there today, and our Leonard takes his place o‚Äô Monday. Gets two pound and what he makes, and you know what Gregson‚Äôs is. Now then, what ‚Äôave you got to say to that?‚Äù + 

He had nothing to say to it. He did know what Gregson‚Äôs was, though he had never been a patron of such a lordly establishment. Gregson‚Äôs City Toilet Rooms were in the centre of the town, not two hundred yards from Town Hall Square, and heads worth a mint of money were continually being trimmed there. It was impossible to say a word against Gregson‚Äôs. + 

‚ÄúTwo pounds and tips galore!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôll be four pound ten, sometimes five pound, ‚Äôe tells me, in a good week, wi‚Äô regular customers coming in, wool men and travellers and suchlike. ‚ÄòWell,‚Äô I tells him, ‚Äòif it is, it‚Äôs better money than your poor father ever brought home, and you only fower-and-twenty.‚Äô Nay, I were that surprised! When I seen ‚Äôim walk in wi‚Äô Albert Tuggridge, middle o‚Äô t‚Äôafternoon, you could ha‚Äô knocked me down wi‚Äô a feather‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy,‚Äù her husband put in, ‚Äú‚Ää‚Äôan‚Äô when I see the way they‚Äôd both walked into that salmon, you could ‚Äôa‚Äô knocked me down wi‚Äô t‚Äôsame feather.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGo on, go on! That‚Äôs right! Go on!‚Äù she cried, with the shrillest irony. ‚ÄúNext time t‚Äôlad gets a better job I‚Äôll turn ‚Äôim and ‚Äôis friend out without a bit o‚Äô tea. I‚Äôll tell him ‚Äôe can‚Äôt ‚Äôa‚Äô any, tell him it‚Äôs all for his father. You‚Äôve got as much there as we ‚Äôad. What you wan‚Äôs a caffy. What we sit down to isn‚Äôt good enough for a man as can afford a shilling every week for a football match. He ought to ‚Äôave ‚Äôam and eggs every night, he ought, steaks and chips every night, he ought, when he‚Äôs so well off‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAll right, all right, all right,‚Äù growled Mr.¬ÝOakroyd and tried to look like a man who had had enough of that nonsense. His wife gave a sniff, collected some dirty cups and plates, gave another sniff, then marched the things into the scullery, where she contrived to make an extraordinary clatter. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd let his features relapse into their ordinary appearance, loudly yet mournfully sucked at a hollow tooth, then took an immense bite of currant teacake and washed it down with a gulp of tea. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôll bet t‚Äôyoung women o‚Äô Bruddersford will find it hard to keep their heads screwed on tonight,‚Äù he observed, when his wife returned. He nodded towards the stairs. ‚ÄúIs that Albert Tuggridge up there now wi‚Äô Leonard?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes. Leonard‚Äôs getting ready to go out. They‚Äôre off to a social an‚Äô dance at Shuttle Street Rooms.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd smiled grimly. ‚ÄúI thought as much. There‚Äôll be some ‚Äôearts broken i‚Äô Shuttle Street tonight. It‚Äôs fair cruel to let them two loose on t‚Äôsame night, and a Saturday an‚Äô all. It don‚Äôt give lasses a chance. Them as doesn‚Äôt prostrate therselves afore Leonard ‚Äôull fall afore the all-conquering Albert. It‚Äôs an absolute walkover for the male sex.‚Äù + 

His wife bristled. ‚ÄúA body‚Äôud think you‚Äôd never been young, Jess Oakroyd, the way you go on about them lads.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNay, I‚Äôve been young. None so old yet, I‚Äôm thinking. But I were never so dam‚Äô soft as yon two. Lady-killers, I calls ‚Äôem‚ÅÝ‚ÄîShuttle Street heart-breakers! Tut‚Äët‚Äët‚Äët!‚Äù + 

It was not a bad description of Leonard and his friend, Albert. With them and their like was perishing, miserably and obscurely, an old tradition. Though they did not know it, they were in truth the last of a long line, the last of the Macaronis, the Dandies, the Swells, the Mashers, the Knuts. Their old home, the West End, knows these figures no longer; their canes and yellow gloves, their pearl-buttoned fawn overcoats, their brilliantine and scent and bouquets, their music-hall promenades, and their hansoms, their ladies, with elaborate golden coiffures, full busts, and naughty frills, all have gone, all went floating to limbo, long ago, on their last tide of champagne; and some foolish and almost forgotten song, in perky six-eight time, of ‚Äúboys and girls upon the spree, in Peek-a-deely or Le-hester Squer-hare,‚Äù is their requiem. But just as a tide of fashion, raging fiercely in Mayfair for a season, will go rolling on and on, depositing black vases or orange cushions in drawing-rooms more and more remote year after year, so too the tradition of dandyism and lady-killing, after it had forsaken its old home, lingered on in towns like Bruddersford and among such young men as Leonard and Albert. They lived for dress and girls, above all‚ÅÝ‚Äînot having the opportunities of a Brummell‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor girls. They ogled and pursued and embraced girls at the Bruddersford dances and socials, in all the local parks and woods, picture theatres and music halls; they followed them on the Bridlington sands, along the Morecambe piers, into the Blackpool ballrooms, and even went as far as Douglas, I.O.M., to treat them to eighteen-penny glasses of champagne and other notorious aphrodisiacs; they knew, and frequently discussed among themselves, the precise difference between the factory girls of Bruddersford and the factory girls of Bradford or Huddersfield, between the tailoresses of Leeds and the shopgirls of Manchester; they were masters of the art of ‚Äúpicking up‚Äù and, young as they were, already veteran strategists in the war against feminine chastity or prudence, and were untiring in the chase, tracking these bright creatures for weeks through the dark jungle of West Riding streets, but apt to be either bored or frightened by the kill. In the end, most of them‚ÅÝ‚Äîas they said‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúgot caught,‚Äù and were to be seen walking out of their old lives, those epics of gallantry, pushing a perambulator. + 

The two young men now descended the stairs. Leonard walked in first, still patting his purple silk tie. He is a thin youth, with a very elaborate and greasy arrangement of curls and waves in his hair, a hardening eye and a loosening mouth, and an unfortunate habit of becoming spotty about the forehead. His friend, Albert, clerk to Swullans, the noisiest and shadiest auctioneer in the town, is larger and louder, and likes to brighten all social occasions by imitating the public manner of his master. Having no family in Bruddersford, he lives in lodgings, a few streets away, where he says he is very uncomfortable. Already it has been suggested several times, both by Leonard and his mother, that Albert might lodge with them, but Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who does not want a lodger and especially does not want to see any more of Albert, rages at the mere hint of such a proceeding. + 

‚ÄúMy words, Leonard,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, wiping her hands at the scullery door, ‚Äúyou‚Äôre a swell tonight all right!‚Äù To see him standing there, in his new chocolate-coloured suit, with his purple socks and tie and handkerchief, was as good as an evening out to her, better than the pictures. + 

‚ÄúNot so dusty, Mar,‚Äù said Leonard, tapping a cigarette against the back of his hand. + 

‚ÄúWell, well, well, well!‚Äù shouted Albert, winking at Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was pushing his chair back. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre we are, ‚Äôere we are! All merry and bright, the old firm! And ‚Äôow many runs did the old United make today?‚Äù And he winked at everybody. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who wanted to kick him, bent over his pipe and his packet of Old Salt tobacco, and grunted: ‚ÄúDrew. Nil, nil.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot much for a bob there then, what do you say, Len?‚Äù Albert went to the hearth and straddled there. ‚ÄúThe poor old United will ‚Äôave to do better before they see my money.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúRorther, rorther!‚Äù said Leonard, who was fond of entertaining company, at times, with an imitation of a musical-comedy duke. This was one of the times. + 

‚ÄúQuaite, quaite!‚Äù roared Albert, who knew his cue. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with the air of a man who had heard all this too many times already, very deliberately lit his pipe, then relieved his feelings by blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‚ÄúWell, they‚Äôll ‚Äôa‚Äô to try and get on without your money, Albert,‚Äù he remarked, relishing his irony. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôll ‚Äôa‚Äô to manage somehow, though it‚Äôll be a bad lookout for ‚Äôem, I can see that. Ha‚Äô you told ‚Äôem yet, or are you letting ‚Äôem find it out for themselves?‚Äù + 

At this moment Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd and Leonard disappeared into the scullery, where they could be heard whispering. Albert cocked an ear in that direction then opened fire himself. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve ‚Äôeard the news? Len‚Äôs new job. Good biz, good biz! Got a rise meself last week. Good biz! We‚Äôre making money, making money. What d‚Äôyou say?‚Äù + 

It was plain that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had very little to say and that it was not a subject that inspired him. He took out his pipe, looked at it and then looked at Albert, and asked very quietly if Mr.¬ÝSwullans had sold any more mahogany wardrobes lately. This was a malicious question because Mr.¬ÝSwullans had once got into trouble and a half-column report in the Bruddersford Evening Express because he sold a certain mahogany wardrobe. + 

But Albert was not abashed. ‚ÄúNow then, now then! We all know about that. Tricks in all trades! Did you know I was looking for fresh digs?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, I heard summat about it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell then, what d‚Äôyou say to having this little drop o‚Äô sunshine in the old ‚Äôome? What d‚Äôyou think of that? Good company and a good payer, right on the nail every Friday night.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd shook his head. ‚ÄúIt won‚Äôt wash, lad.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúRight on the nail every Friday,‚Äù Albert repeated with gusto. ‚ÄúAnd all the family in favour.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt won‚Äôt wash. We don‚Äôt want no lodgers ‚Äôere. There‚Äôs plenty as takes ‚Äôem without us. We don‚Äôt want ‚Äôem.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, we don‚Äôt, don‚Äôt we!‚Äù This was from Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, standing, belligerent, in the scullery doorway. + 

Her husband gave a steady look, then raised his voice. ‚ÄúNo, we don‚Äôt.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, some of us thinks we do.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThen you mun think again, and think different,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with an air of finality. And before any of them could reply, he had taken his cap from the end of the sofa, clapped it on his head, and walked out. + 

He told himself that he wanted a little stroll, another ounce of Old Salt, an early edition of the Evening Express Sports. But he knew he was afraid of what was coming. Having fired, manfully, his one big gun, he felt compelled to retreat. All the way down Ogden Street, he kept repeating to himself, ‚ÄúBetter money than your poor father ever brought home‚Äù; and didn‚Äôt like the look of things at all. + 

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‚Äôclock 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 + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôOld on a bit afore you tell me,‚Äù the other cried, reaching for the jug. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs another sup i‚Äô this for both of us, I‚Äôm thinking. Nah then!‚Äù 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. + 

‚ÄúWell, what I‚Äôd say is this; that ther mayn‚Äôt be so much of it down there but what ther is ‚Äôud be a better class o‚Äô thing. D‚Äôyou follow me, Sam?‚Äù + 

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 + 

‚ÄúI like a bit of a change, Sam.‚Äù + 

‚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. + 

‚ÄúNowt much when you look at it.‚Äù + 

‚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 + 

‚ÄúWhere d‚Äôyer want to go, Jess? Down South ag‚Äôin? What is‚Äôt yer want to see?‚Äù + 

‚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. ‚ÄúI nivvr heard tell much o‚Äô that place,‚Äù he said gravely. ‚ÄúIs ther owt special i‚Äô Bedfordshire, Jess?‚Äù + 

‚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 + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôve a lass o‚Äô mine there, Sam.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, so you have, I‚Äôd fergetten. But I‚Äôll tell yer what it is. Y‚Äôowt to ‚Äôa‚Äô been a wool-buyer, Jess, and then yer could ‚Äôa‚Äô gone off all ower t‚Äôplace and been paid for it. It‚Äôud ‚Äôa‚Äô suited thee down to t‚Äôground.‚Äù + 

‚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 ‚ÄúHello!‚Äù 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 + 

‚ÄúOff tomorrow,‚Äù replied Ted, a laconic youth who preferred to talk, like a ventriloquist, with a cigarette in his mouth. ‚ÄúLoad at Bruddersford. Merryweather‚Äôs Tapp Street. Going to Nuneaton. Shan‚Äôt get off till late tomorrow night.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat time, Ted?‚Äù asked his uncle, rather in the manner of counsel in court, as if he already knew the answer himself. + 

‚ÄúTen or eleven. Perhaps twelve. Merryweather‚Äôs got a rush on. That‚Äôs how we got the job. Travel all night. Deliver in the morning. Hell of a game.‚Äù 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 + 

‚ÄúNothing doing,‚Äù replied Ted. ‚ÄúWouldn‚Äôt 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‚Äô 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 ‚Äôem.‚Äù + 

‚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 + 

‚ÄúWho‚Äôs Billy Baxter?‚Äù 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. + 

‚ÄúShush! Shush!‚Äù said a voice, close to his ear. ‚ÄúNaughty! Naughty!‚Äù + 

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. ‚ÄúCan‚Äôt gerrup,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúCan‚Äôt poshibly gerrup.‚Äù + 

‚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. + 

‚ÄúWell, you‚Äôve got a load on and no mistake,‚Äù said Oakroyd. Then he reached out a hand. ‚ÄúCome on, come on. This‚Äôll nivver do. ‚ÄôOist yerself up.‚Äù + 

‚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. + 

‚ÄúBut where do you live, Mister?‚Äù + 

‚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 + 

‚ÄúJus‚Äô roun‚Äô the corner, roun‚Äô the good ol‚Äô Johnny Horner,‚Äù replied George, with enthusiasm. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre all ri‚Äô, we‚Äôre all ri‚Äô. You‚Äôre a good fella. You been to racesh thish time?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, I‚Äôve not, nor nowhere else either for a long time. Hold up, Mister, hold up.‚Äù + 

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. + 

‚ÄúWarrer say?‚Äù George was still busy fastening his pocketbook and putting it away. + 

‚ÄúI say I can‚Äôt take these,‚Äù he repeated, almost pushing the notes in the other‚Äôs face. + 

‚ÄúWarrer mean can‚Äôt take ‚Äôem? I tell you, I give ‚Äôem. Li‚Äôl‚Äô presen‚Äô for good boy.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIf I take these,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd earnestly and somewhat unwisely, ‚Äúyou‚Äôll be sorry in the morning.‚Äù + 

This offended George. ‚ÄúWarrer mean sorry in the morning?‚Äù he cried aggressively. ‚ÄúMoney‚Äôs mine, isn‚Äôt it? Do warrer like with it, can‚Äôt I? Can I or can‚Äôt I? Ish it mine or ishn‚Äôt it? Can I or can‚Äôt I? Answer plain queshuns.‚Äù And he brought his face as near as he could. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stepped back and began to feel impatient, but said nothing. + 

‚ÄúCome on, come on. Le‚Äôsh have answer plain queshuns. Can I or can‚Äôt I? Have I gorrer ask you warrer do with it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, don‚Äôt be such a damn fool, Mister,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, tired of this daft catechism. + 

‚ÄúDamn fool, eh? All ri‚Äô, all ri‚Äô. Thash finish, ab‚Äëso‚Äëlutely finish.‚Äù And he made a sweeping gesture that nearly threw him off his feet. ‚ÄúYou go to hell now, anywhere. Finish. No frien‚Äô o‚Äô mine.‚Äù 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. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre, ‚Äôere! What‚Äôs all this about?‚Äù said the policeman, flashing his lamp on their faces. + 

George pulled himself up and saluted. ‚ÄúGood evening, Conshtable. Jus‚Äô going home. You know me, don‚Äôt you?‚Äù + 

The policeman took another look at him. ‚ÄúYes, I think I know you, sir. You live down ‚Äôere, don‚Äôt you? Well, the sooner you‚Äôre ‚Äôome the better, if you ask me. And what‚Äôs all this noise about? Who‚Äôs this ‚Äôere?‚Äù + 

‚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 + 

‚ÄúRollin‚Äô drunk!‚Äù exclaimed George, horror-stricken. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre bad bad fella, an‚Äô I told you not to keep following me.‚Äù + 

‚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. + 

‚ÄúDidn‚Äôt I tell you to be off?‚Äù cried the policeman, who had now caught up to him. ‚ÄúGet off and leave ‚Äôim alone afore you get into trouble.‚Äù + 

‚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 + 

‚ÄúWhere d‚Äôyou live?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOgden Street.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs a good way from ‚Äôere,‚Äù said the policeman suspiciously. + 

‚ÄúAy, but this is nearest way to it, and that‚Äôs all I care about.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, walk on the other side then. I shall stand ‚Äôere and watch you. And don‚Äôt let me see you round ‚Äôere again tonight.‚Äù + 

‚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. + 

IV + 

‚ÄúAn‚Äô serve ‚Äôim right, too,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd muttered. ‚ÄúI haven‚Äôt a bit of patience with him.‚Äù It was the third time she had turned over this kipper, now blackened on both sides. It awaited, this kipper, the arrival of Mr.¬ÝOakroyd from work, being indeed the usual centrepiece of Monday evening‚Äôs tea; but obviously it had long ceased to care whether he came or not. An hour earlier this kipper might have been said to be wasted on him. Now, as Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd has suggested, it could only be described as something that served him right. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd generally arrived home before six, but now it was after seven. His wife, who had been washing all day and had organized a particularly fine display of steaming clothes round the fire at a quarter to six, had lost more and more of her temper with every passing quarter of an hour. Had she known that four five-pound notes had found their way into her husband‚Äôs pockets, late last night, she might have been alarmed. She knows nothing, however, and has not exchanged a dozen words with her husband, who has to rise very early and take both breakfast and dinner to the mill, since they disposed of the Sunday dinner. She is not alarmed but simply annoyed. ‚ÄúA body can‚Äôt get on,‚Äù she tells herself fretfully. Very soon she will have to prepare tea for Leonard, who will return from his first day at Gregson‚Äôs to find a kipper, and a much larger and fatter kipper than the one we have already seen, waiting for him, done to a turn. Meanwhile, his father, like the nuisance he is, must take it into his head‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor that is how Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd saw the matter‚ÅÝ‚Äîto be over an hour late. + 

‚ÄúNot ‚Äôome yet!‚Äù she cried to Mrs.¬ÝSugden, who had looked in from next door. ‚ÄúHis tea‚Äôs been ready nearly an hour and a half. Eh, men‚Äôs a bother, they are! Is yours ‚Äôome!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúLong sin‚Äô,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝSugden, a woman of few illusions. ‚ÄúBeen and gone out again. Trust ‚Äôim! When ‚Äôe‚Äôs more ner an half-hour late, I know I shan‚Äôt see ‚Äôim afore all pubs an‚Äô clubs is closed. But that nivver happens o‚Äô Monday ‚Äôcos ‚Äôe has nowt. They can‚Äôt be working over at Higden‚Äôs, can they?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot they!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd knew all about the state of the wool trade. ‚ÄúThey can‚Äôt get a full week in, and a lot on ‚Äôem‚Äôs been stopped. It‚Äôs not that, I‚Äôm sure. Some piece o‚Äô silliness, I‚Äôll be bound.‚Äù + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôE‚Äôs ‚Äôere,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝSugden whispered dramatically, then promptly vanished from the doorway. + 

The next moment he was there, a grimy, hot, and angry man who flung his cap and his bag of joiner‚Äôs tools down on the sofa, then closed the outer door with a bang. + 

‚ÄúWhere in the name o‚Äô goodness have you been?‚Äù his wife demanded. ‚ÄúAnd your tea waiting ‚Äôere a full hour and a half!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúBeen on to t‚ÄôUnion office,‚Äù he answered shortly. + 

She glanced at his face and then moderated her tone, ‚ÄúWhat d‚Äôyou want to go there for at this time?‚Äù + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôCos I‚Äôve been stopped.‚Äù He bent down and began to unlace his heavy working boots. + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôve been what?‚Äù his wife shrieked. + 

‚ÄúStopped, sacked, paid off, whativver you want to call it!‚Äù He straightened himself and threw an insurance card and some money on the table. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm not even under notice. Higden‚Äôs has finished wi‚Äô me, and I‚Äôve finished wi‚Äô them. There‚Äôs a week‚Äôs money there.‚Äù He began to unlace the other boot. + 

‚ÄúWell, I nivver did!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd. She flopped down into a chair and regarded him with the utmost astonishment. ‚ÄúWhat ‚Äôa‚Äô you been doing?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell you all about it in a minute. I want a wash and summat to eat.‚Äù He marched in his stockinged feet towards the scullery. ‚ÄúGet my tea ready and then you‚Äôll soon know what I‚Äôve been doing,‚Äù he added grimly. + 

In Bruddersford wives do not stand on ceremony at such moments of crisis, and Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, without a word of protest, made the tea and released the kipper from its long ordeal. + 

‚ÄúIf this ‚Äôere fish had ‚Äôa‚Äô been by t‚Äôfire a minute longer,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, now seated at the table, ‚Äúit ‚Äôud ‚Äôave started warping. It‚Äôs like a bit o‚Äô burnt wood.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúHappen it‚Äôs last you‚Äôll see for a bit,‚Äù his wife retorted, having been roused by this gratuitous sally. ‚ÄúNever mind about that. What ‚Äôave you gotten stopped for?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúFor nowt, just nowt,‚Äù he began. ‚ÄúOr, if you like, for bein‚Äô a man and not a damned monkey.‚Äù He stopped to take a drink of tea, then, pointing his fork at Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd, he resumed: ‚ÄúThis morning I hadn‚Äôt a wagon in, and so were doin‚Äô nowt for a bit. Simpson, t‚Äôunder-manager, comes up an‚Äô ses, ‚ÄòWhat are you on with, Oakroyd?‚Äô and I tells him, ‚ÄòNowt, just now.‚Äô They‚Äôre puttin‚Äô up a temporary shed for t‚Äôwagons, and so Simpson ses, ‚ÄòWell, help wi‚Äô t‚Äôshed. You can start by getting this into shape.‚Äô And he points to a beam they pulled out o‚Äô t‚Äôold shed, and he finds measurements for me. So I borrows an axe an‚Äô a big crosscut saw and gets to work on this ‚Äôere beam. I haven‚Äôt been at it more ner ten minutes when a chap taps me on t‚Äôback. I don‚Äôt know him but I know he‚Äôs one t‚Äôshop-stewards. ‚ÄòAn when did you join t‚ÄôCarpenters‚Äô Union, comrade?‚Äô he ses, very nasty. ‚ÄòWhat d‚Äôyou mean?‚Äô I ses, though I knew what was coming. He pointed to t‚Äôbeam: ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs a carpenter‚Äôs job,‚Äô he ses, ‚Äòan‚Äô you keep off it, comrade.‚Äô I give him a look. ‚ÄòComrade!‚Äô I ses, ‚ÄòMy God!‚Äô ‚ÄòI‚Äôve noticed you once or twice,‚Äô he ses, ‚Äòan it‚Äôs struck me you‚Äôve got the makings of a blackleg,‚Äô he ses. ‚ÄòAn summat else‚Äôll strike you in a minute, mate, if you stay here callin‚Äô me names,‚Äô I ses. ‚ÄòWell, leave that job alone,‚Äô he ses, an‚Äô walks off. And of course I had to.‚Äù + 

He paused for refreshment, and his wife stared at him and said that she didn‚Äôt know whatever things were coming to. + 

‚ÄúWell, let me finish,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, as if she had been preventing him. ‚ÄúSo I‚Äôd nowt to do again. By an‚Äô by, Simpson comes round again, this time wi‚Äô manager hisself, old Thorley. They‚Äôre takking a quick look round and seem a bit flustered. Thorley sees me. ‚ÄòWhat‚Äôs this man doing?‚Äô he asks. ‚ÄòEh, Oakroyd,‚Äô Simpson shouts across, ‚Äòget on wi‚Äô that job an‚Äô sharp about it.‚Äô ‚ÄòI can‚Äôt get on wi‚Äô it,‚Äô I shout back, and moves across to tell ‚Äôem. ‚ÄòGo on, man, go on, man, go on!‚Äô ses old Thorley, waving his hand at me, and out they goes. At dinnertime I hears that the great man hisself, Sir Joseph Higden, Bart‚ÅÝ‚Äîan‚Äô his father were nobbut a weaving over-looker like mine‚ÅÝ‚Äîis on the premises. I knew now why t‚Äômanagers were so flustered. ‚ÄòI‚Äôll bet they‚Äôre cuttin‚Äô summat down,‚Äô I ses. About three o‚Äôclock they lands in our department, Sir Joseph and Thorley, wi‚Äô Simpson behind. I see Sir Joseph wave his hand. Then Thorley looks round, an‚Äô I see him look at me and then say summat to Simpson. In a minute or two, Simpson comes up an‚Äô ses, ‚ÄòI‚Äôm sorry, Oakroyd, but you‚Äôll ‚Äôa‚Äô to take a week‚Äôs notice.‚Äô ‚ÄòWhat for?‚Äô I ses. ‚ÄòWhat have I done?‚Äô ‚ÄòIt‚Äôs your own fault,‚Äô he ses, ‚Äòthere‚Äôs so many to be stopped, an‚Äô you shouldn‚Äôt have let Mr.¬ÝThorley see you this morning.‚Äô ‚ÄòIt were no fault o‚Äô mine,‚Äô I ses, ‚Äòan‚Äô I‚Äôm going to have a word wi‚Äô Mr.¬ÝThorley.‚Äô And I did have a word wi‚Äô him, an‚Äô a fat lot o‚Äô good it did me. I begins to tell him how long I‚Äôd been there, an‚Äô he cuts me short an‚Äô ses some of us older men is as idle as young uns instead o‚Äô setting an example. That were enough for me, and I ses summat I shouldn‚Äôt ha‚Äô said. ‚ÄòPay ‚Äôim off an‚Äô give him his card,‚Äô he ses. ‚ÄòThis man‚Äôs finished wi‚Äô Higden‚Äôs for good an‚Äô all.‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat comes o‚Äô not keeping a civil tongue in your head, Jess Oakroyd,‚Äù said his wife reproachfully. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve warned you afore now.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhatd‚Äôyou think I‚Äôm made of?‚Äù demanded Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúWhen a chap‚Äôs called a blackleg in t‚Äômorning an‚Äô an idler i‚Äô t‚Äôafternoon, he‚Äôs got to say summat. Well, I gets my week‚Äôs money and my card at five o‚Äôclock, and sets off for t‚ÄôUnion office to tell my tale there. Secretary‚Äôs not in. That‚Äôs young Maundery, him as talks so much about the proletariat. I waits about and waits about. By and by in he comes, an‚Äô who‚Äôs with him? That shop-steward, the comrade. In they come, laughing and talking, two bloody comrades together. A fat lot o‚Äô good my trying to tell ‚Äôem my tale! Started pulling me up right an‚Äô left. ‚ÄòNotify this, that, an‚Äô t‚Äôother.‚Äô ‚ÄòOh, you go to Hell,‚Äô I ses at finish. What wi‚Äô one an‚Äô another, and being badgered this way an‚Äô that, I hadn‚Äôt a bit o‚Äô patience left. ‚ÄòOh, you go to Hell,‚Äô I ses, and marches out. And now you know.‚Äù + 

His wife sat there rigid, her eyes fixed on his. For a few moments her face softened and she looked as if she were about to cry. But as she watched him dispose of the remainder of his tea, deal aggressively with a piece of pastry and a second cup, the hard lines came back into her face, the unfriendly gleam into her eyes. ‚ÄúWell, and what are you going to do now then?‚Äù she asked. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd pushed aside his cup. It was a little gesture of despair. ‚ÄúLine up for t‚Äôdole till another job turns up.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd ‚Äôow long ‚Äôull that be?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúDon‚Äôt ask me. You know what it is now. That bag o‚Äô tools ‚Äôull be there a long time, I‚Äôm thinking.‚Äù He stood up now and looked across at his tools, lying on the sofa. Then he glanced down at his dirty old working clothes, and suddenly arrived, he knew not how or why, at a queer little decision. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm off upstairs to change my clothes,‚Äù he announced, and departed. + 

When he came down again, he found his wife preparing Leonard‚Äôs tea. He saw at a glance that she had made up her mind about something: her lips were tightly folded upon some recent decision. He waited for her to speak, turning, in his misery, to the old-time comfort of Old Salt. + 

‚ÄúWell, that settles it,‚Äù she began. + 

‚ÄúWhat settles what?‚Äù he asked uneasily. + 

‚ÄúAlbert Tuggridge comes ‚Äôere,‚Äù she announced. Then, before he had time to do more than remove his pipe, she charged in, working herself up to a fury of justification. ‚ÄúNow, don‚Äôt start on again, don‚Äôt start on. You‚Äôve just thrown your job away, you‚Äôre not going to throw this away an‚Äô all, that you‚Äôre not. If t‚Äôlad‚Äôs still willing to come, ‚Äôere he comes, and sooner the better. If it takes any more work it‚Äôll be mine and I‚Äôll have it to stand, so it‚Äôs more my business ner yours, and I say he can come. We‚Äôve got to live, ‚Äôaven‚Äôt we? You‚Äôd got little room to talk when you were in work, and you‚Äôve less now.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou might ‚Äôa‚Äô let me off Albert for this one night anyhow,‚Äù he said quietly. + 

This only made her angrier. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs got to be settled, ‚Äôasn‚Äôt it? An‚Äô let me tell you this, if Albert don‚Äôt come, Leonard might be going. I heard ‚Äôem saying summat t‚Äôother night. I don‚Äôt think t‚Äôlad would leave his mother, but ‚Äôe might, wi‚Äô you always on to him. And then where should we be? Just when he‚Äôs getting a good wage, too!‚Äù + 

So that was it. He was angry too now. ‚ÄúIf Albert comes ‚Äôere,‚Äù he said firmly, ‚ÄúI go.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúDon‚Äôt talk so soft. Where are you going? Are you going to live at t‚ÄôMidland Hotel on your dole money?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot so much about the dole! It‚Äôs first time it‚Äôs had to be mentioned in this ‚Äôouse, let me tell you.‚Äù He took his wounded pride to the door and there brooded over his pipe. When he swivelled his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other, his elbow set something rustling in his inside coat pocket. There were four five-pound notes there. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre we are at last, the old firm!‚Äù This was Leonard. His father followed him into the living-room. ‚ÄúTea ready, Mar?‚Äù cried the youth, gaily. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the stuff!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGot on all right, Len?‚Äù asked his mother, bringing the large fat kipper from the fire. + 

‚ÄúAb‚Äëso‚Äëlutely! D‚Äôyou know what I made in tips? Guess. Eight-and-threepence. Eight-shillings-and-threepence. Not so dusty. Good old Gregson‚Äôs!‚Äù His mother poured out a cup of tea for the conquering hero. + 

‚ÄúGood job we‚Äôre gettin‚Äô it from somewhere,‚Äù she remarked. ‚ÄúYour father‚Äôs finished at Higden‚Äôs.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs this?‚Äù A close observer might have noticed a subtle change at once in Leonard‚Äôs manner. + 

His father, for once, was a close observer. ‚ÄúAll right, all right,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúGive it a rest for a minute. Is that t‚Äôpaper you‚Äôve got there?‚Äù It was, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, claiming it, retired to a corner of the sofa, plodding steadily and miserably down the columns of the Bruddersford Evening Express and trying to shut his ears to the whispering of the other two at the table. + 

Quarter of an hour later, on arriving at the fifth page, it was not necessary for him to try to fix his attention on the paper. His attention was securely riveted there. He stared and stared at a report headed: ‚ÄúStreet Robbery. Local Sportsman‚Äôs Loss.‚Äù Phrases leaped up to meet his eye: ‚ÄúThe well-known local sportsman, Mr.¬ÝGeorge Jobley‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ returning to his home in Park Drive, Merton Park, Bruddersford, last night‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ Mr.¬ÝJobley had been attending various race-meetings‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ had left his friends to walk the short distance to his home‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ attacked and robbed‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ at least ¬£120 missing‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ strange affair‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ most important street robbery in Bruddersford for years‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ Mr.¬ÝJobley not injured but some shock.‚Äù And the last sentence of all held his eye longest: ‚ÄúThe police announce that they possess a valuable clue to the identity of the assailant.‚Äù What was this? + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre, who‚Äôs this chap, George Jobley?‚Äù he demanded. + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the bookie feller that‚Äôs been robbed,‚Äù replied Leonard. ‚ÄúI know him well by sight. He‚Äôs one o‚Äô the lads.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs‚Äôe like?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúTallish feller with a red face. Always dressed in a check suit and spats. What‚Äôs up?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNowt!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd returned untruthfully. George! He stared at the report again. ‚ÄúThe police announce that they possess a valuable clue‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ‚Äù Nay, but a hundred and twenty pounds! It had nothing to do with him, nothing at all. There were a thousand things a perfectly innocent citizen might do to clear himself, but now Mr.¬ÝOakroyd could not consider them, for his little world was shaking, collapsing, and now another prop had been kicked away. One thing coming on top of another! + 

As if to confirm this, a voice came roaring from the doorway. ‚ÄúHello, hello, hello, hello! Ev‚Äôrybody at ‚Äôome, and smilin‚Äô! Oh, I do like a kipper for my tea! What‚Äôo, Len! ‚ÄôEvening, Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd!‚Äù And who could this be but Albert? + 

‚ÄúOh, my God!‚Äù And groaning thus, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd flung down his paper and rose to his feet. + 

‚ÄúHello, hello!‚Äù cried Albert, still loudly but this time indignantly. ‚ÄúWhat ‚Äôave I done wrong?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúTake no notice of ‚Äôim, Albert.‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd gave her husband a furious glance, then, with an astonishing quick-change, smiled at her visitor. ‚ÄúCome in and sit yer down. You know you‚Äôre welcome. An‚Äô another thing, if you want to stay ‚Äôere, you can do.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh!‚Äù cried her husband. ‚ÄúAnd who says so?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI say so.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd so do I,‚Äù Leonard added truculently. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd took a quick step towards his son, who immediately dropped his truculence and, indeed, seemed to flinch, like a very small boy. But then Mr.¬ÝOakroyd pulled himself up and stood still, a man at bay, thinking hard. The next moment he had dashed upstairs. + 

Once there he began looking about him eagerly. ‚ÄúI must ‚Äôa‚Äô summat,‚Äù he muttered. There was a suitcase, Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs pride. No, he wouldn‚Äôt take that. There was the old round tin trunk. Too heavy and cumbersome. Then he remembered the basket thing, and pulled it out of the corner where it had been for the last fifteen years. It was very light and quite small, only eighteen inches long and a foot deep, and it would hold all he wanted to carry. Into this absurd receptacle‚ÅÝ‚Äîor at least one half of it, for the other half would have to be jammed on as a lid‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe stuffed a nightshirt and day shirt, three collars and some handkerchiefs, a muffler, a vest and a pair of pants, and his shaving kit. When he had jammed on the top half, he bethought him of his old mackintosh, and folded it round the little basket trunk before he fastened it with the strap, which was still intact and boasted of a holder for the hand. Then he put on a pair of strong boots and hurried downstairs, basket in hand, to confront three astonished faces. + 

‚ÄúWhat in the name o‚Äô goodness‚ÅÝ‚Äî!‚Äù cried his wife. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm off,‚Äù he announced. + 

‚ÄúWhere to?‚Äù asked Leonard, still staring. ‚ÄúYer can‚Äôt go like that, Par. Where can you go to?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNever mind, never mind!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝOakroyd was white with temper. ‚ÄúLet ‚Äôim go, let ‚Äôim go! Tryin‚Äô ‚Äôis tricks! ‚ÄôE won‚Äôt hear a word from me about stayin‚Äô. Let ‚Äôim go. ‚ÄôE‚Äôll be in a diff‚Äôrent frame o‚Äô mind when ‚Äôe comes back. And that won‚Äôt be so long either.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou can do what you like wi‚Äô t‚Äôplace now,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs yer own. There‚Äôs a week‚Äôs money there and no doubt you‚Äôll manage after that.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúManage!‚Äù cried his wife, in a fury of scorn. ‚ÄúOf course we can manage. Nivver better off. You‚Äôve been wanting a lesson some time and now you‚Äôre runnin‚Äô to get it. Go on, go on.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd said nothing, but moved over to the sofa and took up his bag of tools, dumping it beside the basket trunk. Then he stuck his old brown cap at the back of his head, and prepared to depart. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre,‚Äù said Albert, pointing to the table. ‚ÄúWhat about that?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù said Leonard. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll ‚Äôave to ‚Äôave that.‚Äù And he held out the insurance card. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stood staring at the greenish-blue card in his hand, staring as if he were in a dream. Man‚ÅÝ‚ÄîAge 16 to 65.‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ Failure to surrender this card promptly‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ If the Insured Person‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ The Insured Person‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ All so familiar and yet so strange. He stood staring, baffled, lost in the dark of a world of notices and notifying, of sneering Comrades and stupid autocratic managers, of buzzers that kept your feet from the road, of signs that could never be hoisted, of daughters that grew up, laughing and singing, and then vanished over the sea. Then something inside him flared and went shooting through this bewildered dark like a rocket, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd committed a crime. + 

‚ÄúOh, to hell wi‚Äô t‚Äôcard!‚Äù he cried, and tore it across and threw the pieces into the fire. Then, leaving horror-stricken amazement behind him, he picked up his bag of tools and his little basket trunk and made for the door. + 

‚ÄúNow you‚Äôve done it,‚Äù they were crying. ‚ÄúWhere yer going?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúDown South,‚Äù he replied, and vanished into the night. + 

II + 

Miss Trant Takes a Holiday + 

I + 

Once more we look down upon English hills, lit by the same September sun. But it is another England; the dark Pennines have been left far behind; the grim heights of ling and peat and black rock, the reeking cauldrons that were the valleys, all have vanished. Here are pleasant green mounds, heights of grass forever stirring to the tune of the southwest winds; clear valleys, each with its gleam of water; grey stone villages, their walls flushing to a delicate pink in the sunlight; parish churches that have rung in and rung out Tudor, Stuart, and Hanoverian kings; manor houses that have waited for news from Naseby and Blenheim and Waterloo and Inkerman and Ypres, then have let their windows blaze through the night or have suddenly grown still and dark, but have kept their stones unchanged; and here and there, in the wider valleys, little woods where you could play A Midsummer Night‚Äôs Dream, and gardens shaped and coloured, to the last inch of lawn cross-gartered with stone paths, from the tallest hollyhock to the smallest rosebush, for the music and happy folly of Twelfth Night. This is, indeed, another England, this green and windy outpost of Arden. Over to the west, beyond the deep channels of the rivers, is the Welsh Border country, a Celtic place, with hills as dark and mysterious as a fragment of Arthurian legend. But here, in the Cotswolds, all is open and pleasant, a Saxon tale of grass and grey stone, wind and clear running water. We have quitted the long war of the north. Here is a place of compromise, for Nature has planed off her sharp summits and laid down green carpets in place of bog and heather and rock, and man has forsworn his mad industrial antics, has settled himself modestly and snugly in the valleys and along the hillsides, has trotted out his sheep and put up a few tiny mills, and has been content. Yes, these two signed a peace here, and it has lasted a thousand years. + 

Chipping Campden is to the north of us, Cirencester to the south, Burford to the east, and Cheltenham to the west. This grey cluster of roofs, with the square church tower in the middle, is almost equidistant from all those four admirable townships. It is the village of Hitherton-on-the-Wole. Sometimes motorists, hurrying from lunch at Oxford to tea at Broadway or Chipping Campden, lose their way and find themselves at Hitherton, and the little books prepared for their use tell them at once that Hitherton has 855 inhabitants, closes early on Wednesday, empties its letter-box at 5:30¬Ýp.m., boasts an hotel, The Shepherd‚Äôs Hall (three bedrooms) and a garage, J. Hurley¬Ý& Son, and has at least one thing worth looking at, for the account closes with the command‚ÅÝ‚ÄîSee Church. Very few of them do stay to see the church, though the rector, the Rev. Thomas J. S. Chillingford, has not only written a short history of it but has also published this history as a pamphlet: ‚ÄúReprinted from the ‚ÄòTransactions of the Bristol and Gloucestershire Archaeological Society‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù; and any visitor who appreciates an extraordinarily fine rood-screen when he sees one (to say nothing of two possible leper-windows on the north side) cannot fail to obtain a copy of this pamphlet. But away they go, these motorists, and never once turn their heads to remark, with Mr.¬ÝChillingford, that the church ‚Äúfrom a distance suggests a brooding-mother-bird with head erect.‚Äù Thus when any strange and expensive-looking motorcar stops there, everybody in Hitherton, with the exception of Mrs.¬ÝFarley of The Shepherd‚Äôs Hall and J. Hurley¬Ý& Son, who are always hopeful, prepares at once to point the way to other and more important places. + 

There are some days, however, when people do not lose their way and find themselves in Hitherton but deliberately go there and stay there. This is one of the days. For the last three weeks the countryside has been plastered with notices saying that Messrs. Medworth, Higgs, and Medworth would sell by auction and without reserve the remaining effects of the Old Hall, Hitherton-on-the-Wole. Well-informed people‚ÅÝ‚Äîand almost everybody in Hitherton is well-informed‚ÅÝ‚Äîhave been telling one another ever since old Colonel Trant died, several months ago, that there was sure to be a sale. It was known for certain that the Trants were not so well-off as they used to be. It was known too that Miss Elizabeth Trant, who had looked after her father ever since her mother‚Äôs death, fifteen years ago, would not live on at the Hall but at the Cottage. Miss Elizabeth had been left everything, it was said, though she was the youngest of the Colonel‚Äôs three children. But then she well deserved everything the Colonel could leave her‚ÅÝ‚Äîindeed, deserved more than that‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor had she not stayed in Hitherton and looked after him in his old age? And in the last years he must have been a trial, too. He had had to miss the last two Flower Shows and could not even hobble to church, the poor old gentleman. It was a blessing when he found his way in the end to the churchyard. And Miss Trant, who must be about thirty-seven, though being so straight and slim and fair she does not look it, had taken care of him year after year and had hardly left the village for more than a night this long time; whereas her brother, who was some sort of judge in India, and her sister, who had married well and lived in London, rarely came near the place. Everybody knew that what with the Colonel‚Äôs retired pay going and debts to be paid off and one thing and another, Miss Trant would have less than ¬£200 a year for herself. That was why she intended to live at the Cottage, to which all the things she wanted had already been removed, and why all that remained at the Old Hall, now to be let, was being sold by auction. + 

It is a long time since Medworth, Higgs, and Medworth last descended upon Hitherton. This is a great day. Any number of cars have gone up to the Old Hall, already Mrs.¬ÝFarley has had to open another bottle of whisky, and J. Hurley¬Ý& Son have had to mend two punctures and see what they could do with a very queer magneto. People, quite ordinary people, not dealers, have come from as far as Bourton-on-the-Water and Winchcombe and Great Barrington. As for dealers, they have come from the ends of the earth. There are at least two from Cheltenham and three from Oxford and one from Gloucester, all proper antique dealers and not merely grocers and drapers who keep a room upstairs filled with secondhand furniture. Not that there are not any of them here, for of course there are quite a number. And it is said that there is one man, the one with eyeglasses and a pointed beard, who represents some big London firm. He did not come down specially, for it is his business to tour the country, but here he is. Then for every one of these professional buyers there must be at least twenty amateurs, local people who have come to see if they can pick up a bit of china or a bedstead. Last of all, there are people who have not come to buy anything, but to see what the Old Hall looks like inside, to walk round the garden, to turn things over and over, and get in the way, to enjoy themselves. These visitors, many of whom have brought all their children, easily outnumber the others, and just as they were the first to arrive, so they will be the last to go. ‚ÄúAlways the same, always the same!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝJames Medworth to the protesting Miss Trant. ‚ÄúThey will come, and there‚Äôs no stopping ‚Äôem.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMedworth has spent years pushing his way through rooms crowded and overheated with these people, and now regards their presence as something inevitable. Still, they laugh at his little jokes, and Mr.¬ÝMedworth has a stock of little jokes. He is a middle-aged man with a very wide mouth and a glitter of large protruding teeth, so that he looks like a jovial shark. Miss Trant does not like him, but is quite willing to believe her solicitor, Mr.¬ÝTruby of Cheltenham, who says: ‚ÄúSmart man, Medworth. Smart man. Keen people.‚Äù + 

She was there at the Hall this morning, when people began to arrive and look round, but did not stay very long. She is not very sentimental and all her own cherished possessions have been removed to the Cottage, but nevertheless she discovered that the sudden disintegration of a home, however desolating that home might have been sometimes, into a mere jumble of objects, gave her no pleasure. All the things now looked so naked, so helpless. ‚ÄúAwful lot o‚Äô junk here,‚Äù she heard one man say to another, dealers every inch of them; and she hurried round the corner, only to run into that familiar steel engraving of Lord Raglan, now Lot 117, and to find that his lordship was glaring into vacancy, cutting her dead. But all the things were like that, either indignant or wistful. She retired, wishing she had taken more of them to the Cottage, though she knew very well that the Cottage was too full already. + 

She found Mrs.¬ÝPurton putting the Cottage in order, and spent the next hour or two helping her. Mrs.¬ÝPurton had been cook at the Hall, and her husband‚ÅÝ‚Äîand his father before him‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad been gardener, and now they had both been transferred, for the time being, to the Cottage. Mrs.¬ÝPurton ‚Äúdidn‚Äôt ‚Äôold with auctioneering,‚Äù apparently regarding it as a frivolous pastime, and so she had stayed at home all day. But Purton was up at the Hall, partly because he was a sociable man and had no intention of missing such an event, and partly because he was also very loyal and believed that his presence would put a stop to any thieving, particularly in the kitchen garden. So in order that no vegetables should be taken, he was spending his time following the auctioneer round from room to room, apparently convinced that it was Mr.¬ÝMedworth, his clerks, and the dealers, who would want watching. It was Purton who brought news of the sale. + 

‚ÄúIs it all over, Purton?‚Äù cried Miss Trant, as soon as she saw him coming down the garden. He came up, touched his cap, then, putting his hands in his trousers pockets, he began swaying back from the hips. This was his favourite attitude when he had anything important to say, so that Miss Trant, who knew her man, realized at once that he was bursting with news. Not that he looked excited. You cannot expect a gardener who for the past six years has won the first prize for onions (Ailsa Craigs)‚ÅÝ‚Äîto say nothing of any number of minor events‚ÅÝ‚Äîat the Hitherton and District Show, to betray his feelings. + 

‚ÄúNo, Miss, rightly speaking, it isn‚Äôt over,‚Äù he replied. ‚ÄúBut what‚Äôs left don‚Äôt amount to much. A lot o‚Äô people goin‚Äô now. But that thar bit of a sideboard that stood in the ‚Äôall, that old un‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù and he stopped talking only to sway more violently. + 

‚ÄúYou mean the Tudor one. I know. I couldn‚Äôt find a place for it here, Purton, and they say it‚Äôs very valuable. What happened to it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúA ‚Äôundred and forty pound,‚Äù announced Purton, staring at her solemnly. ‚ÄúA ‚Äôundred and forty pound, that‚Äôs just fetched.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIsn‚Äôt that splendid, Purton!‚Äù Miss Trant looked at him with shining eyes, and did not seem a day older than twenty. + 

He stopped swaying, removed one hand from its pocket, and held up three fingers very impressively. ‚ÄúThree of ‚Äôem after it at the finish, that‚Äôs all‚ÅÝ‚Äîthree! Dealers they was. An Oxford feller, and a Cheltenham feller, and a little chap with a beard that‚Äôs come from London. Three of ‚Äôem! And they ‚Äôardly says a word, ‚Äôardly a word. Never see anything like it!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat did they do then?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWinks. Just winks.‚Äù And Purton produced three of them too, very slow and solemn affairs, to show her how it was done, and then stared at her while she tried hard not to giggle. ‚ÄúMr.¬ÝMedworth, ‚Äôe says ‚ÄòGoin‚Äô at ninety‚Äô and then one of ‚Äôem winks, and Mr.¬ÝMedworth says ‚ÄòNinety-five‚Äô and looks at another of ‚Äôem, gets a wink and ‚Äôas it up to a hundred. ‚ÄòAnd five‚Äô says the chap with a beard, and then they starts winkin‚Äô again, and then it‚Äôs winked right up to one ‚Äôundred and forty pounds. ‚ÄôE‚Äôs done well, ‚Äôas that thar sideboard.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI never thought it was worth as much as that, Purton.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou wouldn‚Äôt think so, Miss, would you‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust a bit of an old sideboard,‚Äù said Purton, speaking very confidentially. ‚ÄúIt wouldn‚Äôt surprise me if it woren‚Äôt. It‚Äôs this ‚Äôere competition that does it. Carries you away. You think you must ‚Äôave it. I once found meself landed with ten runner ducks that I no more wanted nor thought o‚Äô buying when I went up and ‚Äôad a look at the chap selling ‚Äôem than I thought o‚Äô buying a ring-tailed monkey. Got carried away. Plenty ‚Äôas been carried away this afternoon up at that thar auctioning. Mr.¬ÝMedworth says it‚Äôs a good sale. I‚Äôll be back thar, Miss, as soon as I‚Äôve had a bit to eat. I‚Äôll ‚Äôelp to clear up. There‚Äôll be a nasty mess when they‚Äôve done, I know.‚Äù + 

For the first time that day, Miss Trant began to feel excited about the sale. Mr.¬ÝMedworth had told her that it was impossible for him to say beforehand what the things would fetch; it all depended on the number of people who came, the sort of people and the mood they were in; and the whole lot might go for less than five hundred pounds, but on the other hand it might realize something like a thousand. It was impossible to doubt anything that Mr.¬ÝMedworth said about such matters. Miss Trant had tried, with some measure of success, to regard the whole proceeding as so much dull routine‚ÅÝ‚Äîone of the innumerable dreary things that had had to be done since her father died‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut now she realized that this was a gigantic gamble, a homely Monte Carlo, got up for her benefit. The difference between a good sale and a bad one might mean a difference of several hundred pounds, which in their turn could add a pound or two a month to her income. You could work it out in grades of China tea or silk stockings, that difference. And now it was being decided. She walked up and down the little Cottage garden, her head humming with addition and subtraction as it had done many a time these last few years, when she had had to pay all the bills and keep the accounts for her father. She was poorer now but she did not feel poorer. Actually she felt vaguely rich. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs because I‚Äôve heard so much talk about money,‚Äù she told herself, thinking of the discussions she had had with Mr.¬ÝTruby in his Dickens-ish little office, and then, more recently, with Mr.¬ÝMedworth, who was at once too teethy and jovial to be a gentleman. + 

She saw Purton return to the Hall, but did not follow him. After a restless half-hour or so in the Cottage, mostly spent in picking things up, walking about with them, and then putting them down again, she went to the bottom of the garden. The village below seemed to be full of cars, hooting through the main street and then roaring away to the Oxford or Cheltenham roads. The sale must be all over now. She would walk across and see. + 

When she approached the Hall, picking her way through a smelly muddle of people and cars and vans, the glorious September afternoon seemed to change at once. Its ripe gold became hot and dusty gilt. The Hall itself seemed smaller in this strange atmosphere, made up of straw and string and petrol and stares and silly jokes and perspiring bargainers. The place gaped vacantly, like a once handsome old idiot. As she skirted the crowd in front and made her way to a side door, she had a glimpse of certain familiar tables and chairs and pictures now being lifted into vans and carts, and that glimpse made her feel, as nothing that had happened before during these last few months had made her feel, that her life indeed was changed, beginning all over again. Those things had seemed more fixed and inevitable than the constellations, and now they were being hurried through the dust. They too were beginning all over again. And before she had reached the side door, she found herself choking a little, close to tears. She brushed past the men who were sweeping up the litter in the passages and made for the hall itself, the glory of the house. There she disturbed the rector, Mr.¬ÝChillingford, who was peering at the woodwork through a large reading glass. + 

He looked up, startled. ‚ÄúHello! I had to have a look at this panelling at the back, now that I can see it properly. I knew it was different from the rest. I told my wife it was only this morning. Not that she said it wasn‚Äôt, of course, because she‚Äôs not interested in this sort of thing.‚Äù Then he brought his round red innocent face closer to hers, and said, more gently: ‚ÄúYou look worried, Elizabeth. All this hasn‚Äôt been very pleasant for you, has it? You shouldn‚Äôt have come here; you should have kept out of the way, my dear.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI suppose I ought,‚Äù she replied vaguely. ‚ÄúBut I have kept out of the way most of the time. And I‚Äôm not feeling what you think I‚Äôm feeling. It‚Äôs not sentiment about this place that‚Äôs worrying me.‚Äù She stopped, then smiled at him rather wanly. + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôre like Dorothy and all the other young people I know nowadays,‚Äù he said. He always thought of Elizabeth Trant as a contemporary of his daughter and her friend, though actually she was ten years older. He saw her as a tall brisk schoolgirl who would one day become a woman. It was something undeveloped, immature, sexless, in her that fostered such conceptions. ‚ÄúYes, you‚Äôre like the rest,‚Äù he continued. ‚ÄúYou think there‚Äôs something to be ashamed of in sentiment. That‚Äôs why it seems to be dying out, leaving the world. But I don‚Äôt see myself that the world will be a better place without it. Not a bit, not a bit! It‚Äôll be a worse place. So don‚Äôt you be ashamed of your feelings, my dear.‚Äù And he gave her a little pat or two on the shoulder. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm not. I‚Äôm only trying to be honest about them. And it really is something quite different.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat is it then?‚Äù he inquired indulgently. + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know‚ÅÝ‚Äîquite. It‚Äôs too complicated.‚Äù But she did know, though she had neither the will nor the words at her command to tell him. It was not because something had ended for her but because she had just seen how it ended that she was so troubled, so close to tears. It seemed as if her father‚Äôs life had not come to its end in the churchyard there, but here and now, in the dust and straw and shouting, had been bargained and frittered away into oblivion this very afternoon. She seemed to have had a sudden terrible glimpse of life as it really was, and was ready to weep at the thought of its strange dusty littleness. + 

‚ÄúAll the things you really want, of course, have been removed to the Cottage?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝChillingford knew very well they had, but the question seemed to him to have a certain consolatory value. + 

‚ÄúYes, everything,‚Äù she told him, and stared at the fantastically empty hall, into which the heavy sunlight came oozing. + 

‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôm told it‚Äôs been a splendid sale, a splendid sale,‚Äù he added cheerfully, as they walked together to the front door. + 

Just outside, Mr.¬ÝMedworth himself was glittering and booming and mopping his brow. At the sight of Miss Trant, he triumphantly raised a hand. ‚ÄúA very successful afternoon, I‚Äôm told,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝChillingford, opening the subject for him. + 

‚ÄúCouldn‚Äôt be better, couldn‚Äôt be better,‚Äù he cried, and then looked so businesslike that Mr.¬ÝChillingford hurried away at once. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre just finishing off now, Miss Trant, the figures, y‚Äôknow. Over a thousand, I‚Äôm confident of that. Yes, over a thousand.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhy, that‚Äôs even more than you thought it would come to, even at the best, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù Miss Trant felt rich again, in spite of her sober acquaintance with figures. + 

‚ÄúWell, I wouldn‚Äôt say that because I‚Äôm never surprised, never,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMedworth said, very judicially. ‚ÄúBut we‚Äôve been lucky today, very lucky. Some keen men here, real competition. And‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhere he lowered his voice and hid his teeth‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúit was lucky you took my advice about the walnut pieces and left them in. Worth far more to these fellows than they are to you. All a fashion!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúDid they sell very well, then?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúFetched ridiculous prices, ridiculous! Knew they would, if we got the right people here. That little bureau went up to thirty-five. Three of ‚Äôem after every piece.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝMedworth continued in this strain for the next ten minutes, at the end of which he had to break off because he found a mass of documents thrust under his nose. + 

‚ÄúWe‚Äôve got it now,‚Äù he announced, five minutes later. ‚ÄúOne thousand and sixty-five pounds, fourteen shillings, and sixpence, that‚Äôs what we make it. That‚Äôs less our commission, y‚Äôknow. All your own, Miss Trant, eh? Yes, all your own. Shall we settle up with Mr.¬ÝTruby? Ah yes, I‚Äôll settle with Mr.¬ÝTruby tomorrow. Good!‚Äù He turned away as if to depart and swept round again so quickly that he made Miss Trant feel dizzy. ‚ÄúThe house,‚Äù he cried, lifting a long fat forefinger. ‚ÄúWe mustn‚Äôt forget that. They‚Äôre cleaning it up now, and tomorrow, Miss Trant, perhaps you could get a woman or two in to finish it off. And a gardener to tidy up. You could, eh? I‚Äôll tell you why. We‚Äôre going to get rid of the house sooner than I thought. Inquiry came in yesterday, and I‚Äôll send ‚Äôem over day after tomorrow. How‚Äôs that for you? Send someone with ‚Äôem, of course, but thought you might like to show ‚Äôem round a bit yourself. Sure you don‚Äôt want to sell? No. Quite right, quite right. Well, we‚Äôll stick at a hundred and fifty, not a penny less. Get it easily, best house in the district. Day after tomorrow then, morning if possible. And settle with Mr.¬ÝTruby. Good afternoon, Miss Trant. Go‚Äëod afternoon. Here, where‚Äôs Charlie?‚Äù But this last shout was not intended for Miss Trant, and now we have finished with Mr.¬ÝMedworth. + 

Miss Trant returned to the Cottage, richer by the sum of one thousand and sixty-five pounds, fourteen shillings, and sixpence. She walked quickly and erectly down the lane, then tidied up the Cottage and tidied up herself, dealt justly with an excellent cold supper, wrote a few letters and read a chapter or two before going, rather earlier than usual, to bed; and nobody who saw her could have guessed what she was feeling. Here was the trim, the brisk, the efficient Miss Trant that everybody knew, with not a single hair of that light-brown and unbobbed mass disturbed. Nevertheless, she felt as if she were lost. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs weak and silly to feel like this,‚Äù she told herself firmly. ‚ÄúIn the morning, I must begin all over again.‚Äù Before she could do more than turn over a few vague plans, she was asleep, dreaming perhaps of the long-deferred payment of life to her youth, that youth which the calendar, lying to her bright face, said had slipped by. And now Hitherton was itself again, quiet under the glimmer of stars. There were no cars parked in the main street. The last van had shaken itself from the Hall long ago. J. Hurley¬Ý& Son had closed the garage and were celebrating their victory over the queer magneto by eating a large late supper of cold potato pie. In the taproom of The Shepherd‚Äôs Hall, Purton was finishing his final half-pint and also the whole question of dealers‚Äô winks. The dealers themselves, the little buyers, the sightseers, had long dispersed, and with them all the chairs and tables and chests of drawers and china and guns and books and steel engravings and Indian screens and Burmese gongs, all gone out to strange places; leaving their Colonel resting in the churchyard, and his daughter sleeping under this roof of her own, still in familiar Hitherton and yet perhaps really in a new world. + 

II + 

The next morning, Miss Trant, looking through her window at the radiant vapour, decided that the day would be fine and that it should be honoured by her golden-brown jumper suit, a recent and triumphant find in Cheltenham. In the little dining-room, polished and trim and full of sunlight, she found a picture postcard awaiting her. On one side were the Glastonbury ruins. On the other was some equally ruinous and picturesque handwriting: ‚ÄúIsn‚Äôt this appalling? Must have been invented for Americans. Can I descend upon you sometime tomorrow, dinner-ish? Love, Hilary.‚Äù This was her nephew, the only son of the Indian Judge. He had recently come down from Oxford. Miss Trant looked very thoughtful over this card. She was not sure whether she wanted to entertain Hilary or not. + 

Before she could make up her mind whether Hilary would be a pleasure or a nuisance, Mrs.¬ÝPurton waddled in, set down a boiled egg, a toast-rack, and a teapot, and then proceeded in a very leisurely fashion to explode a bomb. + 

‚ÄúThey do say, Miss‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝPurton began, and then stopped, holding, as it were the smoking bomb in her hand. Miss Trant smiled at her. ‚ÄúWell, what are they saying now? Don‚Äôt frighten me, Mrs.¬ÝPurton.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThey do say‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù she stopped again. Then it came‚ÅÝ‚Äîbang! ‚ÄúMiss Chillingford, Miss Dorothy, ‚Äôas just got herself engaged to be married.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat!‚Äù Miss Trant nearly shrieked. ‚ÄúIt can‚Äôt be true. I‚Äôve never heard anything about it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt come this morning in a letter,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝPurton, enjoying herself. ‚ÄúMrs.¬ÝChillingford she tells it to Agnes, and Agnes tells it to young Cripps as brings the milk, and young Cripps tells it to me. And she‚Äôll ‚Äôave to be married very soon and then go out to Asia or India or Jamaikie or one o‚Äô them places, ‚Äôcos it‚Äôs a young gentleman as works there.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI wonder who it is?‚Äù Miss Trant stared at Mrs.¬ÝPurton‚Äôs plump red face as if she might find the name written there. + 

‚ÄúThat I don‚Äôt know, Miss.‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝPurton took her tray and turned to go. ‚ÄúAnd one o‚Äô them cars as come for furniture last night got stuck in a ditch on the Cheltenham road. Drunk, I‚Äôll be bound!‚Äù And she made her favourite exit, nodding her head like a minor prophet. + 

Miss Trant cared nothing about the fate of cars on the Cheltenham road, but the news of Dorothy Chillingford‚Äôs engagement, totally unexpected, left her a little dazed. Her plans, vague as they were, had counted upon Dorothy‚Äôs companionship or, at least, neighbouring high spirits. She felt hurt, too, at not being told, that is, not being told properly. She debated whether to look in at the Chillingfords‚Äô, but decided against it. ‚ÄúIf Mrs.¬ÝChillingford doesn‚Äôt arrive within an hour,‚Äù she told herself, ‚ÄúI shall know there‚Äôs nothing in it, just village gossip.‚Äù Purton was up at the Hall, restoring order in the big garden, and so she took his place for the morning among the Cottage flowerbeds. + 

She had not very long to wait. As soon as she saw Mrs.¬ÝChillingford‚Äôs agile little figure between the grenadier lines of hollyhocks, she knew that she had heard no mere idle rumour. ‚ÄúGood morning, my dear,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝChillingford gasped, ‚ÄúI came round to ask you over to tea this afternoon.‚Äù Dorothy‚Äôs engagement was written all over her. + 

This was a moment worthy of Mrs.¬ÝChillingford. She was a small stringy woman, with no shoulders and rheumatic joints but with a fighting face, hooked nose and snapping eyes, and an indomitable spirit. The rector himself, so long as such subjects as leper-windows, the University Commission, and Anglo-Catholicism were avoided, was one of the most placid of mortals, and there are few quieter places in this island than Hitherton. Yet Mrs.¬ÝChillingford had contrived to turn her life there into a saga. From Monday morning to Saturday night she flung out ultimatums, mobilized, gave battle, and then shot into church on Sunday to hymn her victories and send glances like bayonets to right and left of her while her husband in the pulpit murmured of peace. Visitors newly arrived from the Northwestern Frontier of the Central American republics found themselves hastily revising their notions of English country life after an hour in her company, and soon returned to London for a rest. There was just one period, lasting about six months, when she lost all her zest for conflict and was very quiet indeed, perhaps because she found it so difficult to understand John Chillingford was in future to be only a name on the village War memorial; and then the good people of Hitherton and neighbourhood discovered a peace that made the subsequent Armistice a mere anticlimax. But it was a disquieting sort of peace, and perhaps they were not altogether sorry when their rector‚Äôs wife became herself again. When she did come to the end of those six months, buried away that strangely acquiescent little woman in black, there was no holding her at all. Commissioners, recruiting officers, great ladies, even Bishops and Lords Lieutenant, were sent reeling back. And that mild and not unwise man, the Rev. Thomas Chillingford, never uttered a word of reproof but even gently suggested new adversaries and hinted from time to time, he who had never an enemy, that he was in great need of her help, almost at bay. But for a year or two now Mrs.¬ÝChillingford had had to carry on her saga almost unaided by circumstance, doing what she could with Flower Show Committee meetings and the like; here at last was an event, and it found her worthy. + 

‚ÄúYes, it‚Äôs true, and I was to tell you at once. His name‚Äôs Atkinson, Gerald Atkinson‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou may have met him; he was down here once, staying with the Horrocks. Dorothy has been seeing him in town, of course, but even then it‚Äôs rather sudden, but no worse for that, of course, not at all. He has an estate‚ÅÝ‚Äîcoffee or something‚ÅÝ‚Äîin Kenya, and they‚Äôre to be married almost at once because he must go back there very soon. And he‚Äôs nearly two years younger than Dorothy‚ÅÝ‚Äînot that that matters, of course‚ÅÝ‚Äîand apparently his people, who still command the purse-strings, don‚Äôt approve‚ÅÝ‚Äîdid you ever hear of such a thing!‚Äù + 

Now that Mrs.¬ÝChillingford stopped for breath, Miss Trant had time to wonder whether Dorothy had not invented this opposition on the part of his family, the slightest mention of which instantly made her mother heart and soul for the match. If she had been told that the Atkinsons approved, she would probably have commanded Dorothy to come home at once. But all Miss Trant said was: ‚ÄúYes, I think I remember him. Tall, and fair, wasn‚Äôt he? He didn‚Äôt seem at all too young for Dorothy.‚Äù As a matter of fact, if it was the youth she was thinking of, he didn‚Äôt seem too young for anybody. He was a very old youth indeed. + 

‚ÄúOf course not!‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝChillingford. ‚ÄúBut then, I don‚Äôt expect to hear any nonsense of that kind. I don‚Äôt know what I do expect to hear, but I‚Äôm going up to town in the morning and shall see for myself. Dorothy can count upon me, if there are fifty thousand Atkinsons there. Some of these people seem to imagine they can keep their children in leading-strings all their lives. They‚Äôve bought this boy an estate out there‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe poor boy has to do something and apparently he‚Äôs been very successful‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe first year‚ÅÝ‚Äîand now they think they can dictate to him about his marriage. Leading-strings!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd what has Dorothy decided to do about everything?‚Äù Miss Trant asked meekly. + 

‚ÄúYou mean about the date of the wedding, place, clothes, going out there, and so on? I don‚Äôt know what the child has decided because she knows better than to announce decisions on such a matter as this to me. I shall go up myself and do the deciding tomorrow. This is a mother‚Äôs business. There‚Äôll be a great deal to do, a great deal, and very little time to do it in, unless of course I decide that the whole thing ought to be postponed. I shan‚Äôt do that, I think. What are you smiling at, Elizabeth?‚Äù + 

Miss Trant bent down to remove a trowel. ‚ÄúI was just thinking,‚Äù she answered, not altogether truthfully, ‚Äúhow you‚Äôre going to enjoy yourself.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúEnjoy myself with all this fuss!‚Äù Then Mrs.¬ÝChillingford met her friend‚Äôs amused gaze, and laughed. ‚ÄúWell, perhaps I shall. She‚Äôs in love with him, I can see that. Don‚Äôt forget tea.‚Äù + 

Miss Trant sighed as she turned again to her flowerbeds. It was not a sentimental sigh. She was certainly not conscious of any desire to be engaged herself. She did not envy her friend, Dorothy; indeed, she felt rather compassionate and at the same time a little irritated, because she remembered Gerald Atkinson now and thought Dorothy was throwing herself away upon him. But then she did not pretend to know a great deal about these affairs of the heart, and really found them rather uninteresting. Her own life had never been disturbed by grand passions, and such relations as she had had with young men had been cool and friendly. There was one exception. It had happened twelve years ago, when she and her father had returned from Malta all the way by boat. She had not been well, and the ship‚Äôs doctor, a tall bony young Scot, had been called in to examine her. He was gruff and shy at first, with an honesty as plain as daylight, but they soon became friends, trod the upper deck together every morning and quietly explored one another‚Äôs mind and heart every night. The last two days it had become quite exciting; every glance, every word, became electrical, significant; and then, with the land in sight, he had suddenly changed, turned gruff and shy again, and he had let her go without saying anything, had just given her a handshake that hurt and backed away with a ghastly sort of grin. His name was Hugh McFarlane; his voice was very deep and very Scotch, one of those that bring out huge vowels and smashing consonants; and when he turned his face towards the light there was a fascinating glint of hair about his cheekbones. There was nothing about him she had forgotten, and though she rarely thought of him, perhaps he served as a secret standard in her judgement of young men. Thus, it suddenly occurred to her that he was worth at least six Gerald Atkinsons. + 

But the sigh was not for him, nor was it for Dorothy. It was just a breath coming from a kind of emptiness. She was beginning to feel a little lost again. The feeling had not gone when she crossed to the Chillingfords‚Äô for tea. + 

‚ÄúElizabeth, you need a change,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝChillingford, wagging a finger at her. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve been keeping my eye on you lately, and you need a change.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúTake my advice, my dear,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝChillingford, ‚Äúand leave this place as soon as you can. We shall miss you, of course, but you ought to go.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhere?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnywhere. Cheltenham. Oxford. London. It doesn‚Äôt matter. Sell everything you have‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean stocks and shares and things‚ÅÝ‚Äîand start in business. That‚Äôs what I should do in your place. Never hesitate a moment. Go slap into business.‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝChillingford said this with immense gusto, then went slap into a piece of sandwich cake. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôve thought of it, you know,‚Äù said Miss Trant. ‚ÄúBut what could I do? I don‚Äôt know anything.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOf course you do. Try this cake. You could open a shop and sell hats or gowns, like Betty Waltham.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes, but I‚Äôve always been told that I haven‚Äôt very good taste.‚Äù This sounded very feeble, she thought, but Miss Trant was nothing if not honest. Nevertheless, she believed in her heart of hearts that she had very good taste. + 

‚ÄúNonsense! You‚Äôve splendid taste,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝChillingford, who very notoriously had none at all. She went on to discuss other shops and girls who had marched out of the most aristocratic country houses to open them. + 

‚ÄúSo far as I can see, my dear,‚Äù remarked her husband, lighting his pipe, ‚Äúit‚Äôs only myself and this parish and perhaps‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîa certain lack of capital that are preventing you from becoming a second Selfridge or Woolworth.‚Äù And he chuckled. + 

‚ÄúPerhaps it is,‚Äù replied Mrs.¬ÝChillingford, briskly. ‚ÄúI know I wish I had Elizabeth‚Äôs opportunities.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNow for my part,‚Äù he added, turning to Miss Trant, ‚ÄúI think the only opportunity you ought to trouble yourself about just now is that of going away for a little rest and change. A little travel, now. What about Italy?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSomehow I haven‚Äôt the slightest desire to go to Italy,‚Äù said Miss Trant. + 

‚ÄúI should hope not.‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝChillingford was very emphatic. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt, for goodness‚Äô sake, Elizabeth, turn yourself into one of those terrible unmarried females who spend their time in Italy. Look at Agatha Spinthorpe and her sister. And the Murrells. No, anything but that.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúItaly then is condemned. We obliterate the whole peninsula,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝChillingford, with mild irony. He puffed away dreamily for a few moments, then went on: ‚ÄúNow if I were in your place, I should do something I‚Äôve always wanted to do. I should have a little tour‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, perhaps not so very little, when you think of it‚ÅÝ‚Äîvisiting all our English cathedrals. You may not be very interested in ecclesiastic architecture‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt think I am, you know,‚Äù Miss Trant murmured. + 

‚ÄúPossibly not.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝChillingford was unperturbed. ‚ÄúBut think what a wonderful picture of England you would have. Canterbury, Ely, Norwich, Lincoln, York, supposing you begin at that corner. A wonderful picture! You cross over to this side. Hereford, Gloucester, Wells, Salisbury, and so forth. Wonderful!‚Äù His plump face was alight with enthusiasm. + 

Miss Trant found herself faintly kindled. ‚ÄúIt does sound rather exciting when you think of it like that. And I‚Äôve hardly seen any of those places.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs been a favourite project of mine for years,‚Äù he said gravely. + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs the first I‚Äôve ever heard of it,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝChillingford. ‚ÄúAnd I must say it sounds very dull to me. If there‚Äôs one kind of town more like another, it‚Äôs a cathedral town. Don‚Äôt take any notice of him, my dear.‚Äù + 

They juggled with cathedrals and shops a few minutes longer, and then Miss Trant went back to the Cottage and spent the next hour and a half with Redgauntlet, which she was reading for the fourth time. She had a passion for historical romances, not silly sentimental stories passing themselves off under cover of a few cloaks and daggers and ‚Äúhalidoms‚Äù or ‚ÄúOdds-fish,‚Äù but real full-blooded historical tales. These she preferred to any other kind of fiction, and for the last twenty years they had been first her delight and then her solace. She loved to carry a secret message from Louis the Eleventh of France to Charles, Duke of Burgundy; to journey to Blois in foul weather crying vengeance on the Guises; to peep out of a haystack at Ireton‚Äôs troopers; to hide in the heather after Prince Charlie had taken ship to France; to go thundering over the Rhine with Napoleon and his marshals. To exchange passwords, to rally the Horse on the left, to clatter down the Great North Road, to hammer upon inn doors on nights of wind and sleet, these were the pleasures, strangely boyish, of her imagination. Few people who came upon Miss Trant sitting erectly with a book ever imagined for a moment that she was happily engaged in drinking confusion to the League or firing a matchlock. But such was her taste. Neither the laborious satire nor the luscious sentiment of our present fiction gave her any pleasure. She liked a tale to open at once, in the very first chapter, a little door through which she could escape and have bright sexless adventures. Novels about unmarried women who lived in the country, looking after aged parents or making do in genteel cottages, depressed her so much that she took pains to avoid them. + 

She had to dine with Redgauntlet, and it was after nine when she heard Hilary‚Äôs car wandering uneasily about the village. It was nearly ten by the time they had put away the two-seater in the Hall garage, walked back to the Cottage, and settled themselves in the little drawing-room. + 

‚ÄúWell, Hilary, now you must tell me all the news.‚Äù But before he could reply, she went on: ‚ÄúYou know, I think you frighten me.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúDo I really? How splendid!‚Äù cried Hilary, in his high clear voice. He did not ask why he frightened her because he could see innumerable reasons himself. + 

She replied, however, without being asked. ‚ÄúNow don‚Äôt be flattered,‚Äù she continued. ‚ÄúIt isn‚Äôt exactly because you‚Äôre an important young man from Oxford, though that has something to do with it. It‚Äôs because I‚Äôve seen you change so quickly, from a little boy‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, it‚Äôs that!‚Äù Hilary was disgusted. + 

‚ÄúYes, I‚Äôm afraid it‚Äôs that. It‚Äôs like a terrible sort of conjuring trick. I‚Äôve been here, year after year, going on in the same old way, but almost every time I‚Äôve seen you, you‚Äôve been something quite different, nursery, prep school, public school, Oxford.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes, I suppose so. But I assure you I‚Äôve stopped now,‚Äù he said, a trifle loftily. + 

‚ÄúNo, I‚Äôm sure you haven‚Äôt. You‚Äôll be getting married or growing a moustache‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúHeaven forbid!‚Äù Hilary shrieked. ‚ÄúThis comes of living in the country, my dear. It‚Äôs a morbid life. Look at all this rural fiction.‚Äù + 

She looked at him instead. He was now a slim and elegant young man, with a clear-cut and vaguely impertinent profile. Probably he had the most outrageous opinions about everything. His father and her brother, the Indian Judge, who had not seen him for years, would have a surprise when he did see him. The thought gave her pleasure, for it seemed to her that the Judge had never had his share of unpleasant surprises. ‚ÄúLet me see,‚Äù she murmured, ‚Äúyou‚Äôre being called to the Bar, aren‚Äôt you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm supposed to be,‚Äù he told her. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs father‚Äôs idea, and I‚Äôm eating dinners and that sort of thing. But I don‚Äôt intend to go on with it. Very few fellows do, you know. Most of these barristers-in-embryo, who spend all their time when they‚Äôre up preparing little speeches for the Union, end as sporting journalists or music-hall agents or something of that sort.‚Äù For the next quarter of an hour, she listened to him proving that he was entirely unfitted for the Bar, a contemptible profession to a man of real intellect, and, remembering her somewhat pompous and overbearing brother, she listened with a certain malicious pleasure. When the Bar had been finally demolished, she asked him what his own plans were. + 

‚ÄúWell, you‚Äôve heard, of course, of The Oxford Static?‚Äù he began. + 

‚ÄúNo, I haven‚Äôt. What is it?‚Äù And then, noticing his look of pained surprise, she went on: ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry. But we never hear about anything down here.‚Äù + 

He brightened. ‚ÄúNo, of course not. You‚Äôre out of touch, and then Grandfather and everything. The Oxford Static was a review we ran. Three of us, Carrera-Brown‚ÅÝ‚Äîmost brilliant man up, wonderful brain‚ÅÝ‚Äîand Sturge‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs a poet, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîand me. It had a tremendous influence, simply tremendous. After a time, all the people who counted up there daren‚Äôt move without it, simply daren‚Äôt move.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat was it all about?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúA review of all the arts, yes, all the arts, even dancing and films. We had a new point of view, you see.‚Äù He was so excited now that he rose from his chair and began pacing the room, and his voice got higher and higher. ‚ÄúWe Statics‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs what we call ourselves‚ÅÝ‚Äîawfully good name, isn‚Äôt it?‚ÅÝ‚Äîbelieve that Art has got to be beyond emotion. Life and Art have got absolutely choked up with filthy emotion, and we say the time has come for them to be‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat shall I say?‚ÅÝ‚Äîfeelingless, all calm and clear. Get rid of the feelings, first, we say. We saw the whole thing about two years ago, one night when we were talking in Carrera-Brown‚Äôs rooms, and we talked and talked until we had settled it. What a night that was!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt must have been,‚Äù his aunt murmured. + 

He paced up and down the room, waving his cigarette. ‚ÄúThen we found the name, and very soon we brought out this review. Now we‚Äôre thinking of transferring the thing to town, calling it simply The Static. A monthly, we think. Lots of important people are interested‚ÅÝ‚ÄîCarrera-Brown knows everybody, simply everybody, and Lady Bullard has promised help‚ÅÝ‚Äîand now we‚Äôre each trying to raise some money to begin. I shall do the Drama and Films and French Literature. Cynthia Grumm, you know, who lives in Paris and has abolished the sentence altogether and makes new words all the time, has promised to write for us. But we‚Äôve decided that there shan‚Äôt be any names of contributors in the review, just numbers. I‚Äôm to be Static Three. That‚Äôs a magnificent idea, isn‚Äôt it? And Oppelworth is going to do some drawings for us, and be Static Six. We soon made a convert of him. He‚Äôd been going in for nonrepresentational art‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know, no representation of natural objects but just drawings suggesting the artist‚Äôs emotions, but now he sees that this won‚Äôt do and so he‚Äôs cutting out the emotions and becoming a Static. We‚Äôre even having music too. Pure form, you know.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm not so sure that I do know, Hilary,‚Äù said Miss Trant, who had enjoyed herself but was beginning to feel very sleepy. + 

‚ÄúWell, of course, I simply haven‚Äôt begun to explain,‚Äù he said excitedly. Then he caught sight of her stifling a yawn, and being a well-mannered youth, instantly checked his ardour: ‚ÄúBut look here, you must be awfully tired. I suppose you go to bed about nine, don‚Äôt you as a rule? Don‚Äôt let me keep you up. We‚Äôll talk about all that in the morning. Are there any books I can read?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI shouldn‚Äôt think so. There are books, but I don‚Äôt suppose you can read them.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, I have one or two with me, and I‚Äôll scout about, if I may. I shan‚Äôt be able to sleep for hours yet, hours and hours. And now that I‚Äôve begun to talk about The Static, I feel more wakeful than ever.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI can see that it excites you,‚Äù said his aunt gravely. + 

‚ÄúYes, doesn‚Äôt it?‚Äù replied the youth innocently. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm tremendously excited about the whole thing. Wouldn‚Äôt you be? Think of the possibilities and‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, everything!‚Äù + 

She left him to make himself calm and clear as best he could, and went to bed feeling more cheerful than she had done all day. The fact that any month now The Static might arrive to revolutionize the aesthetic doctrines of the world, the fact that she knew nothing whatever about Cynthia Grumm or Oppelworth, to say nothing of Carrera-Brown and Sturge‚ÅÝ‚Äîsuch matters did not keep her from sleep five minutes. An aunt has her compensations. + 

III + 

There was only one letter by Miss Trant‚Äôs plate the following morning, but it was a very important letter indeed. It ran as follows: + 

My dear Elizabeth, + 

Did you know that your father owed me ¬£600? He did, and he gave instructions to Truby that it should be repaid out of his estate. But when Truby settled the debt, he also explained who would be losing the money. If it had been either your brother or sister‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho are both well off, or were when I last heard of them‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI should have taken it like a shot, but I have no intention of taking it from you, and so have returned the ¬£600 to Truby. Now don‚Äôt be silly about this. I have as much as I want, and I know what your position is. I feel sure you are sensible enough not to refuse the money. What are you going to do? Twenty years ago, or even ten, I should have advised you to come out here, but the East isn‚Äôt what it was, ruined by these damned silly student politics. If you can guarantee me something that remotely resembles a summer, I‚Äôll pay you a visit, but not before, for the last time I did nothing but shiver and wrap up. + 

She had read this once, in a rather dazed fashion, and was beginning again, when Hilary arrived, looking rather more Static than he had done the night before. + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs my great-uncle, is it, the tea-planter man?‚Äù he said, after she had told him the news. ‚ÄúI saw him once, when I was still at school. He looked like Mark Twain. You‚Äôll take the money, of course?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI think so,‚Äù said Miss Trant, rather slowly and dubiously. + 

‚ÄúWhy shouldn‚Äôt you?‚Äù Hilary stared. ‚ÄúAs a matter of fact, it‚Äôs yours, and anyhow you‚Äôve jolly well earned it. You haven‚Äôt much money, have you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, I shall probably have about three hundred a year when I‚Äôve let the Hall. By the way, some people are coming to look at it today. And I‚Äôve about a thousand pounds over, from the sale.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThen you‚Äôll have a spare sixteen hundred roughly, with this windfall.‚Äù Hilary delicately chipped at his egg, then looked across at her with raised eyebrows. ‚ÄúI suppose you wouldn‚Äôt like to put some money into The Static, would you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt think I would, Hilary,‚Äù she replied briskly. + 

‚ÄúNo,‚Äù he said, rather gloomily. ‚ÄúI thought you wouldn‚Äôt. It‚Äôs a pity, though, because you‚Äôd enjoy the thing so much‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean really being in it‚ÅÝ‚Äîand of course you would probably make something out of it. You didn‚Äôt mind my asking, did you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot at all.‚Äù She smiled at him, and decided at once not to tell him the real reason why she had refused, which was that she was not going to encourage him to waste his time. ‚ÄúYou see, there may be a family row if you go on with this business‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSure to be,‚Äù he put in calmly. ‚ÄúI haven‚Äôt written to India yet, but I told Aunt Hilda the other day and she was frightfully down on it. But then she would be, you know. She‚Äôs not like you. Her life‚Äôs one long orgy of emotionalism, don‚Äôt you think?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd you see,‚Äù Miss Trant continued, after an amused glance of the mind at her sister Hilda confronted by the Statics, ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt want to be mixed up in it, and I should be at once if I helped you.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúCouldn‚Äôt you put the money in anonymously.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt would soon come out, I mean my part in it. You know how things do get about.‚Äù She herself did not know at all how such things got about, but it sounded convincing. + 

‚ÄúRather,‚Äù said Hilary, who knew even less. They looked at one another knowingly, and enjoyed themselves. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôve got about a hundred that I can spare,‚Äù he said, after he had lit the first cigarette. ‚ÄúBut I want about two hundred and fifty. I think I shall sell that two-seater of mine. It‚Äôs useless in town, anyhow. Only eats its head off. Do you know anybody here who wants a two-seater? It‚Äôs a Mercia, last year‚Äôs?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, I don‚Äôt think I do,‚Äù she said slowly, staring at him. + 

‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs the matter?‚Äù + 

She laughed. ‚ÄúNothing. Shall we go out?‚Äù But she was still thinking about that two-seater. + 

He strolled over to the window. ‚ÄúWhat shall we do?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnything you like. You‚Äôre not interested in gardens, are you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot in the least,‚Äù he replied heartily. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt mind sitting in them on warm afternoons, but I simply can‚Äôt dig them up or talk about them or anything of that kind. We might run round in the car.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI should like that. But stop, we can‚Äôt go until I‚Äôve shown those people the Hall. They‚Äôre coming some time today to look at it, and I promised to be here.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI think I shall stroll up there myself. I‚Äôll have a look at the car, and then if those people come, I shall have a look at them too. I‚Äôve never seen anybody examine a house.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhy, do you want to?‚Äù asked Miss Trant, with raised eyebrows. + 

‚ÄúI want to see people doing all kinds of things,‚Äù he replied very gravely. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm an observer. I want to see but not to feel. That‚Äôs my duty now, to watch and record. There‚Äôs rhythm in all these activities and I want to be able to‚ÅÝ‚Äîto detach it. Think of the new films.‚Äù After making these enigmatic observations, Static Three looked at her very solemnly, then, with a gesture of farewell, sauntered out of the room. + 

Miss Trant reached the bottom of the garden in time to see Hurley‚Äôs ancient and gigantic Daimler, the vehicle for all entrances and exits in Hitherton, come slowly down the lane. Mrs.¬ÝChillingford was inside, on her way to the station, and she waved as she passed. As the car disappeared, Hitherton and the bright morning seemed to shrink. Mrs.¬ÝChillingford was on her way to Paddington, to Dorothy, to the embattled Atkinsons, to adventures with the Army and Navy Stores and the shipping offices. ‚ÄúWhat are you going to do, to do, to do?‚Äù the car seemed to roar back at her as it gathered speed down the hill. And she had no answer ready. She thought of the windfall of the morning, six hundred pounds out of the blue, and felt a little quiver of excitement. You could do all manner of things with six hundred pounds, perhaps go all round the world. But she did not want to go all round the world by herself. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know what I want, that‚Äôs the trouble,‚Äù she told the great staring nodding dahlias. She found, however, that Mrs.¬ÝPurton knew what she wanted, namely, some orders for lunch and dinner, and after consulting with her, Miss Trant went out to shop. + 

On her way back, she met Purton standing at the entrance to the Hall. ‚ÄúI was looking for you, Miss,‚Äù he said, touching his cap, and then instantly ramming his hands in his pockets. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôve just come with a young feller from Medworth‚Äôs. Look like these ‚Äôere profiteers. Come in a car as big as a cottage.‚Äù + 

She had no time to reply because at this moment the young fellow from Medworth‚Äôs himself suddenly appeared round the corner, raised his hat, and began, in a dramatic whisper: ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre trying for two hundred.‚Äù + 

He got no further, however, because now another man, very tall, very pale, and with a long drooping moustache, suddenly came round the corner, stared at everybody, took off his hat and forgot to replace it, and mumbled: ‚ÄúMiss Trant? Yes? Rathbury. Come to look‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ Sorry to trouble‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ Beautiful morning.‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ‚Äù + 

By this time the familiar entrance to the drive seemed to Miss Trant to have turned itself into a comic stage. She wanted to giggle at everything, but retained sufficient control over herself to tell Mr.¬ÝRathbury that she hoped he would like the house and that really it was rather charming. + 

‚ÄúJust had a glance,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝRathbury murmured. ‚ÄúVery delightful. Yes, certainly. Just what we‚Äôre looking for. The very thing, I should think. Most charming.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOf course, as you‚Äôll see, it‚Äôs not very big,‚Äù said Miss Trant brightly, feeling that she must say something. + 

‚ÄúNot very big, no,‚Äù the long moustache agreed. ‚ÄúNo worse for that, though. Not at all. Not these days. Just the thing, I fancy.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSo you‚Äôre here.‚Äù + 

Everybody jumped. The voice was very loud and stern, and it came from a square woman, with a purplish fat face and two prominent staring grey eyes. + 

‚ÄúMy wife,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝRathbury muttered, fading out. + 

‚ÄúOh, this is the owner, is it?‚Äù shouted Mrs.¬ÝRathbury, staring away. ‚ÄúMiss Trant, isn‚Äôt it? How d‚Äôyou do?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúDo you want me to show you round?‚Äù Miss Trant felt as if she were addressing a battleship. + 

‚ÄúQuite unnecessary, I think, quite unnecessary. We‚Äôll just look round ourselves for a few minutes. I don‚Äôt expect we shall take the house. It‚Äôs very small, isn‚Äôt it? We think it will be too small, don‚Äôt we?‚Äù She switched the stare on to her husband for a second. + 

‚ÄúYes, of course, rather small, certainly,‚Äù he mumbled, carefully looking at nobody. ‚ÄúDrawback of course, being small.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd then it‚Äôs not really the type of house we‚Äôre looking for, not the style, as my husband has probably told you already.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, not the style.‚Äù Mournfully he fingered the long moustache. ‚ÄúNot quite, certainly. Perhaps hardly at all.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot at all,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝRathbury shouted, giving them everyone in turn a stare. ‚ÄúHowever, we might as well see it.‚Äù Immediately she wheeled about and marched off, and her husband and the young estate agent hurried after her. + 

Miss Trant and Purton each drew a long breath, and looked at one another. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll be wantin‚Äô them thar pars down at the Cottage, Miss,‚Äù said Purton very slowly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll go and get ‚Äôem.‚Äù + 

Miss Trant returned to the Cottage with her purchases, talked to Mrs.¬ÝPurton, dusted the drawing-room, then walked back, slowly, very slowly, to the Hall. As she sauntered up the drive, she thought she saw Hilary disappearing into the garden at the back of the house. A moment later the Rathburys emerged from the front door. + 

‚ÄúYes, we‚Äôll take it. But not a penny more than two hundred,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝRathbury was shouting to the agent. Then she saw Miss Trant. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm just saying that we shall take it at two hundred. It‚Äôs quite charming, quite charming, the sort of place that wants proper looking after. Several things to be done, of course.‚Äù She stared at Miss Trant, then through her, it seemed, at all the other Trants, as if to accuse them all of neglecting the place. ‚ÄúWe were fortunate in finding that young architect there to make suggestions.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝRathbury‚Äôs moustache made some vague sound that implied it was in entire agreement with her. It was now Miss Trant‚Äôs turn to stare. She caught the eye of Mr.¬ÝMedworth‚Äôs assistant, who looked both triumphant and puzzled. Turning to Mrs.¬ÝRathbury again, she saw with astonishment that that lady was actually smiling at her. True, the eyes had no part in the smile, but the rest of her face was amiably creasing. + 

‚ÄúYou never told us it was such a show place,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝRathbury shouted in great good-humour. ‚ÄúI saw at once, of course, that it must be, and could be more of one, properly cared for. It was the young architect who told us all about it. Did he tell you he had come a hundred miles to see it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know,‚Äù Miss Trant stammered. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt quite understand. Who is this?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat was the name?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝRathbury stared all about her as if the name must be written up somewhere. ‚ÄúOh yes, of course‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬ÝStatic.‚Äù + 

There was no help for it. Miss Trant gave a little shriek of laughter. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry,‚Äù she gurgled. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs such a silly name, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes, rather; it is, certainly,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝRathbury mumbled, evidently under the impression that he had been appealed to. + 

‚ÄúIndeed!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝRathbury looked from one to the other in obvious disapproval. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a name of some importance, I understand, in‚ÅÝ‚Äîin architectural circles. What was it Mr.¬ÝStatic said he was an authority on?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSeventeenth-century panelled interiors,‚Äù replied the young estate agent, in what seemed to Miss Trant a rather queer tone of voice. + 

‚ÄúExactly! I ought to have remembered because I knew the name well. Seventeenth-century panelled interiors. This is a very good specimen, he said. But of course they want proper attention. A house of this kind is a responsibility, of course. Perhaps you‚Äôre not interested in these things, Miss Trant. Tell Johnson we‚Äôre ready to go back now.‚Äù + 

Miss Trant was fighting an impulse to tell her that she could not have the house after all. With this woman settled in the Hall, Hitherton would be impossible, even though it meant that Mrs.¬ÝChillingford could begin a new saga. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs strange,‚Äù she told herself, ‚Äúthat I don‚Äôt care more than I do. Perhaps it shows that I really am tired of living here.‚Äù And she answered Mrs.¬ÝRathbury‚Äôs questions meekly enough, said nothing about Hilary (which served her right), then referred her to Mr.¬ÝMedworth. + 

After lunch, during which Hilary was divided between the glee of the mischievous small boy and the natural shame of a solemn young intellect who has indulged his lower self, they drove to Cheltenham in Hilary‚Äôs car. There she saw Mr.¬ÝTruby, who congratulated her on the result of the sale, the gift of six hundred pounds, and the letting of the house, then told her that she ought to go away and enjoy herself. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre comfortably off now,‚Äù he added. ‚ÄúMuch better than we expected. I‚Äôll keep this sixteen hundred pounds in a deposit account for you until you decide what to do with it. Don‚Äôt worry about money. What you want now is a change,‚Äù he concluded, with the air of a man who knew what a change was, even though he had never had one. + 

Miss Trant walked out of the dim office into the bright sunshine, feeling vaguely exhilarated. ‚ÄúHow queer and old-fashioned solicitors‚Äô offices are!‚Äù she cried to Hilary. ‚ÄúGoing to see Mr.¬ÝTruby is like walking into a Dickens novel.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúHow ghastly for you!‚Äù The Static shuddered. Then, as they found a tea shop, he observed mournfully: ‚ÄúWhen you were in there, I took the car round to a garage to see what sort of price I should get for it. About seventy-five pounds, they said. That‚Äôs about half of what it‚Äôs worth. Isn‚Äôt it a swindle? These garage people hate to pay cash for a car. They‚Äôll allow you anything nearly if they are selling you another.‚Äù And having thus descended to this ordinary low level of thought and feeling, he remained there throughout tea and his aunt smiled upon him. About halfway home, on a quiet stretch of road, she asked him to pull up. ‚ÄúDo you think I might try to drive now?‚Äù she asked rather breathlessly. ‚ÄúI have a licence because I‚Äôve tried before, when Dorothy Chillingford had a car. Will you explain about this one?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNothing in it. The thing practically drives itself. Why do you want to bother, though?‚Äù He jumped out and walked round the car. + 

‚ÄúBecause‚ÅÝ‚Äîif I can drive it, I‚Äôll buy it from you, Hilary; that is, if you really want to sell it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou will!‚Äù cried the Static joyfully. ‚ÄúOf course I want to sell it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôll give you what you say it‚Äôs worth, a hundred and fifty pounds.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh! I say! Will you really? But are you sure?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes, I am sure,‚Äù she said, firmly. ‚ÄúThat is, so long as I can drive it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOf course you can drive it,‚Äù he cried, with mounting enthusiasm. ‚ÄúNothing easier! Let me show you where everything is. It really is a good little car, you know.‚Äù + 

And he did show her where everything was, and for the next hour she sat at the wheel under his tuition. So rapidly did she gain confidence that at last she drove them both home, passing two very large buses, a steam-wagon, and several jumpy rattling lorries, without slowing down to less than fifteen miles an hour, and finally sailing up the Hall drive, flushed and triumphant. Then followed ten minutes‚Äô further instruction on getting it in and out of the garage (which was not a proper garage at all but an old stable) and Miss Trant discovered once again the terrors and dangers of reversing, but was assured by Hilary that all was well with her. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôll give you a cheque in the morning,‚Äù she told him, as they sat at dinner. + 

‚ÄúNo hurry at all, you know,‚Äù he explained, though his face had brightened. ‚ÄúStill, it would be rather useful. If we spent all tomorrow morning with the car‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough you don‚Äôt really need any more instruction from me, I can tell you‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI could catch the afternoon train up to town. I hope you don‚Äôt mind my running away at once, but the fact is, I must get hold of Carrera-Brown as soon as I can.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt mind,‚Äù she told him. ‚ÄúI shall probably go away myself very soon, perhaps the day after tomorrow.‚Äù She was rather astonished when she heard herself announcing this departure. It was, so to speak, as much news to her as it was to him. Indeed, she was the more surprised of the two. + 

‚ÄúSplendid!‚Äù he said, in an abstracted fashion, looking through her. She could see he was already busy meeting the other Statics. + 

That night she finished Redgauntlet yet once more, but this time she put it down without the smallest sigh. The dark mysterious hours found her guiding a little blue Mercia down roads that nobody knew, roads that wound through the shining hills of a dream. + 

IV + 

‚ÄúDo you know‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Hilary, began, looking down upon her from the carriage window. + 

‚ÄúWell! Do I know what?‚Äù She smiled up at him. + 

That pitiless observer of the human race hesitated a moment. Then he continued: ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs something different about you today. It must be the car.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúPerhaps it is,‚Äù she assented. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm beginning to feel reckless, Hilary. Do you know what number I shall be among the Statics?‚Äù The train began to move. + 

‚ÄúNot less than the fifty-second millionth!‚Äù she called, and waved him goodbye. + 

On the way home she pulled up beside a black figure plodding up the dusty hill. + 

‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs this? What‚Äôs this?‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝChillingford. + 

‚ÄúCome in and see,‚Äù she told him, and before they had climbed the hill he had accepted an invitation to tea and learned all about the car. + 

‚ÄúI feel like going away in it at once,‚Äù she confided, over the first cups. + 

Mr.¬ÝChillingford lowered his spectacles and raised his eyebrows. ‚ÄúBy yourself?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhy not?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know. No, of course. Why not?‚Äù He laughed and then they both laughed, and felt very friendly. Immediately afterwards, however, Mr.¬ÝChillingford fell into such a profound reverie that he crumbled walnut cake all over his clothes. + 

‚ÄúWell?‚Äù she asked, at length. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry. Dear me, what a mess I‚Äôve made! I was thinking you ought to begin with Ely. Just think of it! You would go down from these hills into the Midland plain, getting lower and lower the further east you went, until at last you would find yourself‚ÅÝ‚Äîas it were‚ÅÝ‚Äîat the bottom of the basin. Then you would see that colossal tower shooting up‚ÅÝ‚Äîa sublime spectacle, my dear Elizabeth. You‚Äôve not seen Ely, of course? No, I thought not. That miraculous octagon. There‚Äôs a kind of barbaric splendour about the whole place! You must begin with Ely!‚Äù He was so excited now that he deposited his cup and saucer on the plate of sandwiches. + 

Miss Trant, who had been staring at him in amazement, suddenly remembered, and cried: ‚ÄúOf course! You‚Äôre talking about a tour of the cathedrals.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIndeed I am. Wasn‚Äôt that the idea? Of course it wasn‚Äôt, though. How absurd of me! That was my idea, wasn‚Äôt it? I said something about it the other day. I thought that was what you were going to do. What an old egoist I‚Äôm becoming! I was thinking you might call on my old friend Canon Fothergill at Lincoln. That is, if you began at Ely. And, mind you, that‚Äôs the place to begin at. But then, of course, you are not beginning anywhere, so to speak. Just my foolishness!‚Äù And he laughed a little. + 

‚ÄúYes, I am,‚Äù said Miss Trant stoutly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm beginning at Ely, just as you suggest. And I will call on Canon Fothergill at Lincoln, if he‚Äôll let me. And you shall tell me where to go.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝChillingford scrambled to his feet, spreading walnut cake in all directions. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll slip over to the rectory for my old map. It will be as good as a holiday to take a look at it again. I‚Äôve done all this, every inch, in my time, on a pushbike, you know.‚Äù + 

But Miss Trant brought out a map and for the next quarter of an hour their two heads were bent over it. Mr.¬ÝChillingford showered roads, towns, inns, naves, transepts, upon her, and in his excitement upset the milk jug. He brought out pencil and paper, covered two sheets with directions, crammed them into his pocket, then searched the room and declared they were lost. Miss Trant wanted to rush upstairs at once and hurl all her things into bags. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll start tomorrow morning,‚Äù she announced. + 

‚ÄúI shouldn‚Äôt,‚Äù he warned her. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs Sunday tomorrow. Don‚Äôt mistake me. I‚Äôm no Sabbatarian. Besides, there‚Äôs more worship in going to look at Ely than in listening to me. But Sunday‚Äôs a bad day to begin a journey. Wait a day. Start on Monday. There never was a Monday morning yet when I didn‚Äôt want to be going somewhere.‚Äù + 

And it was on Monday morning that she did set out, after a tremendous Sunday of packing and instructions to the Purtons and letters to all manner of people. She had a last five minutes‚Äô talk with Mr.¬ÝChillingford, turned perilously to wave to him nearly at the corner, and then went rolling down the hill, eastward out of Hitherton. The valley lay all golden in the deep sunshine; the morning was as crisp as a nut; the roads scrawled invitations, the very wires above hummed faint calls, to the misty blue beyond; and every turn of the wheel brought her a sense of mastery, and every milestone passed, bringing nearer the unknown and the gloriously irresponsible, gave her a new little thrill. Was she going across country to Ely? She was going anywhere, anywhere, wherever she pleased. This was the road to the first of the cathedrals, but it was also the road to‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat? She didn‚Äôt know, and delightedly she hugged her ignorance, vague and shining, a mist brightening with golden shapes, just like the morning itself. + 

In her bag were thirty pounds and a cheque book that would call at once on fifteen hundred more. And, snugly tucked away behind were all the nicest things she had, a dressing case she had only used once before, and four glorious historical novels, crowds of archers, Jacobites, conspirators, dragoons, crying to be let loose at the first hour of lamplight. They were all running away from Hitherton, into the adventurous blue, together. In a tangle of traffic at narrow Northleach she had to pull up beside a huge car that had come from the opposite direction. From this car a familiar long drooping moustache cautiously emerged. + 

‚ÄúMiss Trant, isn‚Äôt it? Thought it was,‚Äù it mumbled at her. ‚ÄúLovely morning. Not going far, eh?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, good morning, Mr.¬ÝRathbury,‚Äù she called out, loudly and clearly. ‚ÄúYes, it‚Äôs absolutely wonderful, isn‚Äôt it? And I am going far, hundreds and hundreds of miles until I am lost.‚Äù And she smiled, and did not stop smiling when she found herself confronted by a purple square of face and a grey stare. + 

‚ÄúI beg your pardon,‚Äù shouted Mrs.¬ÝRathbury, now purpler than ever from bending so far forward. ‚ÄúWhere did you say you where going? We were coming over to look at the Hall again. We may want to see you.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm going to be invisible.‚Äù Yes, she actually heard herself saying it. And then she turned her attention to the clutch and gears, for everybody was moving again. + 

‚ÄúWhat address?‚Äù came the scream, now from behind. + 

‚ÄúNo address. No‚Äëo a‚Äëa‚Äëdre‚Äëesss.‚Äù She shouted it at the top of her voice. Not for years had she made such a noise. It was splendid. + 

Now the road emptied itself and broadened before her. A wind from the southwest caught up to her and coloured her cheeks. (It went on and on until at last it found the smoke from Higden‚Äôs mill, where Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was spending his very last day.) She shot forward and upward, then skimmed along one of England‚Äôs little green roofs, this Miss Trant that nobody at Hitherton had ever seen and perhaps would never see. + 

III + 

Inigo Jollifant Quotes Shakespeare and + 

Departs in the Night + 

I + 

We have left all the hills behind; our faces are turned towards the long strands, salted and whistling, of the North Sea. Here, the land is a great saucer, patterned with dykes and arrowy roads. To the north and to the south are smudges of smoke, the bright webbing of railway lines, towers that are older than the distant fields they chime to, Peterborough, Ely, Cambridge. We are on the edge of the Fens. It is a place plucked from the water. Only here and there remains the old darkly gleaming chaos of marsh and reeds, alders and bulrushes, the sudden whirr and scream of wildfowl. All else is now deep pasturage and immense fields bright with stubble, feeding the windmills and the scattered redbrick farms. It is a country to make a farmer fat; these are fields to put beef and pudding and ale on a man‚Äôs table. Yet it seems to be still haunted by its old desolation. Perhaps the sky, which can show a spread of cloud and blue by day, a glitter of stars by night, not to be matched elsewhere between Berwick and Penzance, is too big, too masterful, for a man‚Äôs peace of mind, unless, like so many in the old days, he comes here simply to worship God. Perhaps too much is heard of its bitter neighbour, the North Sea, and of winds that come from the Steppes. Perhaps it is only because it is a hollow land, which every darkness turns again into a place of spectral marshes and monkish ghosts. Something desolating certainly remains, a whisper not to be drowned by the creaking of the heaviest harvest-wagons. The little farms seem lonelier than lighthouses. The roads go on and on, one ruled mile after another, but would never appear to arrive anywhere. The very trains, cautiously puffing along a raised single track, seem to be without either starting-places or destinations, and so wander undramatically across the landscape, only heightening, by their passing, the long silences. The vague sadness of a prairie has fallen upon this plain of dried marshes. Like a rich man who gives but never smiles, this land yields bountifully but is at heart still a wilderness. + 

Somewhere in the middle of this region, a narrow side-road finds its way to a hamlet, made up of about twenty houses, a tiny shop, and an alehouse, and then wanders on another mile or so in order to arrive at a house of some size, where it stops, despairingly. This is easily the largest house in the neighbourhood, a redbrick building in no recognizable style of architecture, and perhaps sixty or seventy years old. It was built by a strange gentleman from Australia, who had for years dreamed of a country mansion, and, once he was installed in it, proceeded very quietly to drink himself to death. Now, as certain sheds and newer outhouses, goalposts and worn fields testify, it is no longer a country mansion. It is some years since James Tarvin, M.A. (Cantab.), married a woman ten years older than himself, bought with her money the desirable property known as Washbury Manor, and transformed it into Washbury Manor School, in which some fifty or sixty boys, preferably the sons of gentlemen, are prepared for the public schools and whatever else may befall them in this life. Letters from all over the world arrive now at Washbury Manor. Men and women in far-distant bungalows receive little scrawls from there and are very proud and boring about them. Quite a number of the small boys at Washbury have parents who are in India and Africa and such places, and not a few of the rest have no parents at all but merely guardians, persons who are conscientious enough but cannot be expected to discover the relative merits of all the preparatory schools in England. Not that Washbury Manor is a bad school; but, on the other hand, it is certainly not one of the best. One visiting uncle, a master in the merchant service, put it to himself and to anybody who might be listening: ‚ÄúIt don‚Äôt smell right.‚Äù But he himself was not the kind of person that Mr.¬ÝTarvin‚ÅÝ‚Äîit is his own phrase‚ÅÝ‚Äîwished to have associated with the school. Mr.¬ÝTarvin could afford to be contemptuous of such criticism. He had references from public men, including a Colonial Bishop; some scholarships to the school‚Äôs credit; pure air and water, a bracing atmosphere, perfect sanitation, good playing fields; and a teaching staff of three university graduates, Robert Fauntley, M.A. (Oxon.), Inigo Jollifant, B.A. (Cantab.), Harold Felton, B.A. (Bristol); a matron, Miss Callander, with a diploma in the domestic sciences; and an ex-regular noncommissioned officer, Sergeant Comrie, to take drill and carpentering. Moreover, the health and comfort of the boys are the care of no less a person than Mrs.¬ÝTarvin herself, the daughter of the Rev. George Betterby. If you are a parent in India, is it not worth cutting things down a little, depriving yourself of a few holidays in the hills, we will say, merely to know that your boy is in such hands as these? Term by term, Mr.¬ÝTarvin received tribute from the very frontiers of our Empire, and rarely had he to complain that one of his little iron bedsteads was without its weight of boy. + 

They are all in bed now, these boys, but they are not all asleep. Mr.¬ÝFelton has already looked in once at the older ones, who may be subject to the vaguely disturbing influences of Saturday night, and has told them to be quiet. All the other adult persons in the house are trying to forget the existence of boys. Mrs.¬ÝTarvin has commanded the presence of Miss Callander in her drawing-room and is pleasantly occupied in bullying her. Mr.¬ÝTarvin himself, having been told to keep out of the way for half an hour after dinner, has retired to what he calls his study, and there, pasty, damp, and breathing heavily, he has cast off both the schoolmaster and the anxious husband and has turned himself into a dozing middle-aged sedentary man, with a weak stomach lulled for a little while into a false peace. Mr.¬ÝFauntley has disappeared on one of his mysterious Saturday night excursions. Sergeant Comrie is walking over the fields to the village inn, where he is regarded as a rich cosmopolitan character. Mr.¬ÝJollifant is in his bed-sitting-room, a very small and stuffy apartment not far from the roof, which he prefers to the equally small and stuffy common-room because at this moment he is engaged in what he imagines to be literary composition. + 

He is sitting in a Windsor chair that he has tilted back to a very perilous angle, and his feet, enclosed in vivid green carpet slippers, are resting on the sill of the open window. There is about both his attitude and his apparel that elaborate carelessness of the undergraduate, though Inigo Jollifant, now in his twenty-sixth year, left Cambridge three years ago. He is a thin loose-limbed youth, a trifle above medium height. His face does not suggest the successful preparatory-school master. It seems rather too fantastic. A long lock of hair falls perpetually across his right eyebrow; his nose itself is long, wandering, and whimsical, and his grey eyes are set unusually wide apart and have in them a curious gleam. He wears a blue pullover, no coat, a generous bow-tie, and baggy and rather discoloured flannel trousers. He is smoking a ridiculously long cherrywood pipe. There is about him the air of one who is ready to fail gloriously at almost anything. We realize at once that his History, French, English Literature, his cricket and football, are dashing but sketchy. At this moment he is ostensibly engaged in writing an elaborate essay‚ÅÝ‚Äîin a manner of the early Stevenson‚ÅÝ‚Äîentitled ‚ÄúThe Last Knapsack,‚Äù an essay that he began many weeks ago, in the middle of the long vacation. His right hand grasps a fountain pen and there is a writing block on his knees, but never a word does he set down. He blows out clouds of smoke, keeps his feet on the windowsill, and balances his chair at a still more alarming angle. + 

There is a knock at the door, and then a face looks in, bringing with it a flash of eyeglasses. + 

‚ÄúHello! Who‚Äôs that?‚Äù he cries, without turning round. ‚ÄúCome in.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry to trouble you, Jollifant.‚Äù And the visitor enters. + 

‚ÄúOh, it‚Äôs you, Felton, is it?‚Äù Inigo twists his head round, and grins. ‚ÄúCome in and sit down.‚Äù + 

Felton is about the same age, but after that there is no further likeness. He is a pleasant, earnest young man, whose rimless eyeglasses give him a rather misleading look of energy and alertness. Two years ago, he left the University of Bristol, at which he had spent four undistinguished years, with the determination to do his duty, speak the truth, and be friendly with everybody; and a certain sense of anxiety discovered in his face, voice, manner, suggests that he has not found it easy. Already he is beginning to approach life, or at least every succeeding new manifestation of it, with a slightly halting step and a little prefatory cough. He goes warily through the term, occasionally reading large dull biographies and smoking non-nicotine cigarettes and always agreeing with everybody, and then tries to forget his responsibilities in cautious foreign travel. + 

He sat down, then cleared his throat. ‚ÄúLook here, Jollifant, I‚Äôm sorry to trouble you.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúFelton, you do not trouble me,‚Äù said Inigo, regarding his companion as if he were a fairly intelligent fox terrier. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs true I was in the throes of composition. Throes! What damned silly words we use! Have you ever been in throes?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes, I see you were,‚Äù replied Felton, looking with something like reverence at the writing block. He had a deep veneration for literature, so deep that he hardly ever made acquaintance with it. He did not know whether these things that Jollifant was always trying to write were literature or not, but as usual he was not taking any risks. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs about the washing lists,‚Äù he added apologetically. + 

‚ÄúThe washing lists!‚Äù the other cried, in an ecstasy of scorn. ‚ÄúThis is Saturday night, Felton. Think of that, Saturday night! Remember your orgies at Bristol. Now I‚Äôm prepared, as you see, to devote myself, in stern seclusion, to Art, searching for the exact Phrase. Don‚Äôt forget that‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe exact phrase. Takes a devil of a lot of finding. Again‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he looked very severely at his visitor and took out the cherrywood pipe‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúI‚Äôm prepared to come down from yonder height, as it were, to make merry with you, to exchange ideas, to hear you talk of the old wild days of Bristol. But no washing lists! Not on Saturday night!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI see what you mean,‚Äù said Felton. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs an awful nuisance, of course. But still, Mrs.¬ÝTarvin said‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

Inigo held up his hand. ‚ÄúHer words fall on deaf ears. That woman‚Äôs a gorgon. Tonight, I refuse to believe she exists.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, we told you what she was like,‚Äù said the other. This was his fourth term at the school, and it was Inigo‚Äôs third. Mrs.¬ÝTarvin had been away, for a long rest-cure, during both the previous terms, so that Felton had known her for about eleven weeks, whereas Inigo had only known her for one. ‚ÄúWe told you what it would be like when she came back,‚Äù he added, with all the irritating complacency of the successful prophet. + 

‚ÄúWhat you told me was a mere nothing,‚Äù Inigo cried. ‚ÄúYou said, for instance, that the food would be cut down a bit when she came back. It‚Äôs not been cut down, it‚Äôs been cut out, clean out. There‚Äôs nothing left but the smell, which is worse than ever. Look at tonight‚Äôs mess!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI know. Pretty bad, wasn‚Äôt it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúShepherds‚Äô pie‚ÅÝ‚Äîand no shepherd would ever touch it‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor the second time this week, and prunes for the third or fourth! And she calls that a dinner‚ÅÝ‚Äîon Saturday night, too! And there she sits, the shapeless old guzzler, choking herself right under our noses with cutlets and cream and God knows what. That‚Äôs the last refinement of torture. If she was in the trough with us, groping amongst the minced stuff and prunes and muck, it wouldn‚Äôt be so bad. But to sit there, letting us see that real food still exists, letting us watch it being converted into that fat of hers, it‚Äôs simply piling on the insult, it‚Äôs devilish! If there‚Äôs another dinner like that, I shall take sandwiches and chocolate down and eat them in front of her. It isn‚Äôt that I care so much about food. My soul, Felton, is like a star and dwells apart, absolutely. But I ask you! Can you worthily instruct the young, can you wrestle with the problems of French and History, day after day, on prunes? It can‚Äôt be done.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo. I see what you mean, of course. Though as a matter of fact,‚Äù he added hesitantly, ‚ÄúI rather like prunes.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúUnder which king, Besonian? Speak or die!‚Äù Inigo shouted, pointing his pipe-stem at the startled Felton. ‚ÄúHe that is not with us is against us. Do you ask for prunes, Felton? Do you creep down to that wretched female Tarvin, with your tongue lolling out, and say, ‚ÄòMore prunes. Custard or no custard, more prunes‚Äô?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúDon‚Äôt be an ass, Jollifant,‚Äù Felton wriggled. ‚ÄúBesides, I hate shepherds‚Äô pie as much as you do. It‚Äôll be like that all the term. I told you what it would be.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThe whole subject,‚Äù the other began loftily, ‚Äúis profoundly distasteful to me. Let me read you a sentence or two from ‚ÄòThe Last Knapsack,‚Äô an essay celebrating‚ÅÝ‚Äîmournfully, you understand‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe final extinction of the walking tour. Have you an ear for a phrase, Felton?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know. Yes, I think so. But, look here‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôd like to slip up later and hear that‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut what about those washing lists?‚Äù + 

Before Inigo could express his opinion again on the subject, there came a little knock at the door. It was Miss Callander, and she looked as if she had just retreated to her room in a shower of tears and had hastily quitted it in a cloud of powder. She was a distant connection of Mr.¬ÝTarvin‚Äôs, a tall, rather plump girl of twenty-seven, who would not have been noticeable in the nearest town but who seemed in this wilderness almost a beauty, and was certainly too well-favoured to be successful as the school matron, especially since she had been appointed by Mr.¬ÝTarvin during his wife‚Äôs absence at the beginning of the year. She had only spent ten days so far trying to please Mrs.¬ÝTarvin, but already she was beginning to realize the hopelessness of the task. For the past four years, she had been engaged off and on to a cousin who was out in Egypt. During the last three months, the engagement had been off, but even now she was meditating a letter that would put it on again. + 

Inigo beamed upon her snub nose, round and rapidly doubling chin, and large and rather foolish eyes. They were, he told himself again, the eyes of a stricken deer. ‚ÄúThis, Miss Callander,‚Äù he announced gravely, ‚Äúis an honour.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, Mr.¬ÝJollifant,‚Äù she fluttered, ‚Äúis Mr.¬ÝFelton here? Oh, I see he is. Mr.¬ÝFelton, it‚Äôs about the washing lists‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúFelton,‚Äù said Inigo sternly, turning round, ‚Äúwhat about those lists?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs just what I was asking,‚Äù Felton began, hastily coming forward. + 

Inigo cut him short with a superb gesture, then smiled at Miss Callander with deep tenderness and looked for a moment as if he were about to pat her hand. ‚ÄúYou want them now, I take it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI do, yes. As soon as possible. Mrs.¬ÝTarvin‚Äôs perfectly furious about everything.‚Äù And her eyes grew and grew and her mouth dropped. + 

‚ÄúSay no more,‚Äù cried Inigo, with an air of immense benevolence. ‚ÄúWhat man can do, we will do, at least if Felton will condescend to give me a little assistance.‚Äù He rummaged amongst a mass of papers on his table, found what he wanted, then added: ‚ÄúForward to the common-room. And the motto is, ‚ÄòOne for all, and all for one‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîabsolutely. Lead on, Miss Callander. Master Felton, take these papers, and shake off that deep lethargy.‚Äù And off they went, with Miss Callander, giggling a little, in front. + 

By the time that Inigo had carefully filled and lighted his absurd pipe and had smiled dreamily for a few moments through the haze of smoke at his two colleagues, they had completed the lists. ‚ÄúThere now,‚Äù he said, as Miss Callander gathered up the papers. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs done with. What do we do now? I can‚Äôt go back to that beastly little room of mine and try to write. The mood, Miss Callander, the precious mood, is shattered; the golden bowl, Felton, is broken. I shall try a little music.‚Äù + 

Miss Callander, at the door, turned wide eyes upon him. ‚ÄúHow can you, though? I mean, where will you go?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAren‚Äôt you forgetting,‚Äù he replied with dignity, ‚Äúthat there is an instrument‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI won‚Äôt say a piano, but anyhow something in the semblance of a piano‚ÅÝ‚Äîin our rotten schoolroom?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, but Mr.¬ÝJollifant!‚Äù she gave a tiny giggle that was a mixture of delight and apprehension. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt you remember Mrs.¬ÝTarvin said it wasn‚Äôt to be used in the evening? She did, didn‚Äôt she, Mr.¬ÝFelton?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúShe did, you know, Jollifant,‚Äù said Felton, with an earnest flash of his glasses. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a shame, of course, but that‚Äôs what she said.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúMy friends, my old companions in misfortune, I thank you for these words of warning, but I know nothing of such orders, tyrannical commands which‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîstrike at the very roots of liberty. Is thy servant a dog that he shall not do this thing? The answer is, ‚ÄòNo, decidedly not!‚Äô I go to play‚ÅÝ‚Äîas best I can, and by George, that‚Äôs not saying much because half the keys stick all the time‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI go to play, I repeat, upon the schoolroom piano. Open your ears‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean yours, Miss Callander, because Felton‚Äôs, as you can see, are open enough‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they shall drink in melody and harmony and what‚Äôs its name‚ÅÝ‚Äîa spot or two of counterpoint.‚Äù And Inigo marched downstairs to the dismal little schoolroom, once the drawing-room of Washbury Manor and now a cheerless huddle of desks and blackboards and yellowing maps. It was dusk now, and he switched on a naked and shivering electric light, then walked over to the far corner of the room and seated himself before one of those cottage pianos, with ochreous fronts and mournful blue-white keys, that are designed and glued and varnished for no other places but miserly institutions. The pedal creaked, the keys stuck together, the tone was sadly tinny, but it was a piano, and music could be wrung out of it. + 

It must be said at once that Inigo‚Äôs playing, like his French and History and cricket, was dashing but sketchy. He was not of your cool and impeccable executants, delicately phrasing, to the last grace-note, their Bachs and Mozarts. His technique was faulty and his taste was worse. He himself thought little of his musical powers, and all his serious thought, his fine energies, were devoted to the composition of elaborate prose. In more expansive moments, he saw himself as another Pater or Stevenson. But he was not a writer, and never would be. Try as he might, he only succeeded in putting honest words on the rack, leaving them screaming, though of this he was happily unconscious. He was marked out to be one of those wistful adorers who never even catch a glance from the Muse. He would never create literature, though his life itself might be rich with its scents and flavours. He would always be one of its failures, though perhaps one of its happy failures, that company of humble aspirants‚ÅÝ‚Äîand at heart Inigo was humble enough‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho discover more joy in the sight of a sadly botched manuscript than many a successful writer has found in a row of admired volumes. On the other hand, in his antics at the piano, which had made him so popular at school, at Cambridge, and at odd parties everywhere, those antics that he regarded with smiling contempt, there was really a glint of genius. His touch was light, crisp, and somehow deliciously comic; he could start the keys into elfin life; and not only could he read easily at sight, and improve as he read, the common sort of music, the songs and dance tunes that were so often demanded of him, not only could he play by ear and throw in a trick or two of his own as he played, but he was able to improvise the most amusing little tunes, cynical-sentimental things of the moment, not unlike all the other butterfly melodies that wing their way across the world and then perish obscurely, and yet all his own, with a twist in them, something half wistful, half comic, in their lilt, that belonged to nobody else. He would play these things until every foot was tap-tapping, and many a listener, vainly attempting to catch again the deft little phrases, would be maddened for weeks. But he would only try variations of key and manner until at last his ear was satisfied. He never tried to put them down on paper. It had not occurred to him that the world was being scoured for such tunes; and if it had occurred to him, he would probably have remained indifferent, having a ‚ÄúLast Knapsack‚Äù still to finish. + 

For several days an unusually impudent and delicious little tune had been capering at the back of his mind, and now, after some preliminary flourishes, he set out to capture it. He fumbled about for a few minutes in the key of D major, but then slid into his favourite E flat. The next moment the poor hulk of a piano leaped into life. The tune was his, and he began toying ecstatically with it. Now it ran whispering in the high treble; now it crooned and gurgled in the bass; and then, off it went scampering, with a flash of red heels and a tossing of brown curls. There was no holding it at all. It pirouetted round the room, mocking the desks and blackboards and maps: the air was full of its bright mischief. Rumpty-dee-tidee-dee, rumpty-dee-tidee. But why try to describe that little tune or make any mystery of it? All the world knows it now, or did yesterday, as ‚ÄúSlippin‚Äô Round the Corner.‚Äù What Inigo played that night was not quite the final melody that became so famous as a song and a dance tune afterwards: the butterfly was hardly out of the chrysalis yet; but, on the other hand, the lilt that came out then had not been blared and bleated and howled and vulgarized in every conceivable fashion, and still had all its enchanting mockery of things heavy and dull and lifeless. Inigo twisted it this way and that, sent little glittering showers of high notes over the melody, let it sink down in mock despair to the bass, then made it ring so triumphantly through the schoolroom that it shattered the place altogether and set up in its stead a room that was all long windows and gardens beyond and youth and happy folly. As he did this, Inigo laughed aloud. + 

‚ÄúMr.¬ÝJollifant!‚Äù A voice at the door. + 

Rumpty-dee-tidee-dee. This was the best tune yet. It was what Saturday night ought to be. It danced clean over Washbury Manor School at the very first note, cleared the long sullen fields, and then went capering through bright towns that could not be found on any map. + 

‚ÄúMr.¬ÝJollifant!‚Äù The voice was closer and louder, a screech. + 

Rumpty-dee-tidee. And friends you had never seen before joined hands with you, and away you went, past lines of laughing girls.‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ + 

‚ÄúMr.¬ÝJollifant!‚Äù + 

And Inigo let his hands fall from the keys and awoke to make the discovery that Mrs.¬ÝTarvin really existed and was standing before him, very angry indeed. There followed a moment during which he was able to examine distastefully and in silence her shapeless black figure, her grey hair with its odd ribbon in front, her steel spectacles, her long sallow face that always contrasted so dramatically and repellently with her bulk of body. + 

‚ÄúDidn‚Äôt you hear me calling?‚Äù she demanded furiously. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm afraid I didn‚Äôt.‚Äù Inigo smiled at her in a dazed fashion. The tune was still running through his head. + 

‚ÄúWell, please stop playing at once, at once,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝTarvin. She had a trick of repeating phrases, raising her voice the second time, that had been meat and drink to mimics at Washbury for years. ‚ÄúI thought it was clearly understood that this piano was not to be played at all, not at all, in the evening.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúBut that‚Äôs the only time I can play it, absolutely the only time,‚Äù Inigo replied, quite unwittingly falling into mimicry there and then. ‚ÄúAnd after all, I give some of the boys music lessons. Music‚Äôs an extra and‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe share the profits. And I can‚Äôt give music lessons unless I play myself sometimes, can I?‚Äù And he gave her a broad smile. + 

It was not returned. Mrs.¬ÝTarvin had known Inigo only a week, but already she had begun to regard him as another of her husband‚Äôs unfortunate appointments. ‚ÄúThe music lessons are not important, not important, at all,‚Äù she said coldly. ‚ÄúAnd in any case, I don‚Äôt see that it is at all necessary that in order to give them, you must play music-hall tunes as loudly as you can when all the boys are in bed, yes, long ago in bed.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThe longer in bed, you know, the deeper the sleep,‚Äù he began. + 

‚ÄúThat will do, please, Mr.¬ÝJollifant. The rule is that this piano shall not be played, not be played, in the evening.‚Äù And she swept round as if she were on a swivel, drew herself up, and marched out. + 

Inigo followed, whistling softly the night‚Äôs tune, which now was not only deliriously lilting but also had a certain rebellious note in it. At the head of the stairs, on the way to his room, he met Miss Callander, who looked as if she had been standing there, listening. + 

‚ÄúOh, I heard her go down. Did she stop you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúShe did, she did,‚Äù he replied. ‚ÄúAnd just when I was beginning to enjoy myself. Did you hear the thing I was playing? A poor thing, but mine own.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWas it really? I thought it was lovely. You are clever.‚Äù Then she dropped her voice. ‚ÄúI knew she‚Äôd stop you. She‚Äôs been fearfully cross all evening and blamed me for all kinds of silly things just after dinner, and I really don‚Äôt know what to do.‚Äù And she put a hand to her cheek and looked at him forlornly. + 

He took her hand and held it somewhat absentmindedly. ‚ÄúShe thinks by keeping us on a low diet‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean shepherds‚Äô pie and prunes‚ÅÝ‚Äîto crush our spirit. But she won‚Äôt succeed, unless perhaps with Felton, who hasn‚Äôt much spirit anyhow, and likes prunes, or says he does. But you and I, Miss Callander‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù and he completed the sentence by squeezing her hand. + 

She withdrew her hand, though not hastily. ‚ÄúShe‚Äôs really awful, isn‚Äôt she? And only a week of term gone! And weeks and weeks yet! What will she be like at the end? Better perhaps.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWorse, decidedly worse,‚Äù said Inigo impressively. ‚ÄúNine weeks more of her‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs unthinkable. Believe me‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand now his voice sank to a fearsome whisper‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúyoung as the term is, short as the acquaintance of this gorgon-like female and myself, the fates have already conspired together and woven a web and laid a train, and very soon‚ÅÝ‚Äîdo you know what will happen here very soon, do you know what there will be?‚Äù + 

Her round eyes and parted lips were sufficient to frame the question. But Inigo‚Äôs sense of the dramatic compelled him to wait a few moments. His stare was heavy with doom. + 

‚ÄúA bust-up,‚Äù he said at length, ‚Äúand a bust-up of the most astounding and shattering proportions.‚Äù He gave her another fateful glance, then quite suddenly grinned at her, waved his hand, and went striding down the corridor, whistling his tune, that tune which is perhaps the leitmotif of the piece. + 

II + 

Sunday was surprisingly warm for a late September day. It was not, however, a pleasant and bright warmth, but sulky grey heat, as if the whole place had been shovelled into a huge dim oven. Not a breath stirred the surrounding fields, and all the air inside the school seemed to have been used over and over again. Midday dinner with the boys had been a misery, and Inigo, who had hacked off innumerable slices of boiled beef, had had some greasy traffic with carrots, and had then watched fifteen boys eat tapioca pudding, felt hot, sick, and cross. + 

‚ÄúI was wrong about there being only two smells here,‚Äù he announced angrily to Felton, with whom he left the dining-room. ‚ÄúThere are two smells-in-chief, I admit. The smell of boy is the first, of course. And the smell from the kitchen, which must be piled high with decaying bones and drenched in cabbage water, is the second. These are what‚Äôs its name‚ÅÝ‚Äîdominant. But‚ÅÝ‚Äîare you listening, Felton?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot more than I can help, I must say,‚Äù said Felton, without turning round. They were now going upstairs, and he was in front. ‚ÄúBut go on, Jollifant, if it amuses you.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAh, Felton, even you feel the iron entering your soul. Where is that genial comradeship, that old West Country good nature? And let me tell you that it doesn‚Äôt amuse me. But what I was going to say was that it‚Äôs a mistake to imagine that there aren‚Äôt other smells here, little old smells that live in corners, large vague smells that drift about the corridors, smells that‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, do shut up!‚Äù Felton increased his pace. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve just had dinner.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd you want to wrestle with it in peace? You intend to turn it into an honest bit of Felton? These be mysteries, not to be tampered with or butted into by the profane.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm wondering what to do,‚Äù said Felton, standing at the door of his room. + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôre wondering what to do!‚Äù cried Inigo, patting him on the shoulder. ‚ÄúThen I say you‚Äôre lucky. I‚Äôve got past that. I know that it‚Äôs a warm Sunday afternoon in a smelly school miles from anywhere and there‚Äôs nothing to do.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI think I shall go for a walk.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat! the same old round‚ÅÝ‚Äîthrough the fields, Washbury, over the old bridge, back down the road. Oh no, Felton, you don‚Äôt mean it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, not that way. I thought of going along the dyke to Kinthorpe,‚Äù said Felton, with the air of a modest hero. ‚ÄúYou can get tea there, too.‚Äù And he nodded brightly and went into his room. + 

By the time Inigo had stretched himself across his two chairs and had lit his pipe, he had an inspiration. He knew that Daisy Callander was free until early evening. Why shouldn‚Äôt he take her to Kinthorpe or somewhere to tea? She was not perhaps an enthusiastic walker but she could manage that distance. There were times when he half fancied he was in love with Daisy, though he never could shake off the knowledge that he had only to see half a dozen other girls to be quite sure he was not in love with her. He knew too that it was impossible to spend more than an hour alone with Daisy without flirting with her, because somehow there was nothing else left to do. But then he had no objection to flirting. He had no objection to anything, apart from work and from the baser and more violent crimes, that would pass the time. Languidly, he began to change some of his clothes, beginning with his collar. + 

There was a knock, and Felton looked in, all neat and shining. The very sight of his trim brown felt hat, his dreary blue tie, his flashing eyeglasses, gave Inigo an awful sense of dullness. A walk with Felton would be like a stroll across the Gobi Desert. + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôre not coming, Jollifant?‚Äù + 

Inigo gave him a long head-shake. ‚ÄúNo, thanks. Some other time when I‚Äôm a stronger and saner man and the wild Northeaster does whatever what‚Äôs his name‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬ÝKingsley‚ÅÝ‚Äîsays it does. But not today.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI thought not.‚Äù Felton grinned, rather surprisingly, and withdrew. + 

‚ÄúAnd that,‚Äù Inigo told himself, ‚Äúdisposes of you, Master Felton. Now for the fair Daisy.‚Äù And he pulled what seemed to him a fine melodramatic face and even went over to the glass to see what it really looked like; and hurried on now with his toilet. The fair Daisy seemed fairer still, her company for two or three hours a rich prospect. The awful boredom vanished, dispersed by a tiny flame of excitement. He fell to whistling his tune. + 

A glance through the window showed him a few boys drifting out into the grounds. He cast upon them a look of pity. They would be soon assembling for their Sunday crawl, under the direction today of Tarvin himself. Then they would return to produce, under that same paternal eye, their laborious little weekly letters. Poor infants! What a Sunday afternoon they had! But then, just as he was turning away, two larger figures caught his eye. One was Daisy Callander. And her companion, stepping along so briskly, was the wretched and perfidious Felton. He had sneaked down and captured her, and was now taking her out to tea. He was coolly walking off with Inigo‚Äôs whole afternoon. Inigo stared at their backs, then noticed the daft hat in his hand, threw the thing across the room, and then stared out again and this time saw nothing‚ÅÝ‚Äîapart from a few idiotic little boys‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut a huge and faintly sizzling blackness. + 

There was just one moment when he might have wept out of sheer self-pity. But he gave his hat a kick, muttered words that he ought not to have known at all, sat down, and thought of Felton, of Miss Callander, of the whole burst afternoon, and suddenly he chuckled. Then he went to call on Fauntley, to borrow from that gentleman‚Äôs ample store a detective tale. + 

Fauntley was lolling in his old basket-chair, sucking a pipe and finishing a whisky and soda. He was a large, sagging man, about fifty, with formidable eyebrows, a clipped moustache, a heavy jowl, and a face enpurpled by a host of tiny veins. He was also the only really able master in the school. Such scholarships as came its way were snatched by Fauntley, who now and then persuaded himself that a boy had ability and promise and so promptly crammed knowledge into him. Why he should ever have come to Washbury Manor or, having come, should have remained, was a mystery. He seemed to have drifted there out of some queer past. It would be an exaggeration to describe him as that familiar type (in fiction), the brilliant failure; nevertheless, he was a sound scholar‚ÅÝ‚Äîinfinitely superior to Tarvin himself‚ÅÝ‚Äîand an old Rugger Blue, and he seemed like a man-of-war rotting in some dilapidated little harbour. He jeered at all modern literature (pointing out its mistakes in grammar), but read enormous numbers of detective stories. Once, and sometimes twice, a week, he disappeared for the whole evening, not returning until very late, and never offered any account of these expeditions. (Inigo periodically shocked Felton by suggesting that their older colleague had a mistress in one of the neighbouring villages.) He was very fond of whisky, and when he had taken a sufficient quantity of it he would either express at length his regret that he had never gone into the Church and then proceed to denounce all modern civilization, or relate with a certain scholarly distinction of phrase, which never appeared in his ordinary conversation, any number of dirty stories. Such was Fauntley. It was impossible to dislike him, but it was not difficult to feel that somehow one would be better off in some place where he was not. The sight of him frequently turned Inigo‚Äôs attention to the thought of other careers. + 

‚ÄúWell, Jollifant,‚Äù Fauntley growled amiably, putting down his glass, ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry I can‚Äôt offer you a whisky, but there isn‚Äôt any more. I had to have that to take the taste of that damned lunch out of my mouth. Sit down.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI couldn‚Äôt touch it even if you had any,‚Äù said Inigo, ‚Äúnot at this hour. I can‚Äôt drink whisky, somehow, until it‚Äôs dark. And talking of whisky, it‚Äôs my birthday tomorrow.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúHow old are you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúTwenty-six.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGood God!‚Äù And Fauntley regarded him closely. ‚ÄúTwenty-six. I‚Äôd forgotten it existed. But where does the whisky come in?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI thought we might celebrate the great event, in the common-room after dinner‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIf you‚Äôre thinking of asking our worthy Mrs.¬ÝTarvin,‚Äù said Fauntley‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho hated her‚ÅÝ‚Äîwith a grin, ‚Äúyou‚Äôll be disappointed. The Tarvins are dining out tomorrow night, I happen to know. They usually do about this time every year.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAll the better. Felton will be able to get tight in peace, the deep and treacherous dog. But I want two bottles of whisky for the occasion, and I thought you would know where I could get ‚Äôem.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúTwo bottles, eh? Stout feller!‚Äù Fauntley rumbled. ‚ÄúThe notice is too short for me to get ‚Äôem for you. I know, though. Comrie‚Äôs the man. He‚Äôll get ‚Äôem for you by tomorrow night. You‚Äôll make sure if you let him know today.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGood. I‚Äôll see the dashing Sergeant, then,‚Äù said Inigo. ‚ÄúBut what becomes of him on Sundays?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôve noticed that fair-haired rather tall maid who occasionally waits at table? Her name‚Äôs Alice.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd very suitable, too. I know the one you mean. The most buxom and least ill-favoured of our handmaids. But what about her?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGive a message to Alice,‚Äù remarked Fauntley blandly, ‚Äúand it will reach Comrie tonight.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, well, well!‚Äù Inigo cocked an eye at his companion. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll pardon me for saying so, Mr.¬ÝFauntley‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúFauntley, please,‚Äù that gentleman put in, ‚Äúeven if you are about to insult me, as I see you are.‚Äù But he grinned amiably. + 

‚ÄúBut you seem to know a devil of a lot about what I might call the inner workings of this establishment. Now I thought I knew everything that‚Äôs going on in the place‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot you, Jollifant; you flatter yourself. But anyhow, you try it and see. Give Alice a note.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI will. And you‚Äôll join me tomorrow night?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúHonoured!‚Äù grunted Fauntley. They smoked in silence for a minute or two. Then Inigo looked disconsolately out of the window. + 

‚ÄúI suppose,‚Äù he began, ‚Äúyou wouldn‚Äôt like to come out for a walk.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôre right, I shouldn‚Äôt,‚Äù the other replied. ‚ÄúAnd when you‚Äôve been here as long as I have, you won‚Äôt either. Besides, I never walk just for the sake of walking. I‚Äôve no doubt Tarvin will let you take the boys out.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôve no doubt he would. And I‚Äôve no doubt Mrs.¬ÝTarvin would let me soak the prunes for tomorrow. It won‚Äôt do. I don‚Äôt want to live entirely for pleasure. Will you lend me one of your latest masterpieces of crime and detection, something very thin in clues and thick with suspicions?‚Äù He began looking about him. + 

Fauntley yawned. ‚ÄúTake what you like. That one‚Äôs not bad, The Straw Hat Mystery. It‚Äôll puzzle your tender brains. I‚Äôm going to sleep for an hour.‚Äù + 

Inigo crawled away with his book and, after a few minutes in his stuffy little room, he decided to go out and read under one of the five trees at the back of the school. On his way out, he came across one of the maids, who promised to give the note he handed her to the fair Alice, busy, it appeared ‚Äúa-tidying ‚Äôerself.‚Äù Then he found his tree and proceeded to stun the gigantic and silly afternoon with The Straw Hat Mystery which he did not finish because he fell asleep. When he awoke he made a number of discoveries, the most important of them being that it was past teatime and much cooler and that he was very stiff and had a slight headache. He limped round to the main entrance just in time to see Miss Callander and Felton arrive there, and to notice that they looked dusty and tired and out of spirits. They were in front, and he let them go without a word. + 

When Inigo came down, two hours later, to the usual Sunday night cold supper, he was feeling hungry. Everybody was there, but only Mr.¬ÝTarvin was making an effort to talk. He was a spectacled pompous little man, with an unusual and quite misleading expanse of forehead and a large and shaggy moustache that had been trained to hide what would undoubtedly be discovered to be a weak little mouth. He had a habit of punctuating his speech with a curious explosive sound, which must be inadequately represented by chumha. And this was the first thing Inigo heard as he reached the table. + 

‚ÄúA‚ÅÝ‚Äîha, Jollifant!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝTarvin. ‚ÄúJust in time, but only just as the‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha‚ÅÝ‚ÄîScotsman said of his change.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat Scotsman?‚Äù Inigo inquired, with an innocent glance that immediately became less innocent when it moved round to Fauntley, who raised ponderous eyebrows. + 

‚ÄúThe exact Scotsman is not specified. Chumha.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝTarvin began rubbing his hands as he looked at the food before him. + 

There was the boiled beef, now cold, with beetroot and mashed potatoes. Mrs.¬ÝTarvin, however, had a generous plate of cold chicken in front of her. Inigo examined it out of the corner of his eye, and then chanced to meet the wide gaze of Miss Callander, who suddenly lowered her eyes and was troubled by a delicate fit of coughing. They all champed their way through the first course, with Mrs.¬ÝTarvin occasionally addressing a remark to Felton, Mr.¬ÝTarvin and Fauntley throwing a word at one another, and Miss Callander and Inigo exchanging glances now and then across the table. Inigo was convinced that he was suffering from a fit of deep depression. ‚ÄúMy heart aches,‚Äù he told himself, poking away at a slippery piece of beetroot, ‚Äúand a drowsy numbness pains. Absolutely.‚Äù He seemed to have spent nearly all his glittering young manhood eating old meat with these people. + 

The plates were changed. Before Mrs.¬ÝTarvin a dish of cr√®me caramel and a jug of cream were placed. Then came, for the middle of the table and presumably the remainder of the company, the usual butter and the wooden slab of cheese‚ÅÝ‚Äîand stewed prunes. They were not even new prunes, Inigo declared angrily to himself; they were old and withered prunes, the very prunes some of them, he was ready to take oath, that he himself had rejected several days ago, prunes that by this time he knew shudderingly by sight. + 

‚ÄúNo, thank you,‚Äù he cried when the dish came his way. ‚ÄúNot for me. I don‚Äôt like prunes. Do you like prunes, Mrs.¬ÝTarvin?‚Äù he added impudently. There was an instant hush. + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt think I‚Äôve asked you, Mr.¬ÝJollifant,‚Äù she replied coldly, ‚Äúto consult me about my taste in food. As a matter of fact, I used to be very fond of prunes, very fond of prunes‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI thought I was at one time,‚Äù Inigo put in recklessly, ‚Äúbut now I find I can‚Äôt stand them.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúBut I am not allowed now to eat everything I like,‚Äù she went on, ‚Äúnot allowed at all. I have to be careful, to be very careful.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúCertainly. Very careful. Chumha,‚Äù said her husband. + 

‚ÄúWhen you are young, you can eat anything, anything at all,‚Äù she pursued, ‚Äújust as sometimes you imagine you can say anything or do anything. Though that is often a mistake, quite a mistake.‚Äù She looked at him steadily through her steel spectacles, then slowly turned to her neighbour. ‚ÄúWhat were you saying, Mr.¬ÝFelton?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd of course, Fauntley, you can‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha‚ÅÝ‚Äîgo on spending public money like‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝTarvin was rushing in too. + 

‚ÄúDid you have a good walk this afternoon, Miss Callander?‚Äù Inigo roared across the table. ‚ÄúHave some cheese?‚Äù + 

Ten minutes later, the first to leave the table, they strolled out into the garden together. ‚ÄúI must have a cigarette after that,‚Äù she whispered. ‚ÄúCan I have a cigarette, please?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou can,‚Äù said Inigo. ‚ÄúBut tell me, did you enjoy your walk with Felton this afternoon? I must have the answer to that question before I pour out to you the secrets of my heart.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, must you! Well, of course I did.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou did,‚Äù he said with a stern melancholy. ‚ÄúThen the secrets of this heart are ever denied you.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, then‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù she hesitated. They were still in the light of the doorway, and she took the opportunity of showing him her large liquid orbs. ‚ÄúIf you feel like that, I‚Äôll confess. I didn‚Äôt enjoy it much. He‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬ÝFelton‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîdullish, isn‚Äôt he?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúFelton is very dull. You set my mind at rest. I intended to ask you myself to go for a walk.‚Äù And he explained at length how he had missed her, then went on: ‚ÄúWe‚Äôll talk sympathetically under the stars, and tonight I shall call you Daisy.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, will you? I don‚Äôt know about that. But listen‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôre absolutely in Mrs.¬ÝTarvin‚Äôs bad books. I heard about last night from her; she was furious. And then tonight‚ÅÝ‚Äîthose prunes. I thought I should have screamed when you asked her if she didn‚Äôt like them‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe greedy old thing. But really, you‚Äôll have to be careful or there‚Äôs sure to be trouble.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI am a man,‚Äù announced Inigo, with a fine Byronic air, ‚Äúborn for trouble. It is only when I‚Äôm with you, Miss Cal‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean Daisy, that this restless heart is stilled. Not altogether stilled mind you, because Beauty itself‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, do be quiet,‚Äù she cried, after waiting in vain for him to tell her what Beauty did. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre too absurd, and worse than ever tonight. I don‚Äôt think it‚Äôs safe being out here with you.‚Äù Then she lowered her voice, drew closer to him. ‚ÄúBut really she is an awful old cat. I‚Äôm sure I shall never stick it, I really shan‚Äôt. She hates me like poison already.‚Äù + 

Inigo murmured sympathetically and drew her arm into his. They walked slowly, close together, over the lawn. The night was large and cool-breathing, deep purple with a faint gold glimmer of stars, full of owl-haunted distances. Inigo, squeezing her arm within his, was already embracing the night itself, with which he had fallen instantly in love. Miss Callander herself, however, was not only shedding certain defects of form and feature, but was even escaping from her own trite prettiness; the night lent her beauty. Could she have borrowed its silence too, she would have been throned even higher in Inigo‚Äôs imagination. + 

‚ÄúI can‚Äôt do anything right for her,‚Äù she continued in a rapid whisper. ‚ÄúShe grumbles at everything. Oh, and do you know she won‚Äôt let Mr.¬ÝTarvin talk to me alone a single minute? She won‚Äôt really. She comes flying up at once, saying ‚ÄòWhat‚Äôs this, what‚Äôs this?‚Äô The day before yesterday he came and said something to me just outside the door, and she was at the other end of the garden, miles away, and she saw us and came hurrying up‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou wouldn‚Äôt think she could move so fast, but she can‚ÅÝ‚Äîsaying ‚ÄòWhat‚Äôs this, what‚Äôs this?‚Äô It‚Äôs because he‚Äôs about ten years younger than she is. She keeps her eye on him all the time. As if I wanted‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean, a dingy little middle-aged man like James Tarvin‚ÅÝ‚Äîisn‚Äôt it ridiculous? He‚Äôs my mother‚Äôs cousin, you know. She can‚Äôt forgive me for his having engaged me when she was away.‚Äù + 

Inigo let her run on, content to give her arm an occasional squeeze and drift into an amorous reverie. They halted near the shrubbery and she grew silent as he glanced from the stars to the dim ivory round of her cheeks. But a noise in the shrubbery made her jump and she clutched at him. He slid an arm around her. ‚ÄúAll right,‚Äù he muttered, ‚Äúit‚Äôs nothing.‚Äù And the arm tightened about her unresisting body. + 

‚ÄúI thought‚ÅÝ‚Äîit might be Sturry,‚Äù she gasped. Sturry was the gardener, a long, shambling, melancholy creature who was subject to epileptic fits. These fits were perhaps the most exciting events at Washbury Manor, and at any time when you were taking a class, droning away at French or History, you might glance through the window and see Sturry falling into a fit outside. All the boys kept their eye on him whenever they could, hoping that it might arrive at their turn to throw up a hand and cry ‚ÄúPlease, sir, Sturry‚ÅÝ‚Äî!,‚Äù sounding gloriously the alarm. + 

‚ÄúWhat would Sturry be doing mooching about here now?‚Äù But while Inigo put the question‚ÅÝ‚Äîand tried to make it sound tender and protective‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe could not help thinking that it was useless to ask what Sturry was doing anywhere and at any time. + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know,‚Äù she went on, in a tiny troubled voice, ‚Äúbut he‚Äôs so horribly queer isn‚Äôt he? He follows me up and down. He comes and stands and stares. I see him staring through the window at me sometimes. He frightens me. Yes, he does, really.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúPoor girl,‚Äù he murmured, drawing her closer. ‚ÄúNever mind the loathsome brute. He won‚Äôt hurt you.‚Äù + 

She said nothing but let her hand rest idly against his coat. Her large eyes, deep and expressionless, were fixed upon his; her face itself, so close now, was a mysterious silent world; everything of her waited. Inigo knew that the moment had arrived. He kissed her. + 

‚ÄúNo, no,‚Äù she whispered when it was done. ‚ÄúYou really mustn‚Äôt.‚Äù Her face went back about three inches, but was still tilted towards his. He kissed her again, then again, and held her close while she showered upon his face a host of little kisses. All this they did with a certain vague suggestion of absentmindedness, as if it was really happening in their sleep so that they could not be held responsible for it. Inigo felt triumphant but at the same time a trifle foolish. The trouble was, he had nothing to say. What he was feeling was too strong for the usual idle pretences and yet it was not strong enough to put real words into his mouth. He was rather relieved when she gently disengaged herself and began to move forward. + 

Before they had moved ten paces, there was another rustling in the shrubbery. ‚ÄúWho‚Äôs that?‚Äù Inigo called sharply. A figure shot out and ran past them. Miss Callander gave a little scream, swung round, and tripped heavily over a stone. Inigo, prepared to give chase to the retreating figure, stopped and found her stretched at full length, whimpering a little. + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs my ankle,‚Äù she moaned. ‚ÄúI can‚Äôt get up. I‚Äôm sure it‚Äôs broken.‚Äù + 

It wasn‚Äôt, but it was badly sprained, they discovered. Inigo got her gingerly to her feet again, and she put one arm round his neck and slowly hobbled back to the house. + 

Somebody came peering out of the doorway. ‚ÄúIs that you, Daisy?‚Äù he called. ‚ÄúAnd who‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha‚ÅÝ‚Äîis that?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝTarvin walked to meet them. + 

‚ÄúMiss Callander tripped and fell and sprained her ankle,‚Äù Inigo explained. And the lady herself, turning a face pale with suffering upon the staring little headmaster, gave further details. + 

‚ÄúWe must get you indoors at once. Now lean on me. Chumha. Allow me, Jollifant. That‚Äôs right. Th‚Äëa‚Äëat‚Äôs right.‚Äù And Inigo found himself dispossessed by his superior, who promptly put an arm round Miss Callander‚Äôs waist, drew her own arm round his neck and retained the hand he held, and did it all with a certain gusto. The two of them so affectionately entwined, tottered towards the doorway, and at every step there seemed to be more of Miss Callander and less of Mr.¬ÝTarvin. They were actually standing, swaying there in the light, and Mr.¬ÝTarvin was consoling his burden with soft little chumhas, when footsteps came pattering up the hall. Mrs.¬ÝTarvin burst round the corner. + 

‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs this, what‚Äôs this?‚Äù she flung at them, almost before she could see anything. ‚ÄúJames! Miss Callander!‚Äù + 

All three began explaining at once, though Mr.¬ÝTarvin, in spite of his deficiencies, was easily the loudest and most voluble. + 

‚ÄúIndeed! Very unfortunate, most unfortunate, though why Miss Callander should choose to wander about in the dark, I can‚Äôt imagine. Just take hold of my hand, please, Miss Callander, and see if you can‚Äôt walk. No, James, stand away, stand away. Not at all necessary, quite unnecessary. Now Miss Callander, if you have no objections to leaning upon me. I will find you a cold water bandage. Yes, cold water, absolutely cold. We shall manage very well, quite well in fact, by ourselves, James.‚Äù And Mrs.¬ÝTarvin moved off, jerking forward her victim and leaving the two men staring at a back that seemed to rustle with indignation. + 

‚ÄúWell‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJollifant‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîthank you,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝTarvin; and with an embarrassed chumha he followed, though not too closely, the two women. + 

Inigo stared after him, and when they had all disappeared he still hung about, filling and lighting his pipe, and feeling vaguely as if he had just slipped out of a theatre in which an idiotic play was being performed. For ten minutes nothing happened at all; nobody came; there was not a sound. Then a noise behind made him turn round, and, with a shock of surprise, he found himself looking at a girl he had never seen before, quite a pretty girl in bright blue, with cheeks like an apple. + 

‚ÄúPlease, sir,‚Äù she began. And then he realized that this was Alice, the maid that Fauntley had mentioned, who was to take his message; but Alice without her uniform, in her best clothes, a free and perhaps saucy Alice. + 

‚ÄúI took that message, an‚Äô Sergeant Comrie ‚Äôe says ‚Äôe can get them two bottles of whisky tomorrow an‚Äô ‚Äôe‚Äôll let you ‚Äôave ‚Äôem in the afternoon an‚Äô please will you give ‚Äôim the money then. An‚Äô ‚Äôe says,‚Äù she continued, breathlessly, ‚Äúwill Old Rob Roy do?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWill Old Rob Roy do what?‚Äù Inigo inquired solemnly. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know because I‚Äôve never met the old gentleman. But he sounds as if he could do almost anything.‚Äù + 

She giggled, and then opened her eyes wide at him. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs the name of the whisky, you know it is. An‚Äô will it do, ‚Äôe says?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúCouldn‚Äôt be better,‚Äù said Inigo heartily, though he had never heard of it before. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs for my little birthday party tomorrow night,‚Äù he added in a confidential whisper. ‚ÄúSuppose I give you the money, could you pass it on and take the bottles in for me? Just, you know, as a special birthday favour.‚Äù Alice could, and he counted out the twenty-five shillings, gave it to her, then found another half-crown. ‚ÄúYou know, I think Comrie‚Äôs a very lucky man. I didn‚Äôt recognize you, you‚Äôre such a tremendous swell in your Sunday clothes. I hope Comrie appreciates them.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, I don‚Äôt go with ‚Äôim every time ‚Äôe likes,‚Äù cried Alice, tossing her head. ‚ÄúI likes to please myself about that. Sometimes I goes out by myself.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes,‚Äù said Inigo vaguely, for this was an invitation to which he did not feel he could respond. Nevertheless, he beamed upon her. ‚ÄúI can see that you‚Äôre a proud girl, Alice. But I hope you‚Äôre not too proud to accept this for taking my message.‚Äù And he pressed the half-crown into her palm and folded her fingers round it. His glance fell upon her ripe and smiling mouth. The night was still working obscurely inside him. There was something very inviting about those generous lips. + 

‚ÄúAh, Jollifant,‚Äù said a voice behind him. Inigo jumped. Mr.¬ÝTarvin had returned. + 

‚ÄúAlice here,‚Äù said Inigo blandly, ‚Äúhas been taking a message for me, haven‚Äôt you, Alice?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes, yes, of course, one of the maids. Alice. I didn‚Äôt recognize who it was. Chumha.‚Äù And he looked at her with such interest that Inigo made a note of it, for the benefit of Fauntley. + 

‚ÄúI was just saying the same thing myself,‚Äù Inigo pursued. ‚ÄúI was saying that she was so smart in her Sunday clothes‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey are your Sunday clothes, aren‚Äôt they, Alice?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúLet me see,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝTarvin reflected, ‚Äúyou‚Äôve been here how long now?‚Äù He seemed to be in no greater hurry to get rid of her than Inigo was. And it was this last query, keeping him staring there another minute, that was his undoing. + 

‚ÄúOo!‚Äù cried Alice. + 

The two men turned round. Too late! Mrs.¬ÝTarvin was upon them. ‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs this, what‚Äôs this? Really now I can‚Äôt understand, I really can‚Äôt understand‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôve just been‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGood night, everybody.‚Äù Inigo left his unhappy headmaster to explain everything. When he reached the landing that led to his own room, he ran into Felton. + 

‚ÄúWhat have you been doing all night, Jollifant?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThere are times, Felton,‚Äù said Inigo, solemnly shaking his head, ‚Äúwhen the sight of your bright innocent face, those unstained eyeglasses, that cherubic mouth, the wild yet shy gambols and romps that have brought so many happy hours to Bristol and even Clifton‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, do shut up about Bristol!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThe very pink that now mantles your youthful cheek‚ÅÝ‚Äîall these things, Felton, at times, I say, go to my heart and there lay a what‚Äôs its name‚ÅÝ‚Äîa heavy burden, and I tell myself that Washbury Manor has much to answer for. This is one of the times, Felton. I grieve for you. Good night.‚Äù + 

III + 

‚ÄúHaving drunk your health, Jollifant,‚Äù said Fauntley, his fingers closing round the bottle of Old Rob Roy, ‚ÄúI will now proceed to give you a little good advice.‚Äù He spoke in that unusually careful and dignified manner often found in men who have just accounted for half a bottle of whisky and are busy pouring out the other half. + 

This was Monday night and the little birthday party. The revellers had the place to themselves, for the Tarvins were dining out and Miss Callander had retired early, to rest her ankle. Indeed the tiny common-room, which had sufficient haze of smoke and reek of Old Rob Roy to be a highland den, seemed to have removed itself altogether from Washbury Manor. Perhaps one of the trio, Felton, can hardly be described as a reveller. He did not like whisky and was secretly troubled all the time by the thought of what his companions might say or do under its influence, but being a good-natured and gregarious youth, he did his best, by drowning his tots of liquor in soda water and then taking blind gulps at the stuff, by smoking quite a number of his non-nicotine cigarettes, by laughing whenever the others laughed, to be one of the party. And perhaps Fauntley, who was there to deal justly with the Old Rob Roy, did not quite succeed in revelling. With Inigo himself, however, there can be no such reservations. He was there to do the honours, to drink with and beam upon his companions in misfortune, to forget, to expand. He was not really very fond of whisky but already he had had a great deal more of it than he was accustomed to, and now his lock of hair seemed longer and more troublesome than usual and his smile a trifle broader, his gestures had a certain amplitude and nobility, and his spirit, discovering again the enchanted richness of life, was taking wing. + 

‚ÄúBut before I give you this advice,‚Äù Fauntley continued, ‚ÄúI should like to ask you a few questions, in what is‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou must understand, Jollifant‚ÅÝ‚Äîa purely friendly spirit. No discourtesy is intended.‚Äù He brought out these remarks with the care of a pleading K.C. In a few more glasses‚Äô time, he would stand at the familiar crossroads, being compelled to go one way and discuss his lost position in the Church and the decay of civilization or to go the other way and talk bawdy. At the moment, however, he was still free and so was enjoying his capacity to choose, develop, expand, any theme. ‚ÄúMy first question is this. Have you any money?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAbout two pound ten,‚Äù replied Inigo. + 

‚ÄúNo, not actual money, cash in hand, but means, income, capital.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, that! I‚Äôve a private income of about sixty pounds per annum, derived, gentlemen, from investments. One is the Western Gas Company, and the other the Shuttlebury Bag and Portmanteau Corporation. I may add that the Bags and Portmanteaus are a bit rocky.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúVery well. You can‚Äôt live on that, can you? Still, it‚Äôs something,‚Äù said Fauntley, examining the stem of his pipe with great gravity. ‚ÄúMy next question is this. What about your people? Have you any expectations? Have you anybody dependent on you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNeither.‚Äù Inigo took up his glass. ‚ÄúI am, my friends, a man without family. You see before you a Norphan. As a matter of fact, I‚Äôve an uncle‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs in the tea trade and lives at Dulwich‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho sort of helped to bring me up until I left Cambridge. I was staying with him during the Long. He‚Äôs a pleasant old stick and the only man I know what still wears a straw hat.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI know a man who wears one in winter,‚Äù Felton put in modestly. + 

‚ÄúHave another drink, Felton,‚Äù said Inigo, pushing across the bottle. ‚ÄúIn winter, too, eh? There‚Äôs more in you than meets the eye. An all-the-year-round-bounder, eh? I must tell my uncle that; he‚Äôll be furious. But where does this lead us, to what dark clue, Fauntley?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúMy advice to you, Jollifant, is this. Get out of this place. You‚Äôre only wasting your time. You don‚Äôt like it, and I don‚Äôt think it likes you.‚Äù Fauntley emptied his glass and relit his pipe. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt mean go to another school. There are plenty of prep schools better than Washbury, much better, and there are some worse. I‚Äôve known one or two a damned sight worse.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou stagger me,‚Äù cried Inigo. + 

‚ÄúWell, I don‚Äôt know,‚Äù said Felton, ‚ÄúI‚Äôve heard of schools‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù But what he had heard was never revealed because his troubled piping was completely drowned by Fauntley‚Äôs heavy bass. + 

‚ÄúWhen all‚Äôs said and done, these prep schools are not your damned Board or Council schools or whatever they call ‚Äôem now‚ÅÝ‚Äîreading and writing factories. A gentleman can still teach in ‚Äôem. Don‚Äôt forget that, you youngsters. These are the only places left for a gentleman.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo doubt,‚Äù observed Inigo sadly. ‚ÄúBut it‚Äôs pretty ghastly being a gentleman, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs nearly played out,‚Äù said Fauntley. ‚ÄúAnd so, by the way, is this bottle. There‚Äôs another somewhere, isn‚Äôt there, Jollifant?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThere is, and I‚Äôll open it. But what am I to do when I get out?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, of course, that‚Äôs your affair,‚Äù said Fauntley, who seemed to think that up to this time the conversation had been on some public question, and had all the appearance of a man who had successfully settled it. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt pretend to know about these things. But you write a little, don‚Äôt you? Why don‚Äôt you become a journalist?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúBecause I was born at least thirty years too late,‚Äù replied Inigo. ‚ÄúNow if I‚Äôd been writing in Henley‚Äôs time‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGood feller, Henley!‚Äù Fauntley ejaculated this with such an air that the wondering Felton, who only knew Henley as the man who was captain of his soul, thought the two must have been at Oxford together. + 

‚ÄúI could have done something,‚Äù Inigo pursued wistfully. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs too late now, though. Why, I‚Äôm working at a thing now, an essay on ‚ÄòThe Last Knapsack‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîabout walking tours, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat Henley would have jumped at. But I‚Äôm absolutely certain,‚Äù he added, with prophetic truth, ‚Äúthat there isn‚Äôt a paper in the country would take it now. No, I‚Äôve thought about that, and it‚Äôs useless. Some day, perhaps, I may‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù And he finished the sentence with a graceful gesture; that, no doubt, of a man accepting or refusing several wreaths of laurel. + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs no good then,‚Äù said Fauntley so heartily as to be almost brutal. ‚ÄúWhat else is there? Of course you‚Äôre devilish clever at the piano‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôve heard you‚ÅÝ‚Äîalways reminds me of a feller who was up at Merton in my time. He was the cleverest feller I ever heard at a piano, could play and sing you anything, though I can‚Äôt say it ever did him any good in the long run. The last time I heard of him, he was seen opening oysters‚ÅÝ‚Äîprofessionally, I mean‚ÅÝ‚Äîin a bar in Sydney. Still,‚Äù he conceded, ‚Äúyou might be able to make something out of it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSome fun, that‚Äôs all. But, by Jingo! I concocted a gorgeous little tune the other night‚ÅÝ‚ÄîSaturday, it was. Did you hear it, Felton? It‚Äôs about the best I‚Äôve struck.‚Äù And he began whistling his little tune and it sounded better than ever. + 

‚ÄúLet‚Äôs have it, Jollifant,‚Äù said Fauntley. + 

‚ÄúWhat do you mean? Go down to the schoolroom?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI do. A quick one all round‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù and he tipped some Old Rob Roy into the three glasses‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúthen some music.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúRight you are!‚Äù Inigo drank his approval. + 

‚ÄúBut look here,‚Äù Felton began, signalling an alarm with his eyeglasses. + 

‚ÄúNo time to look there, Felton,‚Äù said Inigo sternly. ‚ÄúDrink up. He‚Äôs worried because the Tarvin stopped me on Saturday,‚Äù he explained to Fauntley. + 

‚ÄúShe‚Äôs out,‚Äù said Fauntley, ‚Äúand I don‚Äôt know if it would matter if she weren‚Äôt.‚Äù And he drank confusion to the woman. ‚ÄúBring your glasses and a syphon. I‚Äôve got the bottle.‚Äù And Felton, sorely troubled, followed them down. + 

‚ÄúA little one before you begin,‚Äù Fauntley suggested, and so Inigo had another drink. He had never seen a keyboard that looked so inviting. He felt he could do anything with it, any mortal thing. He liked this phrase so much that he found himself repeating it: ‚ÄúAny morr‚Äëtal thinggg.‚Äù It gave him a feeling of joyous confidence. Terum, perum, perum‚ÅÝ‚Äîpum‚ÅÝ‚Äîpum, trrrum. That was the fine opening flourish. Now he was sliding into his tune, gently, gently at first. Rumpty-dee-tidee-dee‚ÅÝ‚Äîit was undoubtedly better than ever‚ÅÝ‚Äîrumpty-dee-tidee. He played it through softly. + 

‚ÄúIs that it?‚Äù asked Fauntley, out of a golden mist of Old Rob Roy. + 

‚ÄúIt is. D‚Äôyou like it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, I don‚Äôt pretend to have any ear, but it seems to me absolutely first-rate, Jollifant, far better than most of the things you hear nowadays. You ought to get somebody to print that. Rumpty-dee. No, I haven‚Äôt quite got it. We‚Äôll have it again in a minute. Here‚Äôs luck!‚Äù + 

Inigo emptied his glass in reply, then began playing again. He went through half a dozen tunes of his own, and Fauntley tapped his feet and Felton nodded his head, though a trifle dubiously. + 

‚ÄúBravo!‚Äù cried Old Rob Roy, speaking through Fauntley. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve got a touch, you know, Jollifant, a wonderful touch. And a talent, distinctly a talent.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou heard those tunes of mine?‚Äù said Inigo, wheeling round excitedly. ‚ÄúI have a phrase describing ‚Äôem, thought of it the other day. They‚Äôre like a family of elves in dress suits. How‚Äôs that?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot bad,‚Äù said Fauntley, ‚Äúbut I‚Äôd rather have the tunes. Let‚Äôs have that first one again.‚Äù + 

And Inigo, deciding that as a phrase-maker he was above the heads of his present company, went back to his Rumpty-dee-tidee-dee, and this time he crashed it out fortissimo, so that instead of slyly hinting that you might slip round the corner, the tune now loudly defied anybody or anything that would keep you in your place and ended by fairly hurling you round the corner. Fauntley kept time with his glass on the little table near the piano, and even Felton tapped his feet. There was such a noise in the room that a car might have been driven up to the front door, the door might have been opened without anybody there being any the wiser. + 

Concluding with a final crash, Inigo sprang to his feet. + 

‚ÄúAnd that‚Äôs the tune,‚Äù he cried, ‚Äúthat the wretched Tarvin woman, that putter of prunes on other people‚Äôs plates, stopped me playing the other night.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúA damned shame!‚Äù growled Fauntley. ‚ÄúShe‚Äôs an old spoilsport.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes, I don‚Äôt like her much, I must say,‚Äù added Felton, now throwing discretion to whatever winds Old Rob Roy may have known. + 

‚ÄúLike her, Felton! I loathe her. What a pair they make! I‚Äôve not told either of you yet what happened last night.‚Äù And he plunged excitedly into an account of the proceedings of the night before, beginning with Mr.¬ÝTarvin‚Äôs discovery of Miss Callander outside the door. As soon as he had brought Mrs.¬ÝTarvin on to the scene for the first time, Inigo‚Äôs narrative began to lose its grasp upon truth until at last it was an Arabian Night of embarrassed chumhas and ‚Äúwhat‚Äôs this, what‚Äôs this?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, damned good, damned good!‚Äù Fauntley was rolling in his chair. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt believe a word of it, Jollifant,‚Äù he roared. ‚ÄúBut it‚Äôs damned good.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúHonest truth, I assure you!‚Äù Inigo roared in reply. He was sitting down now and the three of them had their heads together. ‚ÄúSo she came along, crying ‚Äòwhat‚Äôs this, what‚Äôs this, what‚Äôs this? I can‚Äôt understand, I really can‚Äôt understand. Now tell me, tell me, tell me.‚Äô ‚ÄòWell, you see,‚Äô said poor old Tarvin, ‚Äòyou see‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha.‚Äô ‚ÄòNo, I don‚Äôt see chumha. I don‚Äôt see chumha at all,‚Äô she screamed back at them. ‚ÄòI see you talking to a girl, a girl, quite young, a young girl. I cannot have you talking to a girl, cannot have it all, not at all.‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù Inigo stopped for a moment, exhausted. + 

‚ÄúShe never said that, though,‚Äù Fauntley roared again. ‚ÄúYou can‚Äôt tell me she said that.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, I know she didn‚Äôt.‚Äù Inigo sprang up, flung back his wandering lock, then slapped his knee. ‚ÄúBut don‚Äôt you see I‚Äôm giving you the soul of the thing, absolutely? That‚Äôs what she meant.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIs it, is it, indeed?‚Äù It came in a scream of rage from the door at the other end. There stood Mrs.¬ÝTarvin. + 

The shock, the sight of her standing there, coming at the end of a long crescendo of excitement, cut the last binding thread of self-control in Inigo. Up jumped Old Rob Roy himself to answer. ‚ÄúHow now, you secret, black, and midnight hag!‚Äù he thundered down the room. + 

‚ÄúWhat!‚Äù she shrieked, and swept forward, followed by her husband. ‚ÄúWhat did you say? You‚Äôre a drunken rowdy. I‚Äôve never been so insulted in all my life. And by one of our own masters! I‚Äôve never heard, never never heard, of such a thing. The schoolroom a taproom, mimicry and insults and abuse! Why don‚Äôt you say something, say something, James? Tell him to leave the place at once.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou ought to be ashamed of yourself, Jollifant,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝTarvin as sternly as he could. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîdrunk. Chumha.‚Äù + 

Fauntley was trying to rouse himself. ‚ÄúHe‚Äôs a bit tight, Tarvin. Birthday. Get him to bed.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúPardon me, Fauntley, but I‚Äôm perfectly sober,‚Äù said Inigo. ‚ÄúAnd I refuse to be got to bed.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIs this‚ÅÝ‚Äîthis‚ÅÝ‚Äîthis fellow to stay here?‚Äù demanded Mrs.¬ÝTarvin of her husband, in a passion. + 

‚ÄúOf course not. Expect resignation,‚Äù muttered Mr.¬ÝTarvin. + 

‚ÄúHe must leave in the morning, in the morning. I won‚Äôt have him here a moment longer, not a moment.‚Äù Her rage seemed to increase. + 

‚ÄúQuite understand. Chumha. Disgraceful business,‚Äù her husband muttered again. ‚ÄúRather awkward, though, to leave in the morning.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd why, pray?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, to begin with, must have term‚Äôs notice. Chumha.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIn short,‚Äù said Inigo, making a sweeping gesture but speaking quite distinctly, ‚Äúif I leave in the morning you must pay me a term‚Äôs salary. Fifty-two-pounds. A mere pittance, but mine own.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt care about that,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝTarvin, looking at Inigo as if he were a kind of reptile, then glaring at her husband. ‚ÄúI won‚Äôt have him here any longer, not a day, not a day. I knew what it would be from the first, from the very first. Another of your ridiculous appointments. I‚Äôll have him out tomorrow, whatever it costs.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúVery well, my dear,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝTarvin, who knew only too well where all the money came from. ‚ÄúWe will have to manage somehow‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor a week or so. You will‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîhave your term‚Äôs cheque in the morning, Jollifant, and leave us then.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI should think so indeed, I should think so,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝTarvin. At this moment, Inigo was trying to close the lid of the piano and not succeeding very well because he had failed to notice that a large matchbox had been left on the keys. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt touch that piano, don‚Äôt touch it,‚Äù she went on. ‚ÄúTake yourself off to bed and get ready to leave in the morning.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI am not leaving in the morning.‚Äù Inigo announced loudly. + 

‚ÄúCertainly you are.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh no, I‚Äôm not. I‚Äôm leaving tonight. Now.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúDon‚Äôt be an ass, Jollifant,‚Äù said Fauntley, putting a hand on his arm. ‚ÄúYou can‚Äôt leave tonight. It‚Äôs impossible.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot at all impossible. An excellent idea.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThere‚Äôs no train,‚Äù Fauntley pursued. ‚ÄúYou couldn‚Äôt go anywhere.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI can walk,‚Äù said Inigo triumphantly. ‚ÄúI can put a knapsack on my back and walk. I leave tonight. It‚Äôs not raining, is it? Is it raining, Felton?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt know,‚Äù stammered poor Felton, who had been busy trying to efface himself for the last five minutes. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm surprised, very surprised, at you, Mr.¬ÝFelton,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝTarvin severely. ‚ÄúI expected better things of you.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúFelton was dragged into this,‚Äù said Inigo, ‚Äúbecause I told him it was my birthday. Felton can‚Äôt resist a birthday, can you, Felton? Mr.¬ÝTarvin, I‚Äôm leaving tonight and so I will ask you to make my cheque out now.‚Äù He spoke very slowly and carefully. + 

‚ÄúThis is‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha‚ÅÝ‚Äîridiculous, Jollifant. You‚Äôll have to go, of course, but still‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîchumha.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúLet him go, let him go,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝTarvin. ‚ÄúWe shall only be spared trouble in the morning. I don‚Äôt see why we should have to make out cheques at this time of night, but the sooner he goes the better, and if he has to sleep in a ditch it‚Äôs no concern of ours, no concern at all. Mr.¬ÝFelton, kindly remove these filthy glasses and open all the windows. This place is disgusting, disgusting.‚Äù She turned a still quivering back upon them and marched out. + 

Quarter of an hour later, Inigo had his cheque in his pocket and had packed his immediate necessaries in a knapsack. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell you where to forward the trunk and the suitcase,‚Äù he said to Fauntley, who was looking on. ‚ÄúKeep an eye on these things, will you, until I want them? It must be twelve, isn‚Äôt it? And I don‚Äôt feel a bit sleepy and it‚Äôs a fine night and I‚Äôve finished with this place and I needn‚Äôt look for another for some time and I don‚Äôt give a damn. I call it a glorious exit.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd I call it damned silly,‚Äù said Fauntley, grinning. ‚ÄúAnd God knows how we shall manage those classes next week, or what sort of blighter the agencies will rake up for Tarvin. But good luck, Jollifant! Here, there‚Äôs a spot of whisky left. We‚Äôll have a parting drink.‚Äù + 

They were having it when Felton looked in. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre really going then? I told Miss Callander you were. She looked out of her bedroom and asked me what was the matter. Can I do anything, Jollifant?‚Äù + 

Inigo shook him by the hand. ‚ÄúNot a thing but say goodbye. I commend your soul to the Eternal Verities, Felton, though I haven‚Äôt the least notion what they are. We shall meet again sometime, I feel it in my bones.‚Äù By this time, he had put on a raincoat and swung his knapsack over it, found his hat and a fierce ash stick, and was ready to go. Fauntley went out with him. As they passed her door, Miss Callander looked out. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll be with you in a minute,‚Äù Inigo whispered to Fauntley, and stayed behind. + 

‚ÄúYou really are going?‚Äù Miss Callander, in her dressing-gown, looked rather like a pink rabbit. She opened her eyes as wide as possible and her mouth hardly at all. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm sacked and I‚Äôm going.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou crazy boy!‚Äù she whispered. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm awfully sorry. It will be my turn next, very soon, and really I shan‚Äôt be sorry, I really shan‚Äôt.‚Äù + 

Inigo looked at her steadily, with a small friendly smile. ‚ÄúI should try Egypt if I were you.‚Äù + 

She nodded confusedly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve just been‚ÅÝ‚Äîbeen writing there. Oh, but‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôve got something for you.‚Äù She produced a little packet. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs only some biscuits and chocolate, but I don‚Äôt suppose you‚Äôve got anything to eat with you, have you? And you‚Äôll get awfully hungry.‚Äù + 

Inigo was really touched. It came to him in a flash that nobody had done anything like this for him for years. He had been living almost entirely in a world of services for money. ‚ÄúDaisy Callander,‚Äù he cried softly, ‚Äúyou‚Äôre a brick. I‚Äôm tremendously grateful. I‚Äôd forgotten how hungry I should be in an hour or two.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhere are you going?‚Äù + 

He stared at her. ‚ÄúDo you know, I‚Äôd entirely forgotten that. I‚Äôve no idea where I‚Äôm going. I shall just walk and walk. Goodbye‚ÅÝ‚Äîand good luck!‚Äù He held out his hand. + 

She slipped her hand into his instead of shaking it. Then she raised her face a little. ‚ÄúGoodbye,‚Äù she said, rather tearfully. + 

He realized that she wanted him to kiss her. Strangely enough, though he had never liked her more than he did at this moment, he did not want to kiss her. But he did kiss her, gently, then gave her hand a final squeeze, and hurried downstairs to find Fauntley waiting for him at the front door. + 

‚ÄúFine, but coldish and black as pitch,‚Äù said Fauntley. ‚ÄúIn an hour you‚Äôll wish you‚Äôd stayed here and gone to bed. You‚Äôd better change your mind now.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot I,‚Äù said Inigo, peering out, ‚ÄúI like the smell of it. I‚Äôll push on, Peterborough way.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôre a young ass, Jollifant.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôll let you know what happens to me, Fauntley, give you an outline of my adventures till we meet again.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI repeat, Jollifant, you‚Äôre an ass. And if I were twenty years younger, I should come with you.‚Äù + 

Two minutes later, Fauntley had bolted the door and Inigo had turned out of the grounds into the lane, walking quickly westward. + 

IV + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd on t‚ÄôRoad + 

I + 

When Mr.¬ÝOakroyd dashed out of the house and hurried down Ogden Street with his little basket trunk in one hand and his bag of tools in the other, he had no idea where he was going. He only knew he was going somewhere, that night, at once. The thought of taking a train at such a late hour somehow frightened him, for it seemed the act of a desperado. He had only once taken a train at night in all his life and that had been in the company of six hundred other citizens of Bruddersford. He saw himself being arrested at the ticket office. + 

‚ÄúNa Jess!‚Äù somebody cried. + 

‚ÄúNa lad!‚Äù he called back, hurrying on and wondering who it was. He walked so quickly now and was so busy with his thoughts that outside T‚ÄôMucky Duck, turning into Woolgate, he ran full tilt into somebody, a big man. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre, weer the ‚Äôell are yer coming to!‚Äù shouted the big man. Then he saw who it was. ‚ÄúEh, it‚Äôs Jess Oakroyd. Weer yer going, Jess?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOff for me holidays, Sam,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, slipping away and leaving the big man staring. + 

These little encounters seemed to make the situation more desperate. It was then that he thought of Ted Oglethorpe‚Äôs nephew, who had said last night that he could have a trip whenever he wanted one. Loading at Merryweather‚Äôs in Tapp Street, up to eleven o‚Äôclock or after, and then going somewhere down South‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere was it?‚ÅÝ‚ÄîNuneaton. That was it. He felt immensely relieved at the thought that Ted would give him a lift down South. It would probably mean sitting on the bales at the back of the lorry all night, but this prospect did not daunt him. He rather liked the idea of jolting his way out of Bruddersford in this fashion. + 

Tapp Street, near the centre of the town, is a short street full of offices and warehouses, and any time after seven it looks dark and is almost deserted. There was only one sound now to be heard in the street, but no sooner had Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, turning the corner, heard it, than he quickened his pace at once. It was the sound of a lorry engine, an urgent throb-throb. As Mr.¬ÝOakroyd trotted up towards it, the engine burst into a roar. In another minute the lorry would be off. ‚ÄúHi!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, and fairly ran now. It was quivering with impatience. + 

‚ÄúHere, Ted,‚Äù shouted Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, ‚ÄúI‚Äôm coming wi‚Äô yer.‚Äù + 

A face he could not see distinctly looked from the driver‚Äôs seat. ‚ÄúLess noise, mate,‚Äù it said hoarsely. ‚ÄúAn‚Äô if yer coming, yer‚Äôll have to get on at the back. There‚Äôs only room for two ‚Äôere in front. ‚ÄôUrry up. Take it or leave it.‚Äù + 

This was certainly not Ted‚Äôs voice, but Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did not trouble his head about that. ‚ÄúAll right,‚Äù he gasped, and hoisted his two bags on the back. Fortunately the lorry was not fully loaded and there was room at the sides, where the tarpaulin-covered bales or pieces did not come to the very edge. But he had still to hoist himself up, and he had not succeeded in doing this when the lorry started, so that he was carried several yards down Tapp Street with his legs swinging in midair. It was only by a tremendous effort that he pulled himself over the side, and even then he barked his shins and knees. After resting a minute or two, he contrived to remove himself and his two bags to where there was space enough between the backboard and the tarpaulin pile for him to sit down and make himself snug. + 

It was grand. They bumped and rattled on at a surprising pace, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd in triumph watched the Bruddersford warehouses and shops and trams start up, quiver, and then retreat. With great dexterity, he filled and lighted a pipe of Old Salt, which had itself somehow achieved a new and adventurous flavour, and smoked it with a real old saltish air, like a man on the lookout to make the landfall of Cape Cambodia. Through valedictory puffs of smoke, he saw Bruddersford itself slide away, the hills rise up, a vague blackness, the streetlamps of distant and ever-retreating suburbs take on the shape and glitter of constellations. Other towns, Dewsbury, Wakefield, closed round him and then shook themselves off again. It was colder now, and he shivered a little in his thin mackintosh. He was still warmed, however, by a feeling of triumphant escape. He didn‚Äôt care where they landed in the morning. They were going on and on, and it was grand. + 

Then there came a great moment. He had been dozing a little but was roused by the lorry slowing down, sounding its horn, then swinging round into a road that was different from any they had been on so far. It was as smooth and straight as a chisel, and passing lights showed him huge double telegraph-posts and a surface that seemed to slip away from them like dark water. Other cars shot past, came with a blare and a hoot and were suddenly gone, but the lorry itself was now travelling faster than he thought any lorry had a right to travel. But at one place they had to slow down a little, and then Mr.¬ÝOakroyd read the words painted in large black letters on a whitewashed wall. The Great North Road. They were actually going down the Great North Road. He could have shouted. He didn‚Äôt care what happened after this. He could hear himself telling somebody‚ÅÝ‚ÄîLily it ought to be‚ÅÝ‚Äîall about it. ‚ÄúMiddle o‚Äô t‚Äônight,‚Äù he was saying, ‚Äúwe got on t‚ÄôGreat North Road.‚Äù Here was another town, and the road was cutting through it like a knife through cheese. Doncaster, it was. No trams now; everybody gone to bed, except the lucky ones going down South on the Great North Road. + 

‚ÄúBy gow!‚Äù he cried, ‚Äúthis is a bit o‚Äô life, this is. Good old Ted! Good old Oglethorpe! I owe him summat for this.‚Äù And he yearned with gratitude towards the thought of Ted and his companion at the wheel, settled himself as snugly as he could, and in spite of his excitement soon began to doze again. + 

He might have fallen fast asleep had he not been wakened by a very curious incident. There was somebody shouting. The lorry made a grinding noise, seemed to hesitate. ‚ÄúHey there!‚Äù came the shout. ‚ÄúWait a minute, wait a minute.‚Äù It was a policeman. The lorry had passed him now, but he came running after it. There was a roar, a fearful rattling, and the lorry rushed on, obviously being pressed to go as hard as it could. The policeman dropped behind, but he was near enough for Mr.¬ÝOakroyd to see him. He stood still but moved his hand. Above the din of the lorry sounded the policeman‚Äôs whistle, that horribly urgent shrilling. Again and again it sounded, but now they were rapidly gaining speed and soon left it far behind. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, looking and listening still, his face above the rattling backboard, was startled and amazed. The whistle rang in his ears yet, asking questions. What did it mean? What was Ted up to? Why had the policeman tried to stop them? Had they been going too quickly? This was the obvious explanation, but somehow it did not satisfy himself. There was something very queer about this. He was quite awake now. + 

Having decided to act queerly, the lorry did not return to normal behaviour. It raced along at a monstrous pace, jolting Mr.¬ÝOakroyd until he was breathless, bruised, and terrified, and several times it seemed in danger of crashing into other cars, only swerving at the last moment and being followed by angry shouts. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had begun to wonder whether it would be possible to creep along to the front to yell at Ted, ask him if he had gone crazy, when suddenly the lorry swung round, throwing him against the backboard, and turned down a narrow side-street. It went several miles down this road at the same mad pace, and the jolting was now worse than ever. Then it turned again, this time into a road still narrower, a winding lane full of ruts and overhanging branches of trees that seemed to miss them by inches, and now it was compelled to slow down to what seemed in comparison a mere crawl. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was able to take breath, look about him into the mysterious night, and think a little. He had hardly collected his thoughts, however, before the lorry, arriving at a tiny open space where this road met another, came to a standstill, much to his relief. It was all right going down the Great North Road in the middle of the night, but this had been a bit too much. He rose, gingerly, to his feet. + 

‚ÄúWhere‚Äôs that screwdriver?‚Äù he heard from the front. It was the voice of the man who had spoken to him in Tapp Street. + 

It went on: ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right. Better stay ‚Äôere, Nobby, and gimme the office if yer see anybody.‚Äù The man was climbing out. + 

‚ÄúD‚Äôyer think ‚Äôe took it?‚Äù asked the other. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was astonished. That wasn‚Äôt Ted‚Äôs voice. Ted was not on the lorry at all, then. + 

‚ÄúWhether ‚Äôe ‚Äôas or ‚Äôe ‚Äôasn‚Äôt, I‚Äôm risking nothing,‚Äù said the first man. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs no going straight through now, and ‚Äôowever far we go round, this lorry‚Äôs got to ‚Äôave another bloody number before we see daylight. ‚ÄôEre, Nobby, yer might as well get down. Chuck us them number plates.‚Äù + 

At this point Mr.¬ÝOakroyd thought that he might as well get down too. He fell rather than climbed out‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor he was stiff and shivering with cold‚ÅÝ‚Äîand tottered round to the front, rubbing his hands. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEllo, ‚Äôello!‚Äù cried the first man, staring. ‚ÄúI‚Äôd fergotten all about yer, mate. You‚Äôve ‚Äôad yer liver and lights shaken up all right, ‚Äôaven‚Äôt yer?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI have an‚Äô all,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd grimly. ‚ÄúBut where‚Äôs Ted?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúTed? Ted? Oo the ‚Äôell‚Äôs Ted?‚Äù demanded the other. And then he stepped forward and peered into Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs face. ‚ÄúAnd oo the ‚Äôell are you, anyhow? ‚ÄôEre, Nobby, this isn‚Äôt ‚Äôim.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIsn‚Äôt it?‚Äù said Nobby, stepping forward too. He was a large man, well muffled up, with a very small hat crammed down on his head. It was his turn now to stare at Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúNo begod, it isn‚Äôt at all. It‚Äôs a stranger. He‚Äôs a stranger to me, Fred.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd to me. ‚ÄôEre, wot‚Äôs the idea?‚Äù he demanded fiercely. + 

‚ÄúAr d‚Äôyer mean wot‚Äôs the idea?‚Äù asked Mr.¬ÝOakroyd valiantly. + 

‚ÄúI mean wot‚Äôs the bloody idea, that‚Äôs wot I mean,‚Äù he repeated with passion. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd felt very uncomfortable indeed. ‚ÄúWell, this is Ted Oglethorpe‚Äôs lorry, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, it isn‚Äôt Ted anybody‚Äôs lorry, this isn‚Äôt. It‚Äôs our lorry, this is, and I want ter know wot yer doing on it.‚Äù This Fred was a hoarse-voiced truculent sort of fellow, one of those who pushed their faces close to yours when they talked, and at every succeeding word he seemed to grow angrier. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd might feel uncomfortable, and indeed he could not help feeling a little lost and forlorn, miles from anywhere in the night as he was, in the company of two fellows whom he now suspected to be downright rogues; but he was anything but a coward and he had his own share of pugnacity. ‚ÄúI come on it because I thought it belonged to a friend o‚Äô mine,‚Äù he said sturdily. ‚ÄúAnd you said nowt to stop me neither when I said I were coming.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI took yer for somebody else,‚Äù said Fred sullenly. + 

‚ÄúAnd I took you for somebody else,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúSo that‚Äôs that.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, yer came and yer ‚Äôere and now yer‚Äôd better be moving on.‚Äù And Fred, turning his back on Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, began whistling. + 

‚ÄúHalf a minute, though,‚Äù said Nobby, ‚Äúwe‚Äôd better have a bit of a talk about this.‚Äù And he beckoned Fred, and the two of them walked away and began whispering. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd overheard several phrases, of which one‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúknows too much‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas repeated more than once by Nobby. + 

‚ÄúIf you want to change these numbers,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd called out, ‚Äúget on wi‚Äô it. It‚Äôs nowt to do wi‚Äô me.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot so loud, not so loud,‚Äù said Fred, returning with his companion. ‚ÄúAll right, Nobby, I‚Äôll get on with it. You can do the patter. Only for God‚Äôs sake keep it quiet.‚Äù He busied himself with the front number plate. + 

Nobby brought his large mysterious bulk close to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, and when he spoke his accents were bland and conciliatory. ‚ÄúAnd where might you be making for, Mister?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, you see, I thowt I‚Äôd move down South for a bit,‚Äù explained Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúLeicester way p‚Äôraps. I‚Äôve been there afore an‚Äô I‚Äôm out of a job and so I thowt I‚Äôd try a move.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGoing at a funny time, wasn‚Äôt you?‚Äù pursued Nobby, still blandly but with a certain significant emphasis. + 

‚ÄúAy, I was moving late‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike you. But this ‚Äôere friend o‚Äô mine had told me he‚Äôd be there late, you see, at Merryweather‚Äôs i‚Äô Tapp Street.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs all right, Nobby,‚Äù grunted Fred, bending over his task. ‚ÄúSaw it further down and it got off about ten minutes afore we did.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúQuite so, quite so,‚Äù said Nobby smoothly. Then he lowered his voice. ‚ÄúThe fact of the matter is, Mister‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI dare say you thought one or two things about this job was a bit queer like, didn‚Äôt you?‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut the fact of the matter is, me and Fred here hasn‚Äôt got a licence‚ÅÝ‚Äîdriving licence, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîbetween us, and so we‚Äôre having to do a bit of dodging.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs no business o‚Äô mine,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd reflectively, ‚Äúbut I don‚Äôt see how changing t‚Äônumbers is going to help you if you haven‚Äôt got a licence. You can be pulled up, just t‚Äôsame. Still, you know your own business.‚Äù + 

Nobby made a smacking noise with his lips, perhaps to suggest that he was thinking deeply. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs no good, Mister,‚Äù he said at length, ‚ÄúI can see it‚Äôs no good trying to deceive you. You‚Äôre too smart for that. Well, it‚Äôs like this.‚Äù And now he whispered with a most engaging conspiratorial air. ‚ÄúA genelman of my acquaintance is a partner in a firm. Right. He has a bit of a barney with the other two partners, decides to have a split. Right. He takes so much stock, they take so much. But he can‚Äôt get his, they won‚Äôt part. It‚Äôs his but they won‚Äôt part till they‚Äôre forced. He comes to me and asks me to get it away for him. Once it‚Äôs gone, all right, no trouble. It‚Äôll save a law job. They can‚Äôt get at him ‚Äôcos it‚Äôs his stuff, but they could get at us for getting it out of the warehouse. We knew that, me and Fred, when we took it on, but we‚Äôre sportsmen, we are, and we‚Äôll take a bit of a risk obliging a friend, we will.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who did not believe a word of all this. ‚ÄúSo you‚Äôre keeping it quiet like. And who did you think I was?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, you see, Mister, there was a feller in the warehouse we‚Äôd got to know,‚Äù began Nobby hopefully. + 

‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, cutting him short. He had suspected some time that he had travelled with a lorry-load of stolen goods, probably pieces of expensive cloth. The trick had been worked before in Bruddersford, and he knew all about it. At the moment he did not feel any particular loyalty towards the manufacturers of his native town, whose warehouses could all be rifled for all he cared, so that his conscience did not trouble him overmuch, but at the same time it was not easy to feel comfortable in such company and he thought that the sooner he left it the better. Yet when he considered the chill darkness, the lonely place, his own position, any company seemed better than none for the time being. + 

Fred appeared now. ‚ÄúIf they‚Äôre looking for WR 7684, they‚Äôll be looking a bloody long time,‚Äù he announced. ‚ÄúNow what‚Äôs on? Is this where ‚Äôe gets off or does ‚Äôe work ‚Äôis passage a bit farther?‚Äù And he glanced from Nobby to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. + 

The latter regarded him without enthusiasm. ‚ÄúT‚Äôother‚Äôs bigger rogue, I‚Äôll be bound,‚Äù he told himself, ‚Äúbut he is a bit friendly wi‚Äô it. This chap ‚Äôud knock you on t‚Äôhead wi‚Äô a big spanner as soon as look at you.‚Äù He thought it wiser to let Nobby answer for him. + 

‚ÄúHe‚Äôs all right,‚Äù said Nobby. ‚ÄúWe can take him a bit farther. He‚Äôs a sportsman, he is. Best thing we can do is to lay up a bit. Can‚Äôt get through to London, now,‚Äù he added, lowering his voice and addressing himself to Fred; ‚Äúthat‚Äôs finished. We‚Äôll have to wire him tomorrow and make the other way.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAll right, mate,‚Äù said Fred. ‚ÄúI could do with a bit of shuteye and a drink and a bite of something.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSo could I,‚Äù said Nobby, who seemed to be thinking deeply. + 

And Mr.¬ÝOakroyd realized that he could, too. He felt cold and hungry, heavy for lack of sleep. + 

‚ÄúNot a bleedin‚Äô chance round ‚Äôere,‚Äù said Fred disgustedly. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre right off the rotten map.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúHalf a minute, half a minute,‚Äù cried Nobby. ‚ÄúWhere are we?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSomewhere between Rotherham and Nottingham. There‚Äôs a signpost there. See wot it says. But ‚Äôurry up, for God‚Äôs sake. Let‚Äôs get moving.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGood enough!‚Äù cried Nobby, after he had inspected the signpost. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve been round here before all right. You can‚Äôt lose me, chum.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWot‚Äôs the idea?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôll show you,‚Äù said Nobby, with enthusiasm. ‚ÄúYou shut your eyes and open your mouth and see what God sends you. We can lay her up a bit and have our drink and shuteye all right. Drive on, Fred. I‚Äôll show you. Get up at the back, Mister, if you‚Äôre coming with us.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm coming all right,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who had been shivering for the last ten minutes. He moved off, to climb up again. + 

‚ÄúBig Annie. Keeps the Kirkworth Inn,‚Äù he heard Nobby say, in reply to some further question from Fred. ‚ÄúYou must have been there, or heard of her. She‚Äôs all right, Annie is.‚Äù + 

For the next hour and a half they threaded their way slowly and drearily through narrow byroads, sometimes having to go back for a missed turning. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was very sleepy now, but he felt chilled through and as empty as a drum, and so could do nothing but fall into an uneasy doze for a minute or two. All the earlier excitement of the night had left him, and more than once he could not help wishing, in spite of himself, that he was back in his own bed. As the lorry went rattling and jolting into the most cheerless hours of the night, he began to regret, in a numbed fashion, that he had ever set eyes on it. + 

When they pulled up at last outside the Kirkworth Inn, a lonely house at a crossroads, with a wide entrance to a yard at one side, the situation did not seem to be much better. The inn stared at them through the gloom with blind eyes. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd could not see them ever finding their way into it. But he climbed down with the others and stood looking up at its shuttered windows. + 

‚ÄúSure it‚Äôll be all right?‚Äù asked Fred uneasily. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôve made a ‚Äôell of a bad break if we tell ‚Äôer oo we are and then there‚Äôs nothing doin‚Äô. Got us taped then.‚Äù + 

But Nobby was still confident. ‚ÄúLeave it to me. She knows me and I know her. It‚Äôll be all right.‚Äù And he walked boldly up to the door and rapped upon it. Nothing happened, so after waiting a minute or two he rapped again. They heard a window being pushed up, and then a very angry female voice cried: ‚ÄúWot is it? Wot yer making that noise for? Wot d‚Äôyer want?‚Äù + 

Nobby called up: ‚ÄúIs that you, Annie? It‚Äôs me, Nobby Clarke. You remember me?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWho is it?‚Äù she screeched. + 

‚ÄúNobby Clarke. You remember me. Been here before, pal of Chuffy and Steve and that lot. Remember the Yarmouth do, Annie?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, it‚Äôs you, is it? Well, wot yer want coming at this time for, knocking me up?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou slip down and I‚Äôll tell you all about it, Annie. Me teeth‚Äôs chattering here so much I can‚Äôt talk.‚Äù + 

The head withdrew, grumbling, and after a minute or two the door was opened and Nobby went in. + 

‚ÄúNobby‚Äôs pullin‚Äô it off,‚Äù the relieved Fred confided to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúSoon as I see ‚Äôer come down, I knew it was all right. They‚Äôve only got to listen an‚Äô Nobby‚Äôll talk ‚Äôem into anything. Gor, ‚Äôe can talk.‚Äù And Fred spat out very noisily to show his appreciation, then lit about half an inch of cigarette. + 

Nobby came bustling out in triumph. ‚ÄúAll right, chums,‚Äù he cried. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a go. We can camp here a bit. Shove the old bus round at the back, Fred, up in the yard. You go round with him, Mister. We‚Äôll let you both in there.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd followed the lorry round the yard, took out his little basket trunk and bag of tools, and was then admitted with Fred into a kitchen at the back of the inn. A lamp had already been lit there, and Nobby, now revealed as a tall fattish fellow, with close-cropped hair, a purple expanse of cheek, and a huge loose mouth, was blowing at the hot ashes, now heaped up with fresh wood, with a gigantic pair of bellows. The kitchen was untidy and dirty, and its owner was untidier and dirtier still, an enormous figure of a middle-aged woman mysteriously wrapped about in yards and yards of filthy flannel. + 

‚ÄúThis is Annie, Mrs.¬ÝCroucher,‚Äù said Nobby, putting down the bellows to wave a hand. ‚ÄúAnd this is Fred‚ÅÝ‚ÄîFred‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSmith,‚Äù put in that gentleman, whose appearance was even less reassuring than his talk. His face was long and thin and was all twisted to one side, and he might have been any age between twenty-five and forty-five. + 

‚ÄúFred Smith,‚Äù continued Nobby blandly. ‚ÄúAnd he‚Äôs on the job with me, he is. And this other‚Äôs a chap who‚Äôs been travelling with us owing to a bit of a mistake.‚Äù And he looked questioningly at Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. + 

‚ÄúOakroyd‚Äôs my name.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOakroyd‚Äôs his name, and he‚Äôs a sportsman else he wouldn‚Äôt be with us.‚Äù And Nobby fell to blowing the fire again and soon had it blazing. + 

‚ÄúWell, lads, wot‚Äôs it yer want?‚Äù demanded their hostess. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôCos if it‚Äôs steaks and chips and feather beds, you‚Äôve got a bloody hope.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnything, Annie, anything,‚Äù replied Nobby. ‚ÄúA bit of bread and meat, if you‚Äôve got it. And a drink. What‚Äôs it to be, chum? Beer‚Äôs too cold. I‚Äôll tell you what. I‚Äôd like a drop o‚Äô tea with some rum in it, good old sergeant-major‚Äôs.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the stuff, mate,‚Äù said Fred. + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôll do me a treat,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was just beginning to feel warm again but still suffered from a gnawing hollow inside him. He looked hopefully at the formidable Annie. + 

‚ÄúAnything to oblige,‚Äù said Annie, ‚Äúand I‚Äôll take a drop wi‚Äô yer. ‚ÄôEre, Nobby, put this kettle on.‚Äù She produced the remains of a cold joint of beef, a loaf of bread and some butter, four half-pint mugs and a bottle of rum. She and Nobby made the tea, Fred hacked away at the joint, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, not to be left out, cut half a dozen thick slices of bread. He was beginning to enjoy himself again. This was a queer lot, to be sure, but it would all make a grand tale to tell. He rubbed his hands as Nobby brought the steaming teapot on to the table, and the landlady, who was not disposed to be incautious even at this hour of the night, measured out a noggin of rum. + 

All three of them fell with fury upon their sandwiches and washed them down noisily and happily with the tea, which was very strong, very sweet, and well laced with rum. After the landlady had gulped down a hot mixture that was as much liquor as tea, she set her massive flannelled bulk, arms akimbo, before the crackling fire, and watched them with an indulgent, almost maternal eye. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs putting some ‚Äôeart into yer, I can see,‚Äù she observed complacently. ‚ÄúAnd wot‚Äôs the next move, lads?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúShuteye,‚Äù announced Fred, from the depths of his enormous sandwich. + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù said Nobby. ‚ÄúJust pass the little old brown jug, will you, Mister? This‚Äôll stand a bit more rum. Yes, we‚Äôll have to kip down for an hour or two, Annie.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôll ‚Äôave to be down ‚Äôere,‚Äù said Annie. ‚ÄúBut put a bit o‚Äô wood on the fire an‚Äô you‚Äôll be all right.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúLeave it to us, Annie. And here‚Äôs the best.‚Äù Nobby raised his mug and emptied it in her honour. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve done us proud, you have. We‚Äôre all right. Leave it to us.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGoing to,‚Äù said Annie. ‚ÄúGettin‚Äô back to bed now. I‚Äôll ‚Äôear ‚Äôow the game‚Äôs goin‚Äô and all the news in the morning. And for God‚Äôs sake don‚Äôt show a light in front. And ‚Äôere, I‚Äôll take the damages now. It‚Äôll be six shillings the lot, which is cheap enough, seein‚Äô yer‚Äôve ‚Äôad a noggin o‚Äô rum between yer.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGood enough,‚Äù said Nobby, fumbling in his pockets. + 

Then Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, full of tea and rum and beef and bread, feeling cosy, companionable, and sleepy, did a foolish thing. ‚ÄúHere,‚Äù he cried, ‚ÄúI‚Äôm a chap as likes to stand me corner. I‚Äôll pay for this. Six shillin‚Äô, is it?‚Äù He searched his pockets but could only discover a solitary sixpence. He must have put all the loose money he had with his week‚Äôs wages on the table at home. But he had four five-pound notes enclosed in an old envelope and tucked away in his breast pocket. ‚ÄúHalf a minute,‚Äù he said, and in his anxiety to foot the bill promptly, he was clumsy and brought out all four banknotes. + 

‚ÄúGor!‚Äù cried Fred, bending forward. ‚ÄúOo‚Äôs this we ‚Äôave with us?‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬Ýbloody Rockiefeller. Been touchin‚Äô up a bank, mate?‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd looked, to see three pairs of eyes fixed on his banknotes and, feeling uncomfortable, he hastily put three of them back in the envelope and held out the fourth. ‚ÄúCan you change this, Missis?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, I can‚Äôt,‚Äù she replied very emphatically. ‚ÄúAn‚Äô if I could, I wouldn‚Äôt. Yer don‚Äôt land me with one of ‚Äôem, oh no! Yer‚Äôve been doin‚Äô well, ‚Äôaven‚Äôt yer?‚Äù she added significantly. + 

‚ÄúAll right, Mister. All right, Annie,‚Äù Nobby put in smoothly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll settle this. Six shillings.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúBe good then, an‚Äô turn that light out as soon as you get down to it.‚Äù And Big Annie removed the bottle of rum, locked the door of the bar, and retired. The three men yawned and, on the advice of Nobby, who insisted upon repeating: ‚ÄúBoots off‚Äôs half a bed,‚Äù they took off their boots. In the survey of the room and discussion that immediately followed, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, to his gratified surprise, was awarded the old sofa in the corner. + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôre best off there, Mister,‚Äù said Nobby earnestly, ‚Äúand you‚Äôre entitled to it, as a sportsman. Isn‚Äôt he, Fred?‚Äù + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôE can ‚Äôave it for me,‚Äù muttered Fred, spreading himself across two chairs. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd would have liked to have smoked a last and even more adventurous pipe of Old Salt, to have heard tales of Big Annie and Chuffy and the ‚ÄúYarmouth do,‚Äù to have talked about the Great North Road, but he was tired out and now that he was warm and comfortably stretched out on the sofa, with a little glow of rum inside him, he could hardly keep his eyes open. He was aware vaguely that Nobby was bending over the lamp, blowing it out, that now there was only a flicker of firelight; dreamily he felt the lorry jolting him again, caught a ghastly glimpse of the Great North Road; and then fell fast asleep. + 

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. + 

‚ÄúHello!‚Äù he said to the girl. He was standing up now, stretching himself. + 

She stared at him dully. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEllo!‚Äù she said. ‚ÄúTime you woke too.‚Äù + 

‚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 + 

‚ÄúGone.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGone?‚Äù He looked at her, bewildered. + 

‚ÄúMissus said so. I never seed ‚Äôem. They must ha‚Äô gone before I come in.‚Äù + 

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. + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù she cried shrilly, ‚Äúthey‚Äôve gone an‚Äô long since. Time you went too. I can‚Äôt do with yer ‚Äôere.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAll right, all right, Missis,‚Äù he replied, trying to smile at her and not succeeding. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt want to be in t‚Äôway. But I‚Äôve no but just now wakened up. Give us a chance. I suppose I can have a bit of a wash like an‚Äô summat to eat, a bit o‚Äô breakfast?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, that yer can‚Äôt.‚Äù She was quite passionate in her refusal. + 

‚ÄúWhy, what‚Äôs up, Missis? I can pay for owt I have.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, yer can‚Äôt pay for it, not ‚Äôere. I don‚Äôt want your sort ‚Äôere.‚Äù + 

‚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 + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre,‚Äù she cried in a fury, ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt want any bloody argy-bargying. They‚Äôve gone, and that‚Äôs all about it. You go now, sharp as yer can. I‚Äôve told yer I don‚Äôt want yer ‚Äôere.‚Äù She turned and went padding away. At the door, however, she wheeled round. ‚ÄúAn‚Äô don‚Äôt try comin‚Äô ‚Äôere again either, ‚Äôcos yer won‚Äôt get in, let me tell yer. Huh. My sort!‚Äù 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 + 

‚ÄúI dunno. Old bitch!‚Äù 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. ‚ÄúYer best way‚Äôs to yer right, straight on then,‚Äù she said. ‚ÄúCapbridge is first, but that‚Äôs no good, only a little place. Yer want to foller the road on to Everwell. Yer‚Äôll be all right there. There‚Äôs tearooms and all sorts in Everwell.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI should think so with a name like that,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúAnd how far‚Äôs this Everwell then?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúFive or six miles. Turn to yer right and straight on then, through Capbridge, and straight on again. Yer can‚Äôt miss it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAny trams or buses or owt?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThere‚Äôs a bus comes past ‚Äôere at two,‚Äù she replied. + 

‚ÄúTwo! I‚Äôll ‚Äôa‚Äô pined to death afore two,‚Äù he cried. ‚ÄúI mun walk, that‚Äôs all. And tell your missis from me not to kill hersen wi‚Äô doin‚Äô ower many good works an‚Äô kind actions, tell her she owt to look after hersen a bit more, she‚Äôs wearing hersen away to t‚Äôbone.‚Äù 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. + 

‚ÄúHey!‚Äù he cried, when the cart was almost upon him. ‚ÄúYou going to Everwell, mate?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, I‚Äôm not,‚Äù 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. + 

‚ÄúY‚Äôoughter go to Poppleby‚Äôs,‚Äù quavered the ancient driver. ‚ÄúPoppleby‚Äôs eatin‚Äô place. It‚Äôs rare and good there, it is.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúRight you are,‚Äù roared Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll go there. Where is it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes, it‚Äôs the best there is. I goes every Saturday night and has meat-and-‚Äôtater pie, every Saturday. I ‚Äôas a pint over at Old Crown, then goes for me meat-and-‚Äôtater pie.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI said ‚ÄòWhere is it?‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, cheap enough for them as can afford it,‚Äù said the old man. Then, when they turned the next corner, he pointed with his whip. ‚ÄúYon‚Äôs Poppleby‚Äôs. Yer can get down ‚Äôere.‚Äù 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 + 

‚ÄúEh?‚Äù 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 + 

‚ÄúWe‚Äôll soon put that right.‚Äù And no consulting surgeon could have said this more impressively. ‚ÄúSo you‚Äôve been on the road, eh?‚Äù + 

‚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. + 

‚ÄúWhat allus beats me,‚Äù he announced, ‚Äúis this here ‚ÄòCyclists Catered For.‚Äô What‚Äôs difference between cyclists and t‚Äôother folk as comes?‚Äù + 

‚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 + 

‚ÄúHo, indeed! And what‚Äôs that?‚Äù + 

‚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. + 

‚ÄúI had him nicely about them eggs.‚Äù And he lifted to the sun a face still wrinkled and brightened by the pleasures of repartee. + 

III + 

It was late in the afternoon when Mr.¬ÝOakroyd saw the curious motor-van. Since leaving Poppleby‚Äôs Dining-Rooms, he had struggled down some eight or nine miles of dusty road, forever changing his basket trunk from the right hand to the left and his bag of tools from the left hand to the right, he had had a bite of bread and cheese and a mouthful of beer from a friendly lorry-driver, who had not, however, believed a word that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had told him, and he had slept for two hours under a hedge. Now he was moving on again, very slowly because, for one thing, he was tired and rather dazed after his nap, and, for another thing, he did not know where he was going and was wondering what to do. The motor-van caught his eye at once. It was drawn up under some trees just off the road, and was a most unusual vehicle, something between a rather long delivery van and a caravan proper. A little window had been let into the side, but it had no chimney nor any of the shining contrivances of the real caravan. Paint and polish it had none; the car itself seemed old and rusty; and the wagon or caravan part of it had a woefully weatherbeaten look. After noticing all these details with a craftsman‚Äôs eye, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd might have passed on had he not heard, from the back of the van, the sound of sawing, a sound that made him prick up his ears at once. And it took him not more than a minute to arrive at a certain conclusion. + 

‚ÄúYond chap can‚Äôt handle a saw,‚Äù he announced to himself, and walked across to investigate, emboldened by his plight and the knowledge that he, Jess Oakroyd, could handle a saw. Once at the back of the van, he dropped his bags, lit his pipe, stuck his hands in his pockets, and thus fell easily into his role of spectator. + 

The man with the saw looked up as Mr.¬ÝOakroyd approached and then dubiously set to work again. He was a thickset fellow in his early forties, with black hair cropped close, eyes almost as black as his hair, and a broad clean-shaven face as red as the scarf he wore in place of collar and tie. Though he was in his shirtsleeves and his brown check suit was shabby, he looked far more dashing and dressy than Mr.¬ÝOakroyd or any of Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs friends. Nevertheless, his appearance did not clash at all with that of the van. There was about him an air of vagabondage that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd recognized at once, though he could not have put a name to it. Without obviously being anything definite himself, the man yet called to mind strolling actors and soldiers and sparring partners and racing touts and cheap auctioneers. + 

He looked up again after Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had been standing there a minute or two. ‚ÄúNice day, George,‚Äù he remarked with a wink. + 

‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd; and then, not to be outdone in this matter of handing out names, he added, dryly: ‚ÄúNice enough, Herbert.‚Äù + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre,‚Äù said the man, straightening himself, ‚Äúnow I ask you. Do I look like Herbert?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNay, I don‚Äôt know.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd paused a moment. ‚ÄúBut I‚Äôll tell you what you don‚Äôt look like, if you ask me.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGo on, George. I‚Äôll buy it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou don‚Äôt look like a chap as knows how to use a saw,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, softening the severity of this criticism with a companionable grin. + 

‚ÄúOh! Now we‚Äôre ‚Äôearing something, aren‚Äôt we?‚Äù He dove into his waistcoat pocket, fished out a packet of Woodbines and a box of matches, and lit up. ‚ÄúDo you know all about saws, George?‚Äù he inquired amiably. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs reply to this was to fetch his bag of tools and dump it down at the other‚Äôs feet. ‚ÄúYou tell me what you‚Äôre trying to do, mate,‚Äù he said earnestly, ‚Äúand I‚Äôll soon show you what I know about saws.‚Äù + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEllo, ‚Äôello!‚Äù the man cried in mock astonishment. ‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs the ruddy idea? You a tradesman, George?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI am an‚Äô all,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, not without pride. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm a joiner and carpenter by trade.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôll tell you something now. My turn, see. You don‚Äôt come from round ‚Äôere. You come from Leeds.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNay, I don‚Äôt. I come from Bruddersford.‚Äù And this seemed to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd a different thing altogether from coming from Leeds, and so he was triumphant. + 

‚ÄúNear enough,‚Äù said the other complacently. ‚ÄúKnew you came from that way. Tell it in a minute. Bruddersford, eh? Know Lane End Fair?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúTide, you mean.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right. Lane End Tide. All ‚Äòtides‚Äô round there, aren‚Äôt they? Don‚Äôt call ‚Äôem fairs.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúCourse I know it,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. + 

‚ÄúSo do I,‚Äù exclaimed the man in triumph. ‚ÄúBeen there many a time. I gave it a miss this year but was there last year. What are you doing round ‚Äôere? Looking for a job?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, I‚Äôm looking for a job, nar,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd bitterly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll ha‚Äô to get one right sharp, too. I‚Äôve been landed properly, I have.‚Äù And next minute he was telling the story of his lost twenty pounds. It was the third time he had told it that day, but it was the first time he had found a listener who believed him. + 

‚ÄúWhere did you get the fivers from?‚Äù asked the other, at the end of the story. ‚ÄúBack a winner?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNay, I never put owt on horses. But another chap had backed a lot o‚Äô winners seemingly.‚Äù And encouraged by the reception of his previous recital, he now told the story of the drunken sportsman and his bulging pocketbook, to all of which his companion, now sitting on the steps of his van, listened with a quick and humorous sympathy. + 

‚ÄúEasy come, easy go, that,‚Äù he observed. Then he reflected. ‚ÄúWhat did you say the name of that feller was, the one with the lorry? Nobby Clarke? I‚Äôve known a few Nobby Clarkes in my time. One or two‚Äôud have taken the milk out of your tea. Was he a little feller with a turned-up nose, Cockney twang, bit of a boxing man, lightweight?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNay, this chap was a big fat feller wi‚Äô a big round bilberry face on him the size o‚Äô two,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúA smoothtalking chap, he wore, though I thought he were a bit of a rogue as soon as I clapped eyes on him.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI believe I know that feller. Nobby Clarke. Nobby Clarke? A feller like that used to go round with Mason‚Äôs Magic and Mysteries, and ‚Äôe might have called ‚Äôimself Nobby Clarke. I shall remember ‚Äôim. If I saw ‚Äôim myself I should know in a minute. Never forget a dial. I meet a feller and say ‚Äò‚Ää‚ÄôEllo, saw you at so-and-so five years ago, six years, seven years, ten years ago,‚Äô whatever it is; and ‚Äôe says ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs right. I was there. Don‚Äôt remember you‚Äô; and I says ‚ÄòNo, but I remember you.‚Äô I‚Äôm right every time. Marvellous, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd so you‚Äôre one o‚Äô these as goes wi‚Äô t‚Äôtides‚ÅÝ‚Äîfairs‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs me! My name‚Äôs Jackson. What‚Äôs yours?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOakroyd. Jess Oakroyd.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOakroyd. Good enough! Well, mine‚Äôs Jackson‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJoby they call me‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJoby Jackson. Everybody in this line o‚Äô business knows me. Been in it twenty years, and been in it longer only I started in the old militia and then joined up again in the War. Done everything‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou ask anybody‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJoby Jackson. Boxing shows, circus, try-your-luck games, everything. I‚Äôve run shows of me own‚ÅÝ‚ÄîHuman Spider and Wild Man o‚Äô the Amazon. You can‚Äôt name a place where they ‚Äôave a fair or a race-meeting I ‚Äôaven‚Äôt been to, you can‚Äôt do it. I know ‚Äôem all. England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Isle o‚Äô Man, Isle o‚Äô Wight, you can‚Äôt lose me. Marvellous!‚Äù He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the van. ‚ÄúOn a steady line now. I‚Äôm selling ‚Äôem something. Got ter do it‚ÅÝ‚Äîisn‚Äôt enough money about for the old games‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôve got to sell ‚Äôem something now. Rubber toys is my line, rubber dolls, rubber animals‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou blow ‚Äôem up‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand here he blew away, for he was a man who illustrated his talk with innumerable rapid and vivid gestures‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúand there y‚Äôare. Seen ‚Äôem? Good line‚ÅÝ‚Äîplenty o‚Äô profit‚ÅÝ‚Äîeasy to carry‚ÅÝ‚Äîall flat, you see, light as a feather. Get a good day and they sell like beer in barracks. Some days you can‚Äôt sell anything‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou wouldn‚Äôt get buyers if you were offering bottles o‚Äô Scotch at ninepence a time. But get a good day‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù and after a little overture of winking, he unloaded in rapid dumb show a host of invisible rubber dolls and animals upon an invisible multitude‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúmarvellous. Only thing is, too much competition! They‚Äôre all tumbling to it, all coming in now. When a few more gets in, I shall get out, see? I‚Äôll try something else, sell ‚Äôem something new. That‚Äôs the idear, isn‚Äôt it, George?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd you go round i‚Äô this?‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd looked at the van. + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs it,‚Äù replied Joby, with enthusiasm. ‚ÄúTake a dekko at ‚Äôer. Not exactly a ruddy Rolls-Royce, but she moves, George, she moves. You can‚Äôt get more than twenty miles an hour out of ‚Äôer, ‚Äôcept down steep ‚Äôills, but that‚Äôs enough, what d‚Äôyou say? Got ‚Äôer for fifteen quid‚ÅÝ‚Äîa gift; then ‚Äôad a winder put in, then a bunk, then a couple o‚Äô bunks. If I don‚Äôt want to sleep anywhere else, I sleep in there, see? I‚Äôm sleeping in there tonight. Got a little stove in there, carry all my stock in it, stall and all. ‚ÄôEre, I was trying to patch up the old stall when you come ‚Äôere. It got a nasty knock yesterday. Like to see what you could do with it? I‚Äôm no good with my ‚Äôands. Funny thing isn‚Äôt it? I can sell anything, do the patter, but can‚Äôt use my ‚Äôands; must ‚Äôave been born a ruddy gentleman. Like to ‚Äôave a do at the old stall, George? I‚Äôll see you‚Äôre all right.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúLeave it to me, mate,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, delighted. ‚ÄúLet‚Äôs have a look at t‚Äôrest of it. Got any nuts and bolts and three-inch nails?‚Äù Together they pulled out from the floor of the van the remaining pieces of woodwork, and Joby discovered that he had some spare nuts and bolts and plenty of long nails. ‚ÄúNar then,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, ‚Äúyou tell me what you want and I‚Äôll set you up i‚Äô no time.‚Äù And in another minute he had his bag of tools open and his coat off and was happily at work. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôOw about a drop o‚Äô Rosie Lee?‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝJoby Jackson. He was very fond of this queer rhyming slang, most of which must be omitted from any record of his talk because it is incomprehensible to ordinary people. Even Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was acquainted with this kind of slang, though he rarely used it himself and, indeed, associated it with rather disreputable characters, was sometimes puzzled. But he was not bewildered, of course, by any mention of the famous Rosie, and he was more than ready for a drink of tea. So Joby strolled away to fill the kettle, returned with it to busy himself in the van, and then came out again to sit on the steps and watch Mr.¬ÝOakroyd at work. + 

‚ÄúFond o‚Äô tarts, George?‚Äù he inquired. + 

‚ÄúNay, I‚Äôve had all t‚Äôtarts I want,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd grunted in reply, still bending over his saw. He quite understood that the question did not refer to things to eat. + 

‚ÄúTarts or booze‚ÅÝ‚Äîor both,‚Äù said Joby reflectively, ‚Äúthat‚Äôs where the bother begins. You wouldn‚Äôt be ‚Äôaving to mend that stall now if it ‚Äôadn‚Äôt been for a tart. I‚Äôve ‚Äôad a pal with me lately‚ÅÝ‚ÄîTommy Muss they call ‚Äôim. Silly name, isn‚Äôt it? Clever little feller, though, Tommy. I‚Äôve known ‚Äôim years. ‚ÄôE used to go round with Oxley‚Äôs Circus, one time, then ‚Äôe ran a little ball-on-a-string game‚ÅÝ‚Äîone o‚Äô them where you gets a watch, that is if you‚Äôre lucky and the, feller that‚Äôs running the game don‚Äôt ‚Äôappen to lean on the board when you‚Äôre ‚Äôaving your go, see‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut ‚Äôe wasn‚Äôt good at it, wasn‚Äôt Tommy. So ‚Äôe come round with me. You can manage by yourself at this, but it‚Äôs better with two. Booze isn‚Äôt Tommy‚Äôs trouble, though he can shift it as well as the next. It‚Äôs tarts. Can‚Äôt keep away from the women, and they can‚Äôt keep away from ‚Äôim. Good-lookin‚Äô little feller, Tommy, an‚Äô got a bit o‚Äô ruddy swank, yer know‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they like it, George, they like it. And ‚Äôe‚Äôs the best mouth-organ player you ever ‚Äôeard in all your natural, easy the best‚ÅÝ‚Äînever ‚Äôeard anybody to touch Tommy with a mouth-organ‚ÅÝ‚Äîplay anything‚ÅÝ‚Äîmarvellous! There was a piece about ‚Äôim once in The World‚Äôs Fair. ‚ÄôE oughter ‚Äôave gone on the stage as a mouth-organ turn. I‚Äôve told ‚Äôim so many a time. ‚ÄôE‚Äôs a mug. ‚ÄôE could ‚Äôave been getting twenty quid a week. ‚ÄôE wouldn‚Äôt bother, though, too busy square-pushing, taking the girls out, see. Well, anyhow, there‚Äôs a tart ‚Äôe‚Äôs ‚Äôad ‚Äôis eye on some time‚ÅÝ‚Äîblack flashing sort o‚Äô bit she is‚ÅÝ‚Äîand ‚Äôer and another woman runs one of these palmistry Gipsy Queen stunts, see. We kept coming across ‚Äôem working the same fairs‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I saw Tommy was working ‚Äôis points. ‚ÄôAlf a minute, we‚Äôll ‚Äôave the Rosie now, George.‚Äù + 

Joby mashed the tea in a mess-tin, stirred some sweet condensed milk into it, then poured his companion‚Äôs share of the rich brew into a large thick cup, across which was written Moseley‚Äôs Coffee Taverns Ltd., and retained the mess-tin for his own use. He also brought out of the van a biscuit tin containing two-thirds of a loaf of bread and some butter. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôOw‚Äôs this, George?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGrand!‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, munching away. He looked about him and would have sighed with pleasure if he had not been so busy eating. Everything was still and the sky was a fine blaze of gold. The tea was exactly the strong and sweet mixture he preferred, and not for years had he enjoyed a slice or two of bread and butter as much as he was doing now. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll make a right job o‚Äô this stall,‚Äù he told himself, turning a grateful glance upon his host. And after a few puffs of Old Salt, he announced: ‚ÄúI‚Äôll get on wi‚Äô t‚Äôjob nar,‚Äù and returned happily to work. + 

‚ÄúYou were saying summat about yer pal and this here Gipsy Queen lass,‚Äù he said, when Joby had cleared away the things and was sitting down again on the steps. + 

‚ÄúLemme see,‚Äù reflected Joby. ‚ÄúOh yes‚ÅÝ‚Äîabout that bit o‚Äô bother we ‚Äôad yesterday. Well, you see, yesterday we‚Äôre at a little place called Brodley, thirty or forty mile away, where there‚Äôs a bit of a fair. This tart‚Äôs there and Tommy‚Äôs square-pushing ‚Äôer as ‚Äôard as ‚Äôe can go, see. ‚ÄôE‚Äôs the sheek of Araby there all right. But this tart ‚Äôad been going round with a feller called Jim Summers. This feller‚Äôs tried all sorts and just now ‚Äôe‚Äôs running one o‚Äô these try-your-strength things‚ÅÝ‚Äîyer know what I mean‚ÅÝ‚Äîdown with the ‚Äôammer and up she goes and rings the bell‚ÅÝ‚Äîno good now, played out. ‚ÄôE‚Äôs a big feller‚ÅÝ‚Äîfourteen stone easy‚ÅÝ‚Äîand used to be a bit of a fighting-man‚ÅÝ‚Äîa slogger, you know, trained on booze. Well, this tart ‚Äôad been going round with this feller, Jim Summers, and then she‚Äôd given ‚Äôim the go-by, see. You know what they are, and I expect ‚Äôe‚Äôd taken too many loads on and knocked ‚Äôer about a bit. But if ‚Äôe couldn‚Äôt ‚Äôave ‚Äôer, nobody else would, neither‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat was ‚Äôis line, and ‚Äôe‚Äôs a big feller, gilled arf the time and with a nasty temper. Tommy gets away with it and with this tart yesterday properly, and Jim Summers is on the same ground and ‚Äôears about it, comes lookin‚Äô for ‚Äôem. This tart and the other Gipsy Queen‚ÅÝ‚Äîa fattish woman, comes from Burnley‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôad packed up ‚Äôcos there wasn‚Äôt much doin‚Äô anyhow. Tommy comes round the back of the stall. ‚Äò‚Ää‚ÄôEre,‚Äô ‚Äôe says, ‚ÄòI‚Äôm off with this tart for a day or two, and I‚Äôm off now. I don‚Äôt want any bother with a mad-drunk ‚Äôeavyweight like Summers. Join yer later on, Joby‚Äô ‚Äôe say. ‚ÄòRight you are, Tommy,‚Äô I says. I knew ‚Äôe knew what the programme was, see. Nottingham Goose Fair starts a week this Thursday. Ever been? Marvellous! It‚Äôs one of my best pitches, and I‚Äôm getting a fresh lot of stock in for it, pickin‚Äô it up at Nottingham before the fair starts. So I‚Äôm just working a lot of little places, filling time in, like, not too far away. We ‚Äôad it all worked out‚ÅÝ‚Äîme and Tommy, always do, yer know‚ÅÝ‚Äîso that ‚Äôe knew the programme, and I knew ‚Äôe‚Äôd join me soon as ‚Äôe could, might be tomorrow, might be next week. This tart might be working the same places, and if she wasn‚Äôt, ‚Äôe‚Äôd see ‚Äôer at the Goose Fair. So off ‚Äôe went, and where they went to I don‚Äôt know, so I can‚Äôt tell you. It didn‚Äôt bother me. I didn‚Äôt want to foller ‚Äôem in their Abode of Love. But I knew what was coming to me‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJim Summers. Up he comes, just after Tommy‚Äôd gone. ‚ÄôE‚Äôd been in the boozer at dinnertime and ‚Äôe was nasty, very nasty. ‚Äò‚Ää‚ÄôEre,‚Äô ‚Äôe says, giving the old stall a bang or two, ‚Äòwhere‚Äôs that um-pum-pum-bloody-um-pum-pum little pal o‚Äô yours?‚Äô ‚ÄôStrewth, you ought to ‚Äôave ‚Äôeard ‚Äôim. Top of ‚Äôis voice, too. ‚ÄòDon‚Äôt ask me,‚Äô I says‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I don‚Äôt mind telling you, George, I was wishing I was a long way off, though I can use ‚Äôem a bit. ‚ÄòYou know,‚Äô ‚Äôe says, ‚Äòand you‚Äôre going to bloody well tell me or this something-something stall o‚Äô yours goes up in the air.‚Äô And ‚Äôe begins kicking about a bit, see. ‚Äò‚Ää‚ÄôEre,‚Äô I says, ‚Äòyou leave that alone.‚Äô But ‚Äôow‚Äôs the repairs going, George?‚Äù He stood up and began to inspect the other‚Äôs handiwork. + 

‚ÄúYou tak‚Äô hold o‚Äô that end,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, now in command. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôd better fix her up and see how she stands. Steady, mate, steady! Nar then, drop it in.‚Äù + 

They spent the next half-hour rigging up the stall, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd making certain improvements at the owner‚Äôs suggestion. When no more could be done‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJoby declaring that it was now better than ever‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey took it down and packed it away in the van, well content. + 

‚ÄúI passed a boozer about two miles down this road,‚Äù said Joby. ‚ÄúWhat about ‚Äôaving a can or two?‚Äù + 

This brought Mr.¬ÝOakroyd out of his pleasant dream of craftsmanship, and he was troubled. ‚ÄúI could do wi‚Äô one,‚Äù he said dubiously, ‚Äúbut I have nowt. I‚Äôd better be thinking what to do wi‚Äô mysen.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs all right, George. You‚Äôre with me, see. ‚ÄôEre, you‚Äôre not doing anything, are yer? Well, you stay with me till Tommy comes rolling ‚Äôome again‚ÅÝ‚Äîmight be a day, might be two days, might be a week. You‚Äôll ‚Äôave somewhere to sleep, your grub, and I‚Äôll see you‚Äôve something to be going on with when ‚Äôe does come back. I‚Äôm going to a little place called Ribsden tomorrer‚ÅÝ‚Äîgot a weekly market and there‚Äôs a bit of a fair on‚ÅÝ‚Äîand you can give me a ‚Äôand, see? What say?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôre not doing this because I have nowt, are yer?‚Äù demanded Mr.¬ÝOakroyd severely, his independence up in arms. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt want‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat‚Äôs it?‚ÅÝ‚Äîcharity, you know.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúCharity nothing!‚Äù cried Joby. ‚ÄúOo d‚Äôyer think I am? Lord Lonsdale? I want yer to give me a ‚Äôand, see. Besides, you‚Äôve done me one good turn already. Can‚Äôt I do you one?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou can an‚Äô all,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll be right glad to stop till your mate comes back.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúPut it there if it weighs a ton,‚Äù cried Joby. And they shook hands. ‚ÄúIs everything in? ‚ÄôEre, shove your tools in the van. And put that in as well. Is that yer luggage? Looks like four days at Sunny Southport, that does. ‚ÄôStrewth, I ‚Äôaven‚Äôt seen one o‚Äô them things for years. Get in. We‚Äôll run ‚Äôer down to the boozer‚ÅÝ‚Äîtoo far to walk. Now then, Liz, let‚Äôs give a turn to the old ‚Äôandle. She‚Äôs startin‚Äô, she‚Äôs startin‚Äô. No, she‚Äôs not. Now then, Liz, what about it? There she goes. J‚Äôever ‚Äôear such an engine? Sounds like one o‚Äô them electric planners startin‚Äô. She ‚Äôasn‚Äôt ‚Äôad any oil in ‚Äôer since I left Doncaster. Now then, ‚Äôold tight, George, we‚Äôre off.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat happened wi‚Äô this chap you were talking about, this chap Summers?‚Äù shouted Mr.¬ÝOakroyd as they went rattling down the road. + 

‚ÄúA bobby come round just when the bother began,‚Äù replied Joby. ‚ÄúAnd Summers slung ‚Äôis ‚Äôook. I packed up just after that and come down ‚Äôere. Where ‚Äôe went to I don‚Äôt know. I‚Äôm wondering what ‚Äôis programme is. Sure to see ‚Äôim at Nottingham, but ‚Äôe‚Äôll ‚Äôave got over it by then.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, let‚Äôs hope so,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who found that he too kept wondering what the movements of this Summers might be. He could only hope that this chap had never heard of the place they were going to tomorrow, Ribsden. He had never heard of it himself before. After a little while he remarked casually: ‚ÄúI suppose you chaps is allus coming across each other, aren‚Äôt you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou bet yer life!‚Äù replied Joby heartily. ‚ÄúCan‚Äôt go anywhere without seeing some o‚Äô the boys. Same old crowd, same old round, year after year. Marvellous!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, I suppose so,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd thoughtfully, and began to think about other things. + 

They had two pints each at the little public-house, and Joby was the success of the evening there. In less than ten minutes the taproom was his kingdom. His talk became more and more staccato and yet more dramatic; he showered winks and nudges upon his companions; he showed them how Bermondsey Jack went down to a foul from the nigger, how Dixie Jones got in with his left, how his old friend, Joe Clapham‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúbest welterweight we ever ‚Äôad‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut a mug, see‚ÅÝ‚Äîfight anybody‚ÅÝ‚Äîdo it for nothing‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad two years of glory, laying ‚Äôem all out, going through the lot ‚Äúlike a dose o‚Äô salts‚Äù; he took them through fairs and boxing-booths and race-meetings and pubs from Penzance to Aberdeen, and told them about three-card men and quack doctors and bookies and ‚Äôtecs; and the later it grew the more often his ‚ÄúMarvellous!‚Äù rang through the admiring taproom. Even the landlord was impressed and insisted upon standing him a farewell pint. As for Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, he wandered through an enchanted country. Being a respectable Bruddersford workingman, he had no desire to be one of these people or to pass his life in their world. But to hear about them and it, perhaps to meet some of these people, to dive into this fascinating world, this was enchantment. He drank his beer, pulled away at his Old Salt, and sat there, never missing a word or a gesture, dazed and happy. And when they drove back to the convenient harbourage at the side of the road, the talk still went on, and by the time they were settling down in the van, taking off their boots and coats and then stretching out on the bunks and rolling in a blanket each, they had arrived at football and a common enthusiasm, so that it was very late indeed before Mr.¬ÝOakroyd said ‚Äút‚ÄôUnited‚Äù for the last time and Joby Jackson had no more fullbacks and centre-forwards to bring out for his inspection. A grand night. + 

They were silent. The queer little noises of the night crept into the dark van. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd listened to the strange rustling and scratching for several minutes, and was then startled by a sudden melancholy screech. ‚ÄúEh, that‚Äôs a funny noise, isn‚Äôt it? It gives you the creeps.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOwl,‚Äù explained Joby. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt mind it‚ÅÝ‚Äîused to it. Tell you what I can‚Äôt stand. Trams. ‚ÄôOrrible sound at night, trams. If I‚Äôm in a place where there‚Äôs trams, I never go to bed till they‚Äôve stopped. Can‚Äôt get to sleep for ‚Äôem‚ÅÝ‚Äîgives me the ‚Äôeart-ache or the stomachache. Ah, well,‚Äù he added drowsily, ‚Äúnot a bad life this, not while yer can stand up and chew your grub. Keep going and see a bit o‚Äô life, I say, we‚Äôll all be dead soon enough. What say, George?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThere‚Äôs summat i‚Äô that,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with true Bruddersfordian caution. But in truth he was really still a little dazed by the wonder of it all. ‚ÄúI maun tell our Lily about this chap,‚Äù he reflected. ‚ÄúShe‚Äôll be right amused.‚Äù And there was a moment, in the shadows of sleep, when he caught her smiling at him across the wastes. + 

IV + 

The next morning they were up and away very early. ‚ÄúTake us an hour to get there,‚Äù Joby explained. ‚ÄúAnd I want a good pitch.‚Äù They made a quick breakfast, tea and bread and boiled ham, and were bumping down the road before the sun had struggled through the clouds. + 

‚ÄúBit colder than it wor,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. + 

Joby gave the morning an expert glance. ‚ÄúWeather‚Äôs breaking. Won‚Äôt be so warm today, you‚Äôll see. Might rain. If it doesn‚Äôt today, it will tomorrer. Rain‚Äôs no good to us. A couple o‚Äô weeks of it and yer see me going to the nearest three brass balls, selling the little ‚Äôome up. Talk about sailors! We‚Äôre the blokes that ‚Äôave to watch the weather.‚Äù + 

Ribsden, a squat little town not unlike Everwell, but rather larger, was already in a bustle when they arrived. The combined fair and market filled the square and was creeping up several streets leading to it. Joby secured a pitch that pleased him, however, for it was just at the junction of the main street and the square and‚ÅÝ‚Äîas he pointed out at once‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúdead opposite a boozer‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚ÄîThe Helping Hand. They were not able to keep the van with them, but had to take out everything they wanted, stall and stock, and then park it up a side-street in a line of other cars and carts and caravans. Together they set up the stall and began decorating it with rubber dolls and animals, most of which had to be inflated. From time to time, Joby would give a shout, recognizing some acquaintance, but everybody was too busy to talk, except the onlookers, the local crowd, which was made up of little boys who were so interested that they got in the way and had to be cursed out of it again, little girls who jumped up and down on the pavement in an ecstasy of anticipation, a policeman with a ginger moustache who apparently did not like markets and fairs, and a policeman without a moustache who apparently did like them. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd enjoyed every minute of it. He enjoyed the bustle and hammering and shouting, the setting up and decoration of the stall, upon which he now turned a proud parental eye, the autumn snap in the air and the first gleams of sunlight, the now thoroughly adventurous flavour of Old Salt, and the companionship of the knowing and voluble Joby. He did not see himself as a salesman of rubber dolls, though he soon became expert in blowing them up and setting them out; but taking it all in all, it was‚ÅÝ‚Äîas he admitted to himself more than once‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúa champion do.‚Äù + 

Joby completed his preparations for the day by tacking a number of little placards to the posts of the stall: ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt forget the Little Ones,‚Äù they screamed at the passerby. ‚ÄúShops Can‚Äôt Compete‚Äù; ‚ÄúWe lead. Others follow‚Äù; ‚ÄúBritish Workmanship Can‚Äôt Be Beat‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhich was probably true enough and worth saying, even though all Mr.¬ÝJackson‚Äôs stock seemed to come out of boxes bearing foreign labels. To crown all, in the centre of the crossbar at the top was a larger placard, glorious in scarlet, announcing that ‚ÄúJoby Jackson is Here Again. The Old Firm.‚Äù Having done this and surveyed his handiwork with great satisfaction, Joby had leisure to turn his attention to his neighbours. + 

One of them had just arrived to claim a little space on the left, dumping into it an easel and a box. He was a tall seedy man dressed in a frock coat that shone in the sun and looked greenish in the shade. He wore no hat, and had a grey mop of hair at the back of his head but none at all in front. His eyebrows were so large and so black that they did away with the necessity of closely shaving the face below them, a fact of which their owner had recently taken a generous advantage. + 

‚ÄúMorning, Perfesser,‚Äù said Joby to this personage. + 

‚ÄúGood morning,‚Äù said the Professor, who had a hollow booming voice. ‚ÄúAh, it‚Äôs Mr.¬ÝJackson. Good morning. Neighbours again, eh? I think I saw you at Doncaster.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou did. Got a good stand ‚Äôere.‚Äù And Joby jerked a thumb at The Helping Hand. + 

‚ÄúAh yes. I‚Äôd never noticed that. Well, it might be useful, Mr.¬ÝJackson. I‚Äôve known the time when‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù And he completed the sentence by raising a large dirty hand towards his mouth, which brought from its cavernous depths a sound suggesting laughter. Then he looked very grave. ‚ÄúNothing much for me here to day, Mr.¬ÝJackson. A mere stopgap, nothing more.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSame ‚Äôere,‚Äù said Joby. ‚ÄúWhere you been since Doncaster, Perfesser?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúPlaces without a name, you might say,‚Äù the Professor boomed mournfully. ‚ÄúLittle markets, miserable affairs, pounds of cheese and yards of muslin and ducks and hens. Rural solitudes, Mr.¬ÝJackson. And I was carrying the wrong line too. If I‚Äôd been running the rheumatic cure or the digestive tonic, all might have been well, but at the present time I‚Äôm doing the Character and Destiny business and it‚Äôs a town business, absolutely a town business. I thought of changing over, but there wasn‚Äôt time to get the bottles. And you must have bottles nowadays, must have bottles. They won‚Äôt swallow the pills, Mr.¬ÝJackson. That‚Äôs not bad, eh? Just keep an eye on that box will you? I‚Äôll be back in about ten minutes.‚Äù And the Professor strode away. + 

‚ÄúYon‚Äôd chap‚Äôud make a good loud speaker,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who had been listening with delight to this dialogue. + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs what ‚Äôe is, if you ask me,‚Äù replied Joby. ‚ÄúClever feller, though, the Perfesser. Known ‚Äôim off and on years. All patter, y‚Äôknow. Marvellous! ‚ÄôE‚Äôd sell ‚Äôem anything. No expenses, all profit, in ‚Äôis line. Clever feller. Edjucated, y‚Äôknow‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs what does it. They wouldn‚Äôt believe you and me if we tried it on the same as ‚Äôe does. ‚ÄôE‚Äôd make ‚Äôem believe anything, sell ‚Äôem the boots off their feet.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, I dare say,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd observed thoughtfully. ‚ÄúBut he hasn‚Äôt got fat on it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúToo much booze‚ÅÝ‚Äîlives on it‚ÅÝ‚Äîtelegraphic address: Blotting Paper. ‚ÄôSides, the game‚Äôs not what it was, and that‚Äôs a fact. Too much edjucation about for fellers like ‚Äôim. They‚Äôre beginning to rumble ‚Äôim.‚Äù Then he changed his tone, so suddenly that he startled Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúNar then, lady, take yer choice. Ninepence, one shilling, one-and-six, two shillings, all guaranteed not to burst, tear, burn, or drown, the best rubber on the market today. Pick where yer like, they‚Äôre all the best.‚Äù It looked as if their first customer had arrived. + 

There was now a steady flow of folk round the stalls, from which issued startling brazen voices. So far the crowd was chiefly composed of women with baskets; the pleasure-seekers would come later; but for those who, like Joby, catered for the family, the day‚Äôs trade had begun. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, hanging about at the back of the stall, discovered a new interest in life. He had never helped to sell anything before, and now it seemed to him an amusing gamble. Would the little boy with H.M.S. Lion on his hat succeed in dragging his mother over to see the rubber animals? Would the woman with the carpet bag, who talked incessantly to her companion and turned over dolls and animals without ever looking at them, end by buying anything or was she merely there to have her talk out in peace? Joby seemed to know, as a rule, and some people he left entirely alone, some he took gently into his confidence in the matter of rubber toys, and others he bullied outright into buying. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, trying to be helpful but not finding much to do, regarded his new friend with admiration. + 

‚ÄúGot the idear, George?‚Äù said Joby, looking straight in front of him but twisting his mouth round and winking very rapidly, a method of address that suggested unfathomable confidences. ‚ÄúTake note o‚Äô the patter and prices, see. Might want yer to take on a bit soon.‚Äù + 

A minute or two later it would have been almost impossible to hear this message because their neighbour on the right suddenly opened the day‚Äôs campaign. Even when he began, this linoleum merchant, he was coatless, perspiring, in a fury of salesmanship, and every moment he became more tempestuous, banging his rolls of linoleum, his little table, his own hand, anything and everything, and worked himself into such a frenzy that it made you hot to see him, made your throat ache to listen to him, and turned the purchase of a roll of linoleum into an act of common kindness. ‚ÄúNow I‚Äôll tell yer whattam going ter do, people,‚Äù he would yell. ‚ÄúJust to make a start, I‚Äôm not going ter sell yer linoleum, I‚Äôm going ter give it ter yer. Here y‚Äôare.‚Äù And he would unroll a length and bang away at it in a passion. ‚ÄúNow that‚Äôs not oilcloth, it‚Äôs the very best lino-carpet pattern, rubber-backed‚ÅÝ‚Äîand there‚Äôs four yards if there‚Äôs an inch an yer couldn‚Äôt buy it under fifteen shillings in any shop in this town or any other town.‚Äù Here he would draw a deep agonized breath, then give the roll another bang. ‚ÄúFive shillings. Four and six. Four shillings. Well, I‚Äôll tell yer what I‚Äôll do. Three and six. Three and six, and I‚Äôm giving it away. All right, then. Here! Pass me up that other piece, Charlie. Now then,‚Äù he would burst out afresh, beating the new piece unmercifully, ‚Äúthere‚Äôs three yards here‚ÅÝ‚Äîyer could cover a landing with it and it ‚Äôud last yer a lifetime‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I‚Äôll put the two together. Six shillings the two.‚Äù He would glare at the crowd, mop his brow, and run a finger round his sopping rag of a collar. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs not oilcloth I‚Äôm trying to sell yer,‚Äù he would begin again, and his voice was the last despairing shriek of reasoned conviction in a world hollow with doubt and fear. If anyone there said that it was oilcloth it seemed as if the man would have vanished in flame and smoke. + 

On the other side, the Professor, who had returned to set up his easel, was standing in silence, frowning upon three small boys who were waiting there to see if he would do anything to entertain them. Do You Know Your Fate? asked the easel, and then went on: Professor Miro Can Tell You. What Is the Message of the Stars? Destiny! Will Power! Personality! The Chance of a Lifetime!! Don‚Äôt Miss It!!! But so far the good people of Ribsden, bargaining and chattering in the light of the sun, seemed to care nothing for the dark secrets of this life. Perhaps the Professor‚Äôs hour would strike when the night stole down upon them, beckoning its old troupe of ghosts. Meanwhile, he tried, quite vainly, to intimidate the three small boys with his immense eyebrows, and stood there, in a dignified silence, nursing a packet of coloured papers. + 

The Professor‚Äôs other neighbour, a broad-faced, spectacled young man, very carefully dressed, was as noisy as the linoleum merchant, and looked like a bank clerk in a frenzy. Nobody seemed to know what he was selling or even if he was selling anything at all. He held up a number of plain envelopes, shook them in the faces of his audience, and talked continually of one Walters of Bristol. ‚ÄúWhen Mis‚Äëter Wal‚Äëters of Bris‚Äëtol,‚Äù he roared in the manner of one discussing his friend the Prime Minister, ‚Äúgave me these envelopes, he assured me that in every one of them there was a banknote, and he sent me down here to sell them to you purely and simply as an advertisement. Mr.¬ÝWalters knew and I knew that there was no money to be made out of this. It‚Äôs a good advertisement. And when Mis‚Äëter Wal‚Äëters guaranteed that there was a banknote in every one of these envelopes, that was good enough for me. I knew that Mis‚Äëter Wal‚Äëters of Bris‚Äëtol would not send me on a fool‚Äôs errand, I can assure you, people.‚Äù And he went on assuring them and shaking his mysterious envelopes in their faces. + 

A little after noon, the Professor left his stand and approached Joby. ‚ÄúI was wondering, Mr.¬ÝJackson,‚Äù he began, in a confidential whisper, ‚Äúif you had a spare shilling about you. Just until tonight, you know.‚Äù + 

Joby nodded towards The Helping Hand. ‚ÄúGoing in?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes, I thought that perhaps a little‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

Joby cut him short. ‚ÄúYou come with me, Perfesser. ‚ÄôEre, George, you can take over a bit, eh? Shan‚Äôt be long.‚Äù + 

So Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was left in charge, and before Joby had returned, he had sold a vermilion stork with wooden feet, a policeman on traffic duty, and a shrimp-coloured and dropsical rubber infant, taking four shillings in all, of which, he knew, at least half-a-crown was sheer profit. This was good business. + 

When Joby came back, an hour later, he brought with him a bottle of beer and two meat pies. ‚ÄúYer can‚Äôt stir in there now,‚Äù he explained, ‚Äúso I got yer these, see. Knock off and get outside these, then ‚Äôave a walk round. Wotcher done?‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, attacking the first of the meat pies, reported his sales. ‚ÄúA bird, a bobby, an‚Äô a bairn, for fower bob.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYer a ruddy poet, George, if yer ask me,‚Äù said Joby in great good-humour. ‚ÄúThe Perfesser‚Äôs still in there. We shan‚Äôt see ‚Äôim now till closing time. ‚ÄôE‚Äôs found the ‚Äôelping ‚Äôand all right. ‚ÄôE‚Äôd lowered about five when I left, and all buckshee. ‚ÄôE could talk a feller into givin‚Äô ‚Äôim a bucketful. Clever feller, the Perfesser, but I wouldn‚Äôt like to see the coloured menagerie ‚Äôe sees some o‚Äô these nights.‚Äù + 

By the time Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had finished his two pies and the bottle of beer, had walked round the fair and market and explored the town, and had returned to have a smoke with Joby, it was nearly teatime. ‚ÄúNot much doing now till about six,‚Äù Joby told him. ‚ÄúYer can take on a bit, see. I‚Äôll ‚Äôave a dekko at the old van, a drop o‚Äô Rosie, and a word wi‚Äô some o‚Äô the boys. Don‚Äôt forget them monkeys is two bob apiece‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôre extra special, they are‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey cost me ninepence.‚Äù + 

The linoleum merchant and the friend of Mr.¬ÝWalters of Bristol had each large audiences, but there appeared to be a temporary slump in rubber toys. Very few people even looked at the stall, partly, no doubt, because its two neighbours were so much more exciting and noisy. The only questions Mr.¬ÝOakroyd found himself answering referred to Joby himself and not to his stock-in-trade. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEllo! This is Joby Jackson, isn‚Äôt it! Where‚Äôs old Joby today?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúKnocking about,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd would reply, and the inquirer would saunter off again. + 

This happened several times, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd began to assume a knowing air with these fellow professionalists of the road. But he was not able to do more than make a beginning. The tide that had carried him along so smoothly these past twenty-four hours suddenly turned against him. One of these fellow professionalists who had been moving aimlessly through the crowd caught sight of the stall, stopped, and stared. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, staring back at him, came to the conclusion that he was not a pleasant-looking chap. After standing there a minute or two, the man came closer and examined the stall, its placards, its rubber dolls, its uneasy salesman, with little bloodshot eyes. He was a big man, whose huge shoulders were encased in a dirty football jersey; there was three or four days‚Äô stubble on his great prow of a jaw; and he looked as if he had recently wakened from a drunken sleep to find himself in a very bad temper. As he stood there, signs of intelligence began to dawn in his face, but the sight was not a pleasing one. + 

It was Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, however, who broke the silence at last. He could not stand this scrutiny any longer. ‚ÄúLike a doll, mate?‚Äù he asked, with dubious good-fellowship in his tone and glance. + 

‚ÄúLike a doll!‚Äù the large man spat out in contempt. ‚ÄúDo I look as if I wanted a bloody doll, do I now, do I?‚Äù Then, suddenly appallingly, he became as angry as a goaded bull. ‚ÄúWhere‚Äôs that‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù and he proceeded to apply a number of words to the absent Joby that shocked Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, accustomed as he was to most of them. ‚ÄúWhere is ‚Äôe? d‚Äôy‚Äôear?‚Äù And he brought his huge fist down on the stall so that every stork and monkey and policeman hanging there started dancing, and then he leaned forward and pushed his face nearer to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs. + 

‚ÄúWell,‚Äù he roared, ‚Äúwot d‚Äôyer say, yer silly-looking‚ÅÝ‚Äî?‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd kept perfectly still and quiet. This, he knew, was Jim Summers. It couldn‚Äôt be anyone else but Jim Summers. He remembered everything he had heard about Jim Summers. And he tried to think, and it was difficult. ‚ÄúNow I‚Äôll tell yer whattam going ter do, people,‚Äù came the voice on the right. ‚ÄúAnd it isn‚Äôt oilcloth I‚Äôm selling yer.‚Äù Joby might be back any minute. Meanwhile, he wasn‚Äôt here, and Jim Summers undoubtedly was. ‚ÄúWhen Mis‚Äëter Wal‚Äëters of Bris‚Äëtol,‚Äù the left boomed steadily, ‚Äúcame to me and gave me these envelopes‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd looked Jim Summers in the eye. + 

‚ÄúHe‚Äôs not here,‚Äù he muttered. + 

‚ÄúCan‚Äôt I see ‚Äôe‚Äôs not here! I‚Äôm asking where ‚Äôe is. Yer not a bloody stuck pig, are yer? Yer can talk, can‚Äôt yer? This is ‚Äôis stall, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù + 

Still Mr.¬ÝOakroyd made no reply. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôd like ter give yer something uttud make yer open yer mouth,‚Äù said the angry Summers, looking very ugly. ‚ÄúWell, I can wait ‚Äôere a bit.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd found his voice now. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs not a bit o‚Äô good your doing that, mate. Joby Jackson‚Äôs not here.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAr d‚Äôyer mean ‚Äôe‚Äôs not ‚Äôere,‚Äù cried the other contemptuously. ‚ÄúThis is ‚Äôis stall, isn‚Äôt it? Think I don‚Äôt know it!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, but‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬ÝOakroyd fumbled, then hurried on‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúyou see, I‚Äôve bowt it off on him.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, since when?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYesterda‚Äô,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúI took it on mesen, so you won‚Äôt find him here, mate.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝSummers looked puzzled. Not being a man of intellect, he took some time to arrange his ideas. Then suddenly he shook himself, banged the stall again, and shouted: ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôE‚Äôs been seen ‚Äôere this morning. You bought this? You‚Äôve ‚Äôell as like, yer rotten little liar.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúHere, here, here, here! Less of it, less of it. What‚Äôs it all about, eh?‚Äù This was the policeman with the ginger moustache, the one who apparently did not like markets and fairs. Now he looked very severe indeed. + 

‚ÄúI come ‚Äôere asking for a feller,‚Äù growled Summers, ‚Äúand this feller ‚Äôere says ‚Äôe don‚Äôt know where the feller is and says that this stall ‚Äôere is ‚Äôis and I was telling im it wasn‚Äôt ‚Äôcos I knew it belonged to this other feller, d‚Äôyer see?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, I don‚Äôt see what you‚Äôve got to make such a lot of noise about,‚Äù said the policeman. ‚ÄúEither it‚Äôs his or it isn‚Äôt, and one way or the other, it don‚Äôt seem to me to be much o‚Äô your business.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI was only telling ‚Äôim I knew it wasn‚Äôt, d‚Äôyer see?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAll right, all right, I know what you was doing,‚Äù cried the policeman angrily. ‚ÄúAnd I say it don‚Äôt seem to me to be much o‚Äô your business.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd put in, feeling it was about time he said something. It was, however, a very unfortunate move. The policeman, who up to now had been eyeing Summers very suspiciously, transferred his unpleasant stare to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd himself, who did not find it easy to meet it. + 

‚ÄúWell, it may be none of his business,‚Äù said the policeman, still staring, ‚Äúbut it‚Äôs my business all right. If you ask me, there‚Äôs something a bit queer here. Now you say this here outfit belongs to you and not to this other feller he‚Äôs talking so much about?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, hesitating. ‚ÄúIn a manner o‚Äô speaking, you might say‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat d‚Äôyou mean ‚Äòin a manner o‚Äô speaking‚Äô?‚Äù the policeman demanded. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre, let‚Äôs have a look at your licence.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stared back at the policeman, open-mouthed. He knew nothing about licences, had no idea what a licence would look like, how much it cost, where it would be obtained. All that he did know, with a sickening certainty, was that he ought to have a licence, if his story were to be believed, and that he could not think how to begin to explain why he hadn‚Äôt one. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôE‚Äôs got no licence,‚Äù said Summers triumphantly. + 

‚ÄúWho‚Äôs talking to you?‚Äù the policeman demanded angrily. Then he turned to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd again and repeated, with maddening deliberation: ‚ÄúLet‚Äôs have a look at your licence.‚Äù + 

Fortunately for Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, the policeman‚Äôs high-handed methods were too much for Jim Summers, whose temper was always uncertain and who disliked the Force. At that moment he might have been compared to a smoking volcano. He pushed his face between the other two, and repeated, very slowly and ominously: ‚ÄúI said ‚Äò‚Ää‚ÄôE‚Äôs got no licence.‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd I say ‚ÄòWho‚Äôs talking to you?‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù cried the policeman, giving him a push. ‚ÄúYou get back a bit.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd ‚Äôoo the bloody ‚Äôell d‚Äôyou think you are?‚Äù shouted Summers, raising a huge fist. ‚ÄúTouch me again, yer ginger pig, and I‚Äôll flatten yer.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnother word and you‚Äôll come along with me,‚Äù retorted the policeman, stepping back. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEllo, ‚Äôello! What‚Äôs the row?‚Äù It was Joby, and with him was a short, thickset, smiling man. + 

At the sight of Joby‚Äôs companion, Summers gave a roar. ‚ÄúMuss, yer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù He rushed at him but both Joby and the policeman threw themselves in the way, and the next moment they were all so many whirling arms and legs. Instantly the crowd surged round and its pressure drove them against the stall which rocked with the fight. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, at the other side and cut off from the combatants, could do nothing but try to keep the stall in place. A shower of rubber birds and monkeys descended upon the battlefield. Crack! went the stall and another shower of dolls fell, so that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd began sweeping those that were left into the boxes at the back, and then, crawling underneath, contrived to pick up a number of those that had fallen. He returned to hold on and sway with the stall. He had undertaken ‚Äúto mind t‚Äôstall‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîas he told himself‚ÅÝ‚Äîand what he could do, he did. There was no room for him in the fight, even if he had wished to join it. The redoubtable Summers, having sent little Tommy Muss into the dust, given Joby a black eye, and battered the policeman, was now being overpowered. The policeman had had time to blow his whistle, which brought his colleague from the other end of the marketplace, and the two of them secured the person of James Summers and finally marched him away, followed by the cheers and hoots of the crowd. + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd immediately came round to the front of the stall and began picking up the remainder of the fallen toys, while Joby and his friend gasped and swore and wiped their faces and dusted their clothes. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre, didn‚Äôt take any names, did ‚Äôe?‚Äù asked Joby, still panting for breath. + 

‚ÄúHe didn‚Äôt take mine,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. + 

‚ÄúWe‚Äôre off then. What d‚Äôyer say, Tommy? If they wants us for the witness-box, they must find us, see. ‚ÄôEre, get this stuff away, sharp as yer can. Come on, Tommy. That‚Äôs right, George. Sharp‚Äôs the word, or we‚Äôll never do it. But they‚Äôve got ter get ‚Äôim ter the station, see.‚Äù He turned to look at those members of the crowd that were still lingering about. ‚ÄúNar then,‚Äù he cried, ‚Äúit‚Äôs all over this time. No more performances today, people. Out o‚Äô the way, you lads.‚Äù And the linoleum merchant and the friend of Mr.¬ÝWalters of Bristol, taking advantage of the fact that a crowd was already assembled at their elbows, roared out their patter again and drew all but the most obstinate of the spectators into their audiences. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôll get the van, see,‚Äù said Joby, ‚Äúand run it as near as I can, just round the Johnny Horner. Soon as yer ‚Äôear me toot, run with as much o‚Äô the stuff as yer can carry. Get the stall down, George, and anything that‚Äôs broken bad, leave it.‚Äù And he hurried off. + 

‚ÄúA troublesome business, Mr.¬ÝMuss,‚Äù boomed a voice above them as they packed the things. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôLo Professor!‚Äù said Tommy, looking up. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôOw goes it? We‚Äôre sliding out.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúQuite right, quite right, Mr.¬ÝMuss,‚Äù replied the Professor. ‚ÄúI should do the same myself, have done before today. Very inconvenient these police-court affairs. Besides, if you go into the box, it creates a prejudice against you in the profession. Not that Summers doesn‚Äôt deserve whatever he gets‚ÅÝ‚Äîa hooligan, a tough, Mr.¬ÝMuss‚ÅÝ‚Äîthese low types are a disgrace to the road. They can‚Äôt carry their beer, that‚Äôs the trouble.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThere goes the old van,‚Äù cried Tommy. ‚ÄúNow then, Professor, you don‚Äôt know us, do you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôve never seen you in my life before,‚Äù the Professor replied gravely. ‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôll drop a word to the boys. Summers won‚Äôt give names, of course, because you‚Äôd be hostile witnesses, though I doubt if he‚Äôs the sense to see that. I‚Äôll keep an eye on these things for you.‚Äù + 

Two hurried journeys each were enough. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was hustled into the back, the other two sitting in front; and they rattled out of Ribsden as fast as the van would take them. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had no idea where they were going and his backward vision of the town and the road that followed it told him nothing. The long day, the excitement of the fight, the hasty departure, had left him rather tired, and after the first few dramatic minutes of the escape from Ribsden he gradually sank into a doze, lying full length on one of the bunks. When, finally, they stopped and he struggled out, he had not the faintest notion of the distance they had come or the time they had been on the road. He found they were standing in a long village street, outside a small public-house. The landlord came to the door. + 

‚ÄúThe wife in, Joe?‚Äù cried Tommy. + 

‚ÄúYuss, she is. ‚ÄôAd ‚Äôer tea some time back though,‚Äù replied the landlord. + 

‚ÄúTell ‚Äôer I‚Äôm ‚Äôere. ‚ÄôAlf a minute, though, I‚Äôm coming in.‚Äù And Tommy, giving a wink to the other two, went inside. + 

Joby passed the wink on to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd with the undamaged eye ‚ÄúTommy‚Äôs got the tart in there,‚Äù he remarked. ‚ÄúBeen there two days, see. ‚ÄôE came into Ribsden on chance of finding me there, but didn‚Äôt think ‚Äôe‚Äôd find Jim Summers there. What ‚Äôappened, George?‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd related his adventures with Mr.¬ÝSummers and the officious policeman, and, when he had done, Tommy emerged from the public-house, followed by a gaudy youngish woman several inches taller than himself. + 

‚ÄúWhat-how, Jowby!‚Äù she cried, waving a hand. ‚ÄúAll the best! I wish I‚Äôd bin there to see. ‚ÄôE‚Äôs got what ‚Äôe wanted, ‚Äôasn‚Äôt ‚Äôe, the swine? Gor!‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut you got an eye. You want a bit o‚Äô stike on thet eye, down‚Äôt ‚Äôe, Tommy? Come in and ‚Äôave one while I getcher a bit o‚Äô stike.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat about it, Joby?‚Äù added Tommy. ‚ÄúComing in now? The old box of tricks be all right there.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, I‚Äôll pull ‚Äôer out, Tommy, and find a place for ‚Äôer. Going to kip in ‚Äôer tonight, see. ‚ÄôSides, me and George‚Äôll ‚Äôave to see what the damage is and try to straighten up if we‚Äôre working that place tomorrer. See yer later, Tommy.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôll be ‚Äôere,‚Äù said Tommy. + 

‚ÄúGet in front, George,‚Äù said Joby, climbing in again. And off they went down the long street. ‚ÄúTommy‚Äôs joining up again tomorrer, see, and the tart‚Äôs follering on, doing the palm business. She‚Äôs all right, but a ‚Äôole night with the two of them together‚ÅÝ‚Äîwith ‚Äôer sitting on ‚Äôis knee and slapping ‚Äôim and drinking ‚Äôis beer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôud get on my ruddy nerves.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI dare say. She looks nowt i‚Äô my line,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd remarked dispassionately. + 

Joby halted at the last shop in the village, where he bought some food, and then they found a camping place by the side of the road, about a mile outside the village. There they repeated the programme of the previous evening, examining and putting in order the stock and the stall and then having a meal. But this time Joby went to the public-house, the one in which Tommy and his temporary bride were staying, unaccompanied by Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who said that he was too tired to move. It was true he was tired, but he was also feeling rather out of it. Joby‚Äôs pal had come back, and now, he knew, he was not really wanted. Tomorrow he would have to go on alone. ‚ÄúNay, I‚Äôll get to bed, Joby lad,‚Äù he said, and watched him walk down the road back to the village, but neither saw nor heard anything of Joby‚Äôs return, two hours later, so deep was this, his second‚ÅÝ‚Äîand probably his last‚ÅÝ‚Äînight of sleep in a caravan, with only a three-ply breadth between him and the stars. + 

V + 

‚ÄúWell, George,‚Äù said Joby, the next morning, ‚Äúyer done me a good turn or two, see. I‚Äôd like to keep yer on the job a bit longer, but yer see ‚Äôow it is. And this oughter straighten us up a bit.‚Äù And he handed over an extremely dirty bit of paper that turned out, much to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs surprise, to be a pound note. + 

‚ÄúNay, I don‚Äôt know as how I can tak‚Äô this,‚Äù he said doubtfully. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve given me summat to eat and sup and a bed like, and I‚Äôve done nowt to earn this.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYer the first West Riding feller I ever knew to look sideways at‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat do you Tykes call it?‚ÅÝ‚Äîa bit o‚Äô brass. Nar then, George, put that in yer pocket.‚Äù + 

And Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did put it in his pocket and even tried to mumble some words of thanks, an agonizing task to any true Bruddersfordian, who always tries to arrange his life so that he will be spared such appalling scenes. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd himself had always regarded with suspicion any person‚ÅÝ‚Äînot counting affected southrons and the like‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho showed a readiness to say ‚ÄúPlease‚Äù and ‚ÄúThank you,‚Äù and was genuinely troubled afterwards by the thought that perhaps his travels were already sapping his manly independence and might lead him to indulge‚ÅÝ‚Äîas he said himself‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúin all sorts o‚Äô daft tricks.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôll tell yer what, George,‚Äù Joby continued, ‚Äúif yer‚Äôve found nothing, get a lift to Nottingham next week‚ÅÝ‚ÄîThursday, Friday, Saturday‚ÅÝ‚ÄîGoose Fair, and take a look round for me and Tommy, see. All the boys‚Äôll be there, and I might be able to find something for yer. Good tradesman, eh, George? ‚ÄôAndle a saw, every time, eh? That‚Äôs the stuff. Don‚Äôt ferget, Nottingham.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, if I‚Äôve nowt on, I will.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGood enough! What‚Äôs the ruddy move now then, George? We can give yer a lift on the way, can‚Äôt we? What say?‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd shook his head decisively. ‚ÄúNay, you go one way and I‚Äôll go t‚Äôother. You‚Äôve had enough bother wi‚Äô me. Where do this here road go to?‚Äù + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôAlf a minute, ‚Äôalf a minute.‚Äù Joby scratched his head, looked at the road, frowned at it, then scratched his head again. ‚ÄúTommy fetched me ‚Äôere‚ÅÝ‚Äîter call at ‚Äôis boozer‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I been ‚Äôere before. I‚Äôve been everywhere, I ‚Äôave. Yer can‚Äôt lose me. I know, George, I know. ‚ÄôEre, go down this road, keep round to the left‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôbout six miles‚ÅÝ‚Äîand yer‚Äôll come to a place called Rawsley. Biggish place‚ÅÝ‚Äîtwenty or thirty boozers there‚ÅÝ‚Äîgood ‚Äôuns some of ‚Äôem. A feller called Thompson‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJimmy Thompson‚ÅÝ‚Äîused to keep one‚ÅÝ‚Äîknew ‚Äôim well, used to be a welterweight, and tidy with ‚Äôem, too. That‚Äôs the place‚ÅÝ‚ÄîRawsley. They ‚Äôave a fair third week in July‚ÅÝ‚Äînot so bad, neither‚ÅÝ‚Äîbest round ‚Äôere. Yer might easy pick something up there, see. ‚ÄôAve a look at Rawsley, George.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝOakroyd brought his basket trunk and his bag of tools out of the van and then stood waiting for Joby to come out too. It was quite late in the morning and there was every indication now that the fine autumn weather they had been having had at last come to an end. There had been rain earlier on, and though it was fine now, the sky was overclouded and it was much colder than it had been. It was the wrong kind of day on which to go off on your own again; the road looked cheerless, the whole prospect forlorn. ‚ÄúA poor do,‚Äù thought Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, waiting to say goodbye. + 

When Joby did come out he brought with him a little package loosely wrapped in brown paper. ‚ÄúYer‚Äôll want these, George,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúYer don‚Äôt pass nothing on the way to Rawsley, see.‚Äù He handed over the package. ‚ÄúSandwiches‚ÅÝ‚Äîour own ruddy make,‚Äù he explained, looking almost apologetic. ‚ÄúIf yer don‚Äôt want ‚Äôem, give ‚Äôem to the poor, George, give ‚Äôem to the poor, but for God‚Äôs sake don‚Äôt start arguing the toss about ‚Äôem.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAll right, Joby lad, I won‚Äôt,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, putting on his old mackintosh and stuffing the sandwiches into the pocket. ‚ÄúAnd I hope I see thee agen afore so long.‚Äù He held out his hand, feeling that he might go to any lengths now after such a desperately emotional speech. + 

Joby shook it enthusiastically. ‚ÄúWell, George, I‚Äôll tell yer something. Yer the best Yorkshire lad I‚Äôve met for a long time. I‚Äôm not fond of ‚Äôem as a rule, see. I don‚Äôt get on with ‚Äôem.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd gravely, ‚Äúwe tak‚Äô a bit o‚Äô knowing.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúBut you‚Äôre all right, George, you are,‚Äù Joby continued, persisting with this imaginary Christian name to the very end. ‚ÄúAnd any time yer want to find me, just drop me a line to The World‚Äôs Fair‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs our paper, see‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJoby Jackson, care of The World‚Äôs Fair. That‚Äôll find me all right every time. So long, George, and all the best!‚Äù + 

Half a mile down the road a spatter of rain overtook Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, and at the end of the next half-mile it was raining in good earnest, so that he thought it wiser to shelter under some trees. He sat down on his two bags and pulled out his pipe and pouch. But there were only a few crumbs of Old Salt left, enough perhaps for one small pipe, and he wisely decided that this was not the time to smoke them. ‚ÄúI must save ‚Äôem till I‚Äôve had summat to eat,‚Äù he told himself. He sat there in his chilly and glistening mackintosh, forlornly watching the raindrops dance on the road and an occasional faded leaf flutter down to his feet. A postman on a bicycle went past, then a large closed car; and that was all the traffic there was. Try as he might, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd could not drown a little voice that kept asking him if he had not been a fool to leave home and wander about like this. True, he was better off than he had been two mornings ago, for then he had had nothing at all and now he had a pound. But what was a pound? And what was he to do now? There weren‚Äôt many Jobys about. This thought brought him closer to the heart of his melancholy. It was the joyous reunion of Joby and his pal Tommy that had really made him feel so desolate. Joby had been a good sort but he didn‚Äôt want him, Jess Oakroyd, not after his own pal had come back. Nobody wanted him, except Lily, who was far away in Canada, and even she didn‚Äôt seem to mind their not being together. There wasn‚Äôt a chap in Bruddersford who would care twopence where Jess Oakroyd was and what had happened to him. Even Sam Oglethorpe wouldn‚Äôt bother his head five minutes about him. And his own wife and son were glad to be rid of him. And yet he was a friendly chap really, only too willing to put in a good bit of hard work for somebody and then have his pipe and pint afterwards with a mate or two. At least, so it seemed to him, but as he thought it over and over, in a dragging and dreary fashion, his mind grew shadowy and fearful with doubt. Perhaps there was something wrong with him. But now his feet touched solid ground and he sprang up, erect. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs nowt wrong wi‚Äô me,‚Äù he declared sturdily. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll ha‚Äô summat to eat.‚Äù + 

He pulled out the sandwiches and, remembering how Joby had given them to him, he felt a little more cheerful. As he munched away, the sun came struggling through again and the rain dwindled to a few glittering drops. The road looked more inviting now than the chill damp shade of the trees, and he hurried through his little meal, lit the last shreds of Old Salt, then walked out into the sunlight. He was wandering on again. The thought brought him a tiny thrill of pleasure now. As he trudged down the road, he mused upon that first fine clatter down the Great North Road, the Kirkworth Inn, Mr.¬ÝPoppleby and Joby and the Professor and the rubber dolls. Their images were still popping in and out of his mind when he reached a crossroads and saw that the signpost to the left pointed to Rawsley. As he turned down this new road, a sudden excitement took possession of him. He even stopped, put down his bags, took the pipe out of his mouth, and spoke aloud. + 

‚ÄúEh,‚Äù he cried, ‚Äúbut I‚Äôve seen summat this week. I‚Äôve had a bit o‚Äô fun on me travels if I never see nowt no more.‚Äù + 

Perhaps that began it all. They were brave words, manfully spoken from the heart, and we do not know how far such words may travel nor what they may set in motion. A minute or two later, he turned a corner and saw that the length of road before him was empty except for a single stationary object some distance away. It was a small car. He walked towards it, leisurely, incuriously. He did not know that this was to be, for him, no ordinary car, that he was casually crossing the threshold of another world. + 

V + 

Miss Trant Is Almost a Second Columbus + 

I + 

The car was the same two-seater Mercia that had carried Miss Trant so bravely out of Hitherton four days before. It was not perhaps the same Elizabeth Trant, certainly not the one Hitherton had known. She had been running about, discovering England, all by herself; marching into hotels and demanding beds and breakfasts and dinners and lunches; talking about roads and cars and cathedrals to strangers, mostly men. This was something. Indeed, after you had lived with the Colonel for twenty years at Hitherton, it was a great deal, a wild rush of independent life. But it was nothing‚ÅÝ‚Äîmere touristry‚ÅÝ‚Äîcompared with her other adventures. The little car had taken her farther than the most distant cathedral, the loneliest hotel. It had plumped her into the middle of other people‚Äôs lives, the most fantastic places in the world. She had not forsworn her allegiance to the historical romance‚ÅÝ‚Äîand had read two out of the four she carried with her‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut now she regarded its figures with a different eye, meeting its conspirators and dragoons on something like terms of equality. Indeed, she could afford to pity them, for though they had to grapple with all the urgencies of life they appeared to have been denied all but a crumb or so from its vast stores of comic relief. She was beginning to feel now that she knew both. After the first splendid hour or two of escape, Monday had not been an exciting day. Ely, she found, was just fifteen miles too far, so she stayed that night in Cambridge‚ÅÝ‚Äîa town she had visited before‚ÅÝ‚Äîat The Lion in Petty Cury. Term had not yet begun and the little grey town, which she remembered as a riot of rowing enthusiasts, salmon mayonnaise, ices, and lawns lit with Chinese lanterns, was now pleasantly empty, only engaged in decking out its windows with a new stock of caps and gowns and college ties and tobacco jars. She had a little stroll before dinner, ate heartily, then sipped her coffee in the glass-covered lounge, which pleased her because it reminded her of being on board ship. By this time, she was eager to talk to somebody, and did her best with her neighbour, a large upholstered sort of woman who stared straight in front of her, above a magnificent Roman nose. + 

‚ÄúI find it more tiring than I thought it would be, driving by oneself, I mean,‚Äù explained Miss Trant. + 

‚ÄúDo you?‚Äù said the other in her deep contralto voice. + 

‚ÄúPerhaps it‚Äôs because there‚Äôs nobody to share things with,‚Äù Miss Trant continued, eagerly, ‚Äúall the little difficulties and dangers and triumphs, you know.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIndeed!‚Äù The woman still stared straight in front of her. + 

‚ÄúIt may be because I‚Äôm inexperienced, of course,‚Äù Miss Trant faltered. It was not easy to talk to this nose. + 

‚ÄúI dare say,‚Äù said the other, achieving her very lowest notes but not moving a muscle of her face. + 

Miss Trant looked at her and wondered sadly why people should be so unfriendly. The next moment, however, the woman‚Äôs face lit up and she jumped to her feet with surprising agility. A boy about eighteen had just entered the lounge, obviously her son. The woman had not been unfriendly but simply absentminded. Miss Trant felt relieved. She looked about her again, only to meet the gaze of the man opposite, a man with protruding grey eyes, admirably adapted for staring fixedly at strangers, and a heavy greying moustache that he fondled as if it were a privilege to have access to such a creation. She made the mistake of meeting his stare very frankly. It brought him over to the vacated chair at her side. + 

‚ÄúMind if I sit here?‚Äù he inquired, in a thick voice. + 

‚ÄúNot at all,‚Äù said Miss Trant, looking hard at the chair he had just left. + 

‚ÄúThanks. Awfully quiet here, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù he continued, his eyes bulging at her. + 

‚ÄúIs it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, dontcher think so? I know this place pretty well, come here three or four times a year, you know. Not much to do here in the evening, specially if the boys aren‚Äôt up. Usually drop into the pictures myself.‚Äù + 

She may have led a quiet life, but she was no fool. There was no mistaking his doggish inviting air. And a minute or two ago, she had been telling herself that people were too unfriendly. And now this. It was too absurd. She wanted to laugh, and some little sound must have made its way out. + 

‚ÄúPardon,‚Äù and the man leaned forward. + 

Her amusement somehow brought her into command of the situation. She fixed her eyes upon the heavy moustache, as if it were a curious museum exhibit, and remarked: ‚ÄúI was wondering if all the men in my family had decided to go to the pictures. I‚Äôm waiting for them now, and they‚Äôre late.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, waiting for them, are you?‚Äù There was a change in his tone. + 

‚ÄúYes,‚Äù she continued hastily. ‚ÄúMy father, my two brothers, my husband, and our two boys. Quite a crowd of them. They‚Äôre awfully late.‚Äù + 

He stared at her, but it was quite a different stare. ‚ÄúYes, time‚Äôs getting on, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù he mumbled. He pretended to look at his watch. ‚ÄúTime I was moving on.‚Äù And he moved. + 

He left Miss Trant wondering at herself, at her impudence, her courage, her staggering presence of mind. She felt as if she were a schoolgirl again and yet a woman of the world, though no woman of the world, she reflected, would have ever stooped to such a ridiculous fifth-form trick. Something‚ÅÝ‚Äîmoney or freedom or both‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad changed her. She wanted to unbosom herself to somebody very badly now, so she wrote a long letter to Dorothy Chillingford. Then she went to bed. + 

Next morning, about eleven o‚Äôclock, she was at Ely, enraptured by the dramatic splendours of the cathedral. It was at the top of the tower that she made the acquaintance of the fierce little elderly man, apparently the only other visitor there. He had very bright eyes, pink cheeks, a bristling beard, and one of those old-fashioned turned-down collars that always suggest that their wearers are William Morris socialists or vegetarians or leaders of surprising little religious sects. She never learned which of these he was, never knew his name, business, or place of address; but nevertheless they were soon on very friendly terms. It was impossible that they should be silent when they were standing on the high tower together, looking down upon the sunlit plain of Cambridgeshire. He had a map with him and insisted upon pointing out to her every landmark on the horizon. Then they explored the rest of the cathedral together, and she found him a most learned and entertaining companion, in spite of his staccato dogmatic manner. ‚ÄúDo you know anything about brasses? You don‚Äôt, eh? Then I‚Äôll explain.‚Äù And he would explain, and he hurried from one part of the building to another, explaining. Miss Trant felt sometimes as if she were back at school, but it was impossible not to like him. + 

Both of them, it appeared, had left their cars outside The Lamb, so they walked back there together and shared a table for lunch. It was during this meal that Miss Trant let fall a remark that was of some consequence because it led to a change in her programme. + 

‚ÄúIsn‚Äôt it a pity, we can‚Äôt build like that now, make really beautiful things?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo pity at all,‚Äù he cried, putting down his fork. ‚ÄúWe can; we do. My dear young lady, don‚Äôt you believe that stuff. All rubbish! The world progresses. We can build when we want to. I don‚Äôt say we build anything like Ely here‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe don‚Äôt want to‚ÅÝ‚Äînot our style‚ÅÝ‚Äîall wonder that, cultivated by barbarism, no knowledge of the universe in it‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I say we can build as well, can build better. Look at the new County Hall in London. Have you seen it? Look at the Bush Building. Have you seen that? Have you seen that enormous block of offices near London Bridge? You must get that idea out of your head at the earliest possible moment, you really must, if you‚Äôll forgive my saying so. You say you are going round looking at the cathedrals‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs the plan, isn‚Äôt it? Well, have you seen Liverpool?‚Äù + 

No, she had not seen Liverpool. + 

‚ÄúGo to Liverpool at once,‚Äù he commanded, and was so impressive that she felt she ought to hurry away at that very moment. He was as bad as Mr.¬ÝChillingford. And what a pair they would make! + 

‚ÄúNow you can‚Äôt say I‚Äôm not interested in these medieval creations,‚Äù he continued earnestly. ‚ÄúYou can‚Äôt say I don‚Äôt appreciate them. This morning you probably thought I was a little too interested and appreciative, the way I dragged you round and talked your head off. But at Liverpool there‚Äôs a brand-new cathedral, finished the other day‚ÅÝ‚Äîso to speak. Not a town-hall or a railway station or a block of offices, but a cathedral, the very thing you‚Äôre talking about.‚Äù + 

He paused to take breath, and Miss Trant, who was reminded a little of her father, regarded him with friendly amusement. + 

‚ÄúNow what‚Äôs it like, this cathedral? Is it a little shuffling jerry-built hotch-potch thing? It is not. It‚Äôs large, it‚Äôs solid, it‚Äôs enduring. It‚Äôs beautiful, it‚Äôs sublime. And who made it? The men of today. Don‚Äôt be misled by this medieval nonsense. We‚Äôre better men than they were, and we live in a better world. Building was their chief trick; it‚Äôs not ours; but when we want to build, we can outbuild ‚Äôem. You never give a thought to most of our building,‚Äù he lectured away, forever taking up his fork and then putting it down again. ‚ÄúTake the big liners‚ÅÝ‚Äîthere‚Äôs building for you. Look at one of ‚Äôem.‚Äù He said this as if there were several just outside the window. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs adaptation to ends, there‚Äôs beauty of design, there‚Äôs solid craftsmanship and workmanship, everything there in a big liner. You go to Liverpool, look at the cathedral, then take a peep or two at some of the liners in dock, and you‚Äôll soon change your mind about our building. You were going there anyhow, I suppose?‚Äù + 

Miss Trant found herself compelled to say, untruthfully, that she was. It would have been terrible to have told him that she had never even thought about Liverpool; he would never have eaten any lunch. + 

‚ÄúThen go there at once, my dear young lady,‚Äù he replied, eager as a boy. ‚ÄúSee it before this nonsense takes root in your mind. I insist upon your going there next. It‚Äôs only a pleasant day‚Äôs run from here. I‚Äôll show you on the map after lunch.‚Äù And he fell to gobbling his lunch, he was so anxious to have done with it and to show her the map. + 

Miss Trant sat there, eating daintily, and envying his complete absorption in the matter in hand. It might be babyish, but it must be great fun, she thought, to be swallowed up by things like that. She could as well go to Liverpool as to Lincoln or York, and she decided she would go there, if only to please him. It would, too, be a friendly gesture towards the eagerly-forgetting-all-about-yourself, which only needed what she determined now to call ‚Äúa swallower.‚Äù Buildings and anti-medievalism and progress were apparently all swallowers for this old gentleman, now galloping rather noisily through his blackberry tart. Perhaps she had served other people‚Äôs swallowers too long; it was time she had one of her own. But then there might be one waiting for her at Liverpool. + 

‚ÄúHere you are then,‚Äù cried the old gentleman enthusiastically, pointing to the map. ‚ÄúHuntingdon, Kettering, Leicester, Derby, Macclesfield, Warrington, Liverpool. Almost a straight run across country.‚Äù + 

She examined the route carefully. It seemed to take her through a number of industrial towns, places with trams and lorries and narrow main streets. ‚ÄúWill there be a lot of traffic?‚Äù she inquired dubiously. + 

‚ÄúTraffic! What‚Äôs wrong with traffic? Why, I can give you thirty years, but I like traffic. The more traffic the better. I like to see a place bustling alive. It does me good to drive through a town that‚Äôs got some trade. It‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs inspiring. You‚Äôre not going to tell me that you‚Äôre frightened of traffic.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes, I am,‚Äù she said firmly. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt like it at all. If I‚Äôd more experience, I might not mind it so much, but, as it is, I‚Äôm terrified. I never know which side I ought to pass a tram on, and when the great lumbering things look as if they‚Äôre going to pin me between them I can‚Äôt possibly console myself by thinking the town is very busy.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúPass them on any side. I do.‚Äù He waved an arm carelessly. ‚ÄúI like these little problems of driving. They keep me young. In and out, in and out, stop, go on, in and out again‚ÅÝ‚Äînothing pleases me better. It will you soon, too, you mark my words. But you‚Äôve nothing to be afraid of on this route.‚Äù And he went over the route again, and made such a fuss about it and was so friendly and absurd that she felt herself compelled to fall in with his plan. + 

‚ÄúBut I can‚Äôt go all that way today, of course,‚Äù she told him. + 

‚ÄúPerhaps not, perhaps not,‚Äù he cried, rather testily. Then he ran his finger over the map. ‚ÄúYou could get as far as Macclesfield,‚Äù he finally announced. + 

She looked for herself. ‚ÄúLeicester would be quite far enough for me.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúLeicester! A stone‚Äôs-throw, a mere stone‚Äôs-throw! You could have tea there, then run on to Macclesfield. That‚Äôs the place, obviously.‚Äù + 

Miss Trant shook her head. She did not see why she should be dictated to in this fashion. ‚ÄúI shall have done quite enough by the time I reach Leicester.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúMy dear young lady, I don‚Äôt believe you can read a map, I really don‚Äôt believe you can. You‚Äôre talking nonsense, you know.‚Äù He seemed quite irritated. ‚ÄúYou couldn‚Äôt have an easier run than to Macclesfield.‚Äù + 

She smiled at him. ‚ÄúYes, I could, and I‚Äôm going to. Just as far as Leicester.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs ridiculous,‚Äù he exploded. He slapped the map angrily with his open hand. ‚ÄúReally, you know, you‚Äôre not trying. It‚Äôs most annoying the way you‚Äôre not trying.‚Äù + 

Her only reply to this absurd protest was a little peal of laughter. The whole idiocy of the situation burst upon her. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sorry,‚Äù she faltered at last. + 

‚ÄúSo am I,‚Äù he ejaculated. ‚ÄúVery.‚Äù And he marched out of the dining-room and banged the door behind him. The door at the other end of the room then opened to admit the head of the waiter. ‚ÄúDid the gentleman call?‚Äù he inquired. + 

‚ÄúNo, I don‚Äôt think he did,‚Äù she replied. ‚ÄúHe went out.‚Äù + 

The waiter withdrew and had no sooner closed his door than the other opened and the old gentleman marched in again. He walked straight up to her, looking pinker and more bristling than ever. ‚ÄúI beg your pardon, my dear young lady, I really beg your pardon,‚Äù he said earnestly. ‚ÄúMost stupid of me. You must go as far as you like and stay where you like, of course. It‚Äôs no business of mine at all, is it?‚Äù Then he smiled and turned himself into a very charming old gentleman indeed. ‚ÄúBut you will go to Liverpool sometime, won‚Äôt you, and remember what I said?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThis very day,‚Äù said Miss Trant, and they became more friendly than ever. + 

She never learned his name, and after a time remembered nothing of him but a voice and vague patch of pink cheek and bristling beard; but she always believed afterwards that it was he who really began it all by hurling her across country towards Liverpool. If he had not insisted upon her going there, she would say, nothing would ever have happened, thereby forgetting that she had been busy turning herself into one of those persons round whom things always happen, and also forgetting, as we all do, that the one road we have chosen out of a hundred is not the only road lined with adventure. Perhaps she was right, however, in saying that the particular adventures she did have were really set in motion by the nameless old gentleman who shot across the map. But she never arrived at Liverpool, and to this day has never even caught a glimpse of the town of Macclesfield. + 

II + 

She spent Tuesday night at Market Harborough. The next morning, she ran through Leicester, or rather lost herself in what seemed a nightmare of traffic and unlabelled streets and then miraculously found her way out of it, pushed on through Derby, and by lunchtime was out in the rising open country beyond. She came to a village clustered about an important junction of roads, and saw at the corner a pleasant little hotel that promised lunch. There were two cars already drawn up before the front door, but she was able to slip in between them. It was then she noticed that the car in front seemed exactly like her own, the same kind of two-seater and painted an identical light blue. She entered the hotel wondering idly what sort of people owned this twin car. + 

There were only two persons having lunch. Miss Trant was given a small table in the opposite corner, but as the dining-room was quite narrow she was not far away from her fellow-lunchers. They were a curious pair. The woman was about her own age, a large square blonde with a wandering nose and a mouth that was so big, so loose, and so vividly and inhumanly carmined, that it seemed to have no connection with the rest of the face, to be a dreadful afterthought. She was cheaply but showily dressed, a jangling sort of woman, and she talked very quickly and loudly and was evidently in nervous high spirits. Her companion was nervous but not in high spirits. He was a neat compressed little man, with dark hair parted in the middle, pince-nez about a button of a nose, and tiny moustache. He looked vaguely uneasy. Miss Trant told herself that he reminded her of a rabbit. + 

Before Miss Trant had finished her soup, there were sounds of other arrivals outside, and in a few minutes four men, three stout and one thin, clomped in and seated themselves at the other end of the room. + 

The large blonde woman, who was halfway through her lunch, had been fussing some time with a heavy coat. Now she stood up, took it off, and exclaimed, in a curious mincing accent apparently assumed for everybody‚Äôs benefit: ‚ÄúThis cowt‚Äôs an orful nuisance. I‚Äôll have it pet in the caw.‚Äù She looked about for the waitress, but the waitress was ostentatiously busying herself with the men‚Äôs table, so she walked out with the coat herself, obviously enjoying the little fuss she was making, and returned in a moment. + 

‚ÄúAll ri‚Äô?‚Äù inquired her companion, in a weak high voice that was exactly what you expected from him. + 

‚ÄúI told the man to pet it in the caw, deear,‚Äù replied the woman, reseating herself and attacking the boiled mutton with an indescribable air of luxurious pleasure. + 

Miss Trant had just decided that she had watched and wondered at this odd pair long enough, when the telephone bell rang. The telephone was in the dining-room, and the waitress answered it. Everybody else looked at her and listened intently, finding it impossible, as usual, to be indifferent to a telephone. ‚ÄúYes, it is,‚Äù cried the waitress through the mouthpiece. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right.‚Äù Then she listened. ‚ÄúHow should I know?‚Äù She listened again. ‚ÄúLike what?‚Äù she asked, frowning. ‚ÄúOh, I see.‚Äù And then her glance went travelling round the room and finally rested on the odd pair. It was very exciting as nobody even pretended to eat. ‚ÄúWell, I don‚Äôt know,‚Äù said the waitress dubiously, still looking the same way. Miss Trant shot a glance there too, and noticed that the little man seemed very restive. ‚ÄúI dare say it might be,‚Äù the waitress continued, ‚Äúbut why don‚Äôt you give the name. I‚Äôll ask if you give me the name. All right. Hold on a minute.‚Äù She put down the receiver and called out to the little man: ‚ÄúBeg your pardon, but are you Mr.¬ÝTipstead? Mr.¬ÝEric Tipstead?‚Äù + 

Miss Trant saw him start up involuntarily, saw the woman give him a sharp warning glance, lay a hand on his arm, and give a lightning shake of her head. ‚ÄúNo, no,‚Äù the woman cried hastily, too hastily. + 

‚ÄúIt isn‚Äôt, eh?‚Äù the waitress called out. + 

‚ÄúNo‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîcertainly not,‚Äù the man quavered in anything but a tone of certainty. He seemed desirous of appearing as if he were not really very sure just then what his name might be. + 

The woman, however, had no such subtle reservations in her manner. ‚ÄúJohnson‚Äôs the name, Miss‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJohnson,‚Äù she cried. She evidently shared with the waitress a conviction that it was more polite to talk about ‚Äúthe name‚Äù than to say ‚Äúyour name‚Äù or ‚Äúour name.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúPerhaps she had worked in an hotel,‚Äù Miss Trant told herself. She had missed nothing of this. + 

‚ÄúNot the name,‚Äù the waitress informed the telephone. Then after a pause: ‚ÄúWell, I can‚Äôt help that, can I?‚Äù The tone in which she said this suggested that it was no business of hers if her patrons chose to tell lies, though she had her own private opinion of them. Then she replaced the receiver and hurried out with her tray. + 

Miss Trant was now positive that the little man, the very uneasy little man, was Mr.¬ÝEric Tipstead. To begin with, he looked exactly like a Mr.¬ÝEric Tipstead. Then she was certain she had heard the woman addressing him as ‚ÄúEric deear.‚Äù And why should he have started up when he heard the name, why should the woman have restrained him? Johnson too! Nothing could be less convincing. Johnson was mere impudence. + 

She kept her eye on them. They were now eating away for dear life, wanting to get away as soon as they could but equally determined to have their three shillings‚Äô worth each if it choked them. In another five minutes they were hurrying out, and Miss Trant heard a car give a familiar gasp or two, then a rattle, then a roar immediately afterwards. Never had a car sounded so guilty; there was nervous apprehension in every diminishing hoot. Miss Trant was left to ponder the mystery of Mr.¬ÝEric Tipstead and his partner, without whom the dining-room was very commonplace, just so much boiled mutton and treacle pudding, so many fat men and whisky advertisements. She was aching to ask the waitress what had been said to her on the telephone, but even in her new character of independent woman, who dashed from Ely to Liverpool and stalked in and out of hotels, she could not do it. The waitress herself trotted about, looking as if she could tell a tale if she wanted to, and she had dropped some remark that had made the four men roar with laughter. It was most irritating. Miss Trant did not bolt her lunch Tipstead fashion, but on the other hand she did not linger over it as long as she might have done. And she gave the waitress only fourpence, instead of sixpence. + 

There were at least half a dozen cars and vans standing outside the front of the hotel now, but she was astonished to find that her own car was not there at all. She stood on the threshold, staring in bewilderment. Then she walked round the assembled cars. It was not there. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm looking for my car,‚Äù she explained to a man who was hanging about the door. ‚ÄúI left it here.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAr,‚Äù said the man, looking wise. ‚ÄúBlue two-seater was it?‚Äù + 

She replied, eagerly, that it was. + 

‚ÄúAr. It‚Äôs round the corner ‚Äôere. ‚ÄôAd to shift one of ‚Äôem about ‚Äôalf an hour ago.‚Äù And he led the way round the corner. + 

There it was, much to her relief. She climbed in, and was about to start the engine when she noticed there was something strange about the dashboard, something strange indeed about the whole interior. + 

‚ÄúAll right, miss?‚Äù the man asked. + 

‚ÄúAll wrong. This isn‚Äôt my car.‚Äù She got out and looked at it. + 

‚ÄúThen whose car is it?‚Äù the man, anxious to be helpful, walked round the car after her. + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know whose car it is, I only know it isn‚Äôt mine. It‚Äôs like it but it isn‚Äôt it. I‚Äôm afraid that sounds ridiculous. Well, I suppose my car must be about somewhere.‚Äù + 

The man began to stare at her and as he stared his mouth slowly opened. + 

‚ÄúI remember now,‚Äù she went on, not bothering about him, for he seemed very stupid. ‚ÄúThis car was in front of mine when I went in to lunch. I noticed that it seemed extraordinarily like mine. Yes, this is the one.‚Äù She broke off; it was impossible to talk to that fish-like stare. ‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs the matter?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThey took it,‚Äù the man said slowly. + 

‚ÄúWho took what? Do you mean my car? Did someone mistake it for this? I know. Was it‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù she hesitated. + 

‚ÄúAbout ‚Äôalf an hour ago,‚Äù the man put in. ‚ÄúJust after I‚Äôd ‚Äôad to move this. A couple comes dashing out, gets in, goes off without a word. Smallish feller with eyeglasses, it was. His wife picks up a big coat that‚Äôs lying over the side, puts it on, and then they‚Äôre off without a word.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThe Tipsteads!‚Äù cried Miss Trant. + 

‚ÄúI beg yer pardon, Miss.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the name of the people who took it, or at least I think it is. Tipstead.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIf ‚Äôe was that by name, ‚Äôe wasn‚Äôt that by nature,‚Äù the man observed rather bitterly. ‚ÄúAs I say, ‚Äôe gives me nothing for my trouble but goes off without a word. And then ‚Äôe goes and takes the wrong car, seemingly. Now if ‚Äôe‚Äôd only said something. They were trying it on, if you ask me. I says to myself at the time, I says ‚ÄòYou‚Äôre in a bit of a ‚Äôurry, aren‚Äôt you.‚Äô Going off like that without a word! I might ‚Äôave known!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúBut this is absurd!‚Äù cried Miss Trant. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôve taken my car and now they‚Äôre miles away. What on earth am I to do?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI should take theirs if I was you,‚Äù said the man with an air of deep cunning. + 

‚ÄúBut I don‚Äôt want theirs. They‚Äôve got all my things. Which way did they go?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúTook the north road.‚Äù And the man pointed. + 

‚ÄúI wonder if I could overtake them,‚Äù she mused. ‚ÄúI suppose I could drive this one. But how do I know this is theirs? It might belong to somebody else.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs theirs all right,‚Äù he replied. ‚ÄúI saw ‚Äôem come up in it. It‚Äôs the spit image o‚Äô yours, too.‚Äù + 

She got into the car again, started it up, and ran it backwards and forwards once or twice. It was as easy to handle as her own, and was indeed a twin Mercia. Finally she reversed it round to the front of the hotel, with the vague idea of consulting the landlord. At that moment a motorcycle came tearing up to the hotel. It stopped just as she stopped. + 

‚ÄúWhere is he, where is he?‚Äù cried a very angry feminine voice. ‚ÄúWhere is he?‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù here it choked a little‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúyou big vamp, you!‚Äù + 

Miss Trant looked round and was astonished to find that the furious little woman who had just jumped out of the sidecar was screaming at her. ‚ÄúWhat on earth are you talking about?‚Äù she cried. + 

The woman was even more astonished. As she stared, her face fell. ‚ÄúOo, I‚Äôm sorry.‚Äù She was now joined by the young man who had dismounted from the motorcycle. ‚ÄúThis isn‚Äôt her, Willy,‚Äù she wailed. Then she looked at the car, and her eyes grew round and her mouth opened. ‚ÄúThis is our car, isn‚Äôt it, Willy? I‚Äôm sure it is.‚Äù + 

Willy, a very stolid young man, looked it over carefully and announced that it was certainly their car. + 

‚ÄúI know what he‚Äôs done,‚Äù she wailed again. ‚ÄúYou needn‚Äôt tell me. He‚Äôs gone and sold it. Three hours away and the first thing he does is to sell the car. She‚Äôs made him sell it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWe‚Äôll see about that,‚Äù said Willy, unmoved. ‚ÄúWe can ask, can‚Äôt we?‚Äù And he looked at Miss Trant. + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know what you‚Äôre talking about,‚Äù said Miss Trant, looking from one to the other, ‚Äúbut I can assure you this car doesn‚Äôt belong to me.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThen what are you doing in it?‚Äù Willy broke in, rudely. + 

Miss Trant, who was annoyed, gave him a sharp glance. ‚ÄúPlease be quiet a moment,‚Äù she commanded. ‚ÄúOtherwise I can‚Äôt explain. This car belongs to some people who have just gone off in my car.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right.‚Äù This was from the first man, who felt it was time he took charge of the situation. ‚ÄúYou see, a party comes out, gets in this lady‚Äôs car, goes off without a word‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat sort of party?‚Äù asked Willy. + 

‚ÄúA little-ish feller with eyeglasses‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúEric!‚Äù cried the woman. ‚ÄúI knew it, I knew it. What did I tell you, Willy?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSounds like him all right,‚Äù Willy agreed. + 

‚ÄúA biggish woman, fair-‚Äôaired, ‚Äôis wife was,‚Äù the man continued. + 

‚ÄúHis wife!‚Äù The way in which the agitated little woman let loose these two syllables confirmed Miss Trant. This was Mrs.¬ÝEric Tipstead. She was small and dark, like her husband, but looked altogether more energetic and purposeful. She was one of those little stringy women who never seem to tire. + 

‚ÄúThey left the hotel in rather a hurry,‚Äù Miss Trant began. + 

‚ÄúYes, I‚Äôll bet they did,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝTipstead grimly, folding up her mouth. + 

‚ÄúAnd they ran off in my car. That was about half an hour ago.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou hear that, Willy?‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝTipstead. ‚ÄúIn for a penny, in for a pound. Taking cars now! She goes and makes him take this lady‚Äôs car right under her nose.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúHold on, Sis, hold on,‚Äù Willy put in. ‚ÄúHe didn‚Äôt mean to take it, you bet. Did he?‚Äù And he appealed to Miss Trant and the other man. + 

‚ÄúNo, of course he didn‚Äôt,‚Äù said Miss Trant. + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs as easy to explain as anything you could wish for, considering, that is, it‚Äôs a bit of a mix-up,‚Äù said the man. And he began an immense narrative of what would obviously have developed into an enormous narrative if Miss Trant had not cut it short by giving a brief account of the affair as she saw it. + 

‚ÄúThere‚Äôs no doubt this is his car, then?‚Äù asked Miss Trant at the end of her story. + 

‚ÄúNot a bit. Look, there‚Äôs his bag.‚Äù She pointed to the luggage in the dicky seat. ‚ÄúAnd‚ÅÝ‚Äîand‚ÅÝ‚Äîlook there, Willy‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs hers.‚Äù She plucked out the suitcase and flung it down on the road. ‚ÄúThe impudence of it, with a bag and all!‚Äù And then, quite suddenly, surprisingly, she burst into tears and had to lean against her brother, who did not support her very tenderly or even adequately. Miss Trant, who was still sitting in the car, looked on and felt very foolish. + 

‚ÄúWhat are you going to do then, Sis?‚Äù asked Willy, a practical man clearly at a disadvantage. + 

Some choking sounds from Mrs.¬ÝTipstead might have been interpreted to mean that she intended to follow her erring husband. + 

Miss Trant came to the conclusion it was time she intervened. The relations between Mr.¬Ýand Mrs.¬ÝTipstead and the large blonde were no business of hers, and the thought of being in any way entangled in their affairs made her shudder; but the fact remained that her car and most of her best clothes were being rushed into the North somewhere by Mr.¬ÝTipstead at that very moment. She was confident that, whatever he did, he would not return to the hotel with the car. He must have known that it was his wife who rang up when they were having lunch. + 

‚ÄúThe point is,‚Äù she said clearly and calmly, ‚Äúdo you happen to know where these‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere Mr.¬ÝTipstead is going? The very moment you came I was just setting out to try and overtake them. The man showed me which road they took. And we‚Äôre only wasting time, you know.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes, I do know,‚Äù replied Mrs.¬ÝTipstead, calmer now. ‚ÄúAt least I‚Äôve a good idea. If I hadn‚Äôt, I couldn‚Äôt have come so far. I got her address and they‚Äôre going there. I found a letter she‚Äôd sent him, found it this very morning. I‚Äôll bet he doesn‚Äôt even know he‚Äôs lost it yet, but he‚Äôs going to know very soon, mark my words. She‚Äôs got a house at Sheffield, and they‚Äôre going there.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúCan you drive this car?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, I can‚Äôt, and that‚Äôs another thing. Never would let me touch it, artful monkey! Said I might hurt myself! A lot he cared!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThen you must come with me,‚Äù said Miss Trant. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the only thing to do. If you really think they‚Äôve gone to this address you have, we must go there, too. I don‚Äôt want this car of yours and I certainly do want my own and all my things that are in it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs so,‚Äù said Willy, obviously much relieved. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll have to get back anyhow, Sis. You‚Äôll get to Sheffield easy before dark, and this lady‚Äôll look after you.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, I can look after myself all right,‚Äù exclaimed Mrs.¬ÝTipstead. ‚ÄúAnd it does seem best, doesn‚Äôt it, Willy?‚Äù Then she turned to Miss Trant and suddenly became very stiff and genteel. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sure it‚Äôs very kind of you, Miss‚ÅÝ‚Äîer. I‚Äôm Mrs.¬ÝTipstead.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúMy name is Trant.‚Äù + 

It seemed as if ‚ÄúVery pleased to meet you‚Äù was only prevented at the last moment from popping out. Perhaps the absurdity of it in that situation dawned on Mrs.¬ÝTipstead just in time. All she said, after some hesitation, was: ‚ÄúVery‚ÅÝ‚Äîkind indeed, of you, Miss Trant.‚Äù Then she turned aside with her brother. + 

Miss Trant hunted for a map in the car but could not find one. There was one hanging in the hall of the hotel, however, and she traced the route to Sheffield on it with her finger. When she returned to the car, she found Mrs.¬ÝTipstead sitting in it and staring straight ahead, down the road to the North, like a small damp fury. + 

It was a fantastic journey. The road crossed the valleys of the Dove and the Derwent and wound about the lower spurs of the Peak. They ran along green troughs powdered with dust; they sailed up towards great castles of vapour, rosy Himalayas of cloud; they sank through hollows of blue air cupped round with grass; and all the hills, the dales and dingles, the farmhouses came curving to meet them, steadily shone or gloomed for a moment, then slipped noiselessly away like places in a dream. So it seemed to one part of Miss Trant, which saw nothing, knew nothing, but this pageantry which went, mazed with wonder, flashing a wing, through the golden afternoon. But she was triune; and the other two of her were very differently occupied. One was busy with the mechanism of the car, and a little dubious of the matter of gears. The other‚ÅÝ‚Äîit was a fair division‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad to attend to fellow humanity which was present in the form of Mrs.¬ÝTipstead. At first, Mrs.¬ÝTipstead was very stiff, very quiet. Miss Trant did not know what to do with her. It is not easy to make conversation with a strange woman, a woman, moreover, with a social background very different from your own, when you are helping her to overtake a runaway husband. It is all the more difficult when two-thirds of you are busy elsewhere, up on the hill, down among the gears. Miss Trant did what she could, however, and very soon Mrs.¬ÝTipstead, who was not equal to the task of keeping up her stiff genteel manner, began pouring out her confidences. + 

Miss Trant had murmured something about tea. + 

‚ÄúI reely couldn‚Äôt, you know, Miss Trant,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝTipstead cried into her ear. ‚ÄúI believe a mouthful would choke me. You don‚Äôt know how I feel, I‚Äôm that worked up.‚Äù There was genuine distress in her tones, but there was also a certain melodramatic gusto. Obviously she rather liked the thought of being choked by a mouthful. + 

Miss Trant said nothing because there did not seem to be anything suitable to say. One of those vague little sympathetic noises would have done, but you cannot make them in a car, at least you cannot possibly make them loud enough to be heard. It is not easy, she reflected, saying anything to someone who confessed to being ‚Äúworked up.‚Äù You really ought to shout back: ‚ÄúI hope you‚Äôll soon be worked down.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs pretty country, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝTipstead remarked quite unexpectedly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve always been fond of this part. I like a bit of nice scenery, don‚Äôt you? Eric now‚ÅÝ‚Äîmy husband‚ÅÝ‚Äînever cared for it much. There, I‚Äôm beginning again. I won‚Äôt say another word.‚Äù And she threw herself back against the seat. + 

‚ÄúDo go on, unless you really don‚Äôt want to,‚Äù said Miss Trant. She wanted to add to this, to say something tactful, sympathetic, but discovered she could not frame a sentence that would suggest the right attitude, something between brutal indifference and equally brutal curiosity. + 

The other was silent for a minute or two, but her thoughts demanded relief. ‚ÄúI shouldn‚Äôt have minded half so much,‚Äù she declared suddenly, ‚Äúif he‚Äôd been honest with me, if he‚Äôd had it out with me. But to go sneaking off like that! Just leaving a bit of a note! I shouldn‚Äôt have known anything if it hadn‚Äôt been for that letter she sent him I found this morning, the one with her address on, this address we‚Äôre going to in Sheffield. Not that I didn‚Äôt know something was going on. I knew that all right. There‚Äôs no smoke without fire, is there? When me lord‚Äôs out night after night, I knew there was something on. ‚ÄòBusiness,‚Äô he says, leaving me to look after the shop. You see, we‚Äôve got a shop‚ÅÝ‚Äînice little business‚ÅÝ‚Äîsweets and tobacco and newspapers and fancies‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he does a bit in the insurance line, too, and of course that does take him out at night. But it never took him out as much as all that. Besides, I could tell the diff‚Äôrence‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou always can, can‚Äôt you?‚ÅÝ‚Äîbecause he‚Äôd try to sneak out and then if I faced him with it, he‚Äôd go off in a minute, fairly screaming at me, telling me I didn‚Äôt understand what business was. You always know, don‚Äôt you, when they get angry like that about nothing, they‚Äôre hiding something. It‚Äôs their consciences, if you ask me. They know they‚Äôre doing wrong, silly babies. Well, I pretended not to see. You can‚Äôt do anything else, can you?‚Äù + 

There was a large car coming towards them, travelling at a great speed almost in the middle of the road, and Miss Trant had to attend to this car. When they had passed it, she found it quite impossible to settle any problem in conjugal tactics. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know,‚Äù she replied. + 

‚ÄúNo, of course you don‚Äôt. I was quite forgetting. Well, I‚Äôve always said you‚Äôve got to have it out right at the first, as soon as you notice anything, or you‚Äôve got to leave it alone, keep your dignity, you see. And I left it alone, soft thing that I was. And this is what‚Äôs happened. Catch me doing it again! But I thought I knew him all right.‚Äù She thought about this for a moment, then went on: ‚ÄúAnd so I do. It‚Äôs her I don‚Äôt know. But I‚Äôve heard a few things about her, and if I didn‚Äôt know what I do know, you wouldn‚Äôt see me here now. If she‚Äôd been a bit different, he could have had her and welcome. I‚Äôve got my pride. But if you ask me, he‚Äôs just been dragged into this, couldn‚Äôt help himself. She‚Äôs said ‚ÄòCome‚Äô and he‚Äôs gone. I know him.‚Äù + 

She said no more but stared fiercely ahead, down the road that led to Sheffield, where her Eric was waiting to be rescued. + 

Remembering that odd pair in the dining-room, Miss Trant concluded that this view of the situation was probably the right one. She had now to transform those vague figures of fun into the real people of Mrs.¬ÝTipstead‚Äôs vehement declarations. It was strange; it was rather frightening. For the moment she was repelled by the thought of this sheer thrust of life beneath these grotesque surfaces. It would not do. She told herself she ought not to feel like that. It was mean, cowardly, snobbish perhaps; it was‚ÅÝ‚Äîhorrible thought‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat people call old-maidish. She had not the slightest desire to be married, and especially at this moment, but she shuddered at the idea of being old-maidish. She must not mind being jostled by things, by people, by life; she must be ready to take hold herself. + 

‚ÄúOnly eight miles to Sheffield now,‚Äù she announced. + 

‚ÄúDo you know, Miss Trant‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝTipstead hesitated. ‚ÄúIt wouldn‚Äôt make any difference, would it?‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean to getting there in time. But I‚Äôm beginning to feel I‚Äôd like a cup of tea, if we could find a nice place. I haven‚Äôt had anything since breakfast, and I‚Äôm beginning to feel a bit faint, and I think just a little something would do me good. What do you think?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm sure it would,‚Äù replied Miss Trant heartily. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôll stop at the next decent place.‚Äù + 

They pulled up at a little tearoom and had the place to themselves. Tea meant confidences to Mrs.¬ÝTipstead, and as soon as she had poured the first two cups she began the story of her dreadful morning, the discovery of the letter, the summoning of her brother Willy, who knew the road and so had suggested telephoning to one or two hotels where the runaways might have halted for lunch. ‚ÄúWe didn‚Äôt do that till we‚Äôd started off ourselves, you know,‚Äù she explained. ‚ÄúFrom Lichfield, you know. That‚Äôs were we live.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúLichfield! Then that‚Äôs why she said Johnson.‚Äù Miss Trant felt like Sherlock Holmes, an old favourite of hers. And she had spent hours and hours‚ÅÝ‚Äîit seemed like years‚ÅÝ‚Äîreading Boswell‚Äôs Life of Johnson to the Colonel, whose robust passion for Boswell and Gibbon had now closed the eighteenth century to his daughter forever. + 

‚ÄúWho said Johnson?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝTipstead stared over the piece of buttered teacake she held. + 

‚ÄúWhy, that woman, when the waitress asked if they were called Tipstead.‚Äù And she told the story of the telephone call. + 

‚ÄúIt just shows you, doesn‚Äôt it?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝTipstead was bitterly triumphant. ‚ÄúHe‚Äôd have never had enough off to do that. But trust her! This isn‚Äôt the first time, if you ask me. I‚Äôve heard about her. What‚Äôs she like?‚Äù + 

Miss Trant gave a brief and unflattering description. + 

‚ÄúI thought so. I‚Äôve never set eyes on her, that‚Äôs the funny thing. As far as I can make out, she‚Äôs only been in the place about three or four months, came as a barmaid. She‚Äôd been on the stage a bit before that, Willy says. You know the sort. But then I don‚Äôt suppose you do, Miss Trant, a lady like you. I don‚Äôt know much about that sort myself, I‚Äôm sure, never being one for theatres and going to hotels and all that. That‚Äôs Eric‚Äôs style, though, always was. He always thought he could have done well on the stage, and I dare say he would‚ÅÝ‚Äîcomic, you know, when he gets going, good as a pantomime. I‚Äôve laughed sometimes till I‚Äôve had to tell him to stop. That‚Äôs what attracted her, I‚Äôll be bound, that and his looks. Going there night after night, putting it on a bit and playing the comic, you know, that‚Äôs what did it. And me waiting on in the shop, night after night!‚Äù She halted between anger and tears. ‚ÄúAren‚Äôt you ready for another cup, Miss Trant? I‚Äôm sure you are.‚Äù + 

Miss Trant was not quite ready. She was indeed rather busy trying to reconcile this Mr.¬ÝTipstead, so dashing, so droll, so fascinating to the other sex, with the little rabbit of a man she remembered at the hotel. + 

Mrs.¬ÝTipstead poured out another cup for herself, and having tasted it, plunged into further confidences. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell you what it was that turned him. I thought it was the best bit of luck we‚Äôd ever had when it happened, but you can never tell how things‚Äôll turn out, can you? This last March he won a first prize in a competition‚ÅÝ‚Äîfive hundred pounds.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúFive hundred pounds!‚Äù Miss Trant was genuinely astonished. She could not imagine Mr.¬ÝTipstead winning a prize of any kind, let alone one of five hundred pounds. + 

‚ÄúFive hundred pounds,‚Äù said the wife, with mournful pride. ‚ÄúSparklets they were‚ÅÝ‚Äîfunny little bits of sayings, you know. He‚Äôd been trying and trying and better trying at it for months, filling in coupons and sending ‚Äôem up with a sixpenny postal order every time, till I said ‚ÄòOh, for goodness‚Äô sake, Eric,‚Äô I said, ‚Äòyou might think we‚Äôre made of postal orders. You‚Äôve wasted enough time and money on them things if you ask me,‚Äô I told him. I knew he was clever at them, but it seemed to me they only took the first they came to and gave ‚Äôem prizes and his were never at the top of the bag. Well, not two weeks after‚ÅÝ‚Äîit was a Tuesday afternoon‚ÅÝ‚Äîtwo young fellows came, one with a camera, and told us he‚Äôd got the first prize. They took our photographs‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄòMr.¬Ýand Mrs.¬ÝTipstead receiving the cheque from our representative‚Äô they called it‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they put in a long piece about how pleased we were and what we were going to do with the money and all sorts. I wanted him to buy a bigger insurance book with it or move into a bigger shop, but no‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe wouldn‚Äôt have that, and of course I couldn‚Äôt say anything. He‚Äôd won it, not me. So he must cut a dash with it, buys that car outside there, some new suits of clothes and one thing and another. And what with getting all this money and having his photograph in the paper and what he said and having a car, it just turned his head. ‚ÄòLord Tipstead‚Äô they began calling him down in the town, Willy told me; taking him off, you see‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough there was a lot of jealousy in it, if you ask me. And of course all these silly girls began making a fuss of him‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôve nothing better to do now, girls haven‚Äôt. Then this one comes along‚ÅÝ‚Äîregular home-wrecker, she is, from what I can see, the sort you‚Äôd think you‚Äôd never come across off the pictures. Don‚Äôt you think this butter tastes funny, Miss Trant?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs margarine. I can‚Äôt eat it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt blame you. You ought to have another of these cakes. What was I saying? Oh, I‚Äôd finished, hadn‚Äôt I. You really must excuse me, Miss Trant, it‚Äôs so strange meeting you like this and I‚Äôm that bewildered today I hardly know what I‚Äôm saying. If you met me ordinary times, you wouldn‚Äôt know me.‚Äù + 

There was no reply to this, so Miss Trant put a question instead. ‚ÄúHave you any children?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI haven‚Äôt. Not that we haven‚Äôt wanted them, me especially, and it‚Äôs been a great trouble to us. Perhaps it‚Äôs as well as things are turning out, though you wouldn‚Äôt be so lonely, would you?‚Äù She choked a little, coughed into her handkerchief, drank some tea, and looked tearful. + 

‚ÄúWon‚Äôt you have another cake?‚Äù This was very inadequate, but it was the best Miss Trant could do at the moment. + 

‚ÄúWell, do you think we might halve one between us, I really couldn‚Äôt eat a whole one. No? Well, I won‚Äôt bother. I‚Äôll finish this and then we‚Äôll go. Yes, when you‚Äôre treated like this, you don‚Äôt know whether to feel glad or sorry you haven‚Äôt any children, you really don‚Äôt. And when I think what I‚Äôve done for that man! There‚Äôs nothing I haven‚Äôt done for him. I‚Äôve given him my whole life.‚Äù + 

These phrases came out too glibly, they were not from the heart, but from the newspapers and the penny novelettes. If Miss Trant had liked the little woman less, she would have let them pass, but now she felt she couldn‚Äôt. ‚ÄúYou know, I‚Äôm awfully sorry, Mrs.¬ÝTipstead, and I‚Äôd like to help if I can. And you mustn‚Äôt think I‚Äôm unsympathetic if I say that I never understand what that phrase means‚ÅÝ‚Äîabout giving your whole life, you know.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIf you‚Äôd been a wife, Miss Trant, you‚Äôd know soon enough.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, I haven‚Äôt, of course. I‚Äôve only been a daughter. But do you mean that all the time you‚Äôve been married you‚Äôve been sacrificing yourself, never enjoying the life you had together or anything?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôve enjoyed nearly every bit of it,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝTipstead warmly. ‚ÄúI know Eric‚Äôs had his faults‚ÅÝ‚Äîa bit extravagant and silly‚ÅÝ‚Äîthoughtless, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut you couldn‚Äôt want a better husband. I won‚Äôt say we‚Äôve always had the best of luck‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe haven‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut we‚Äôve enjoyed ourselves, I can tell you.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou wouldn‚Äôt have preferred being single, then?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSingle! Me!‚Äù she cried in horror. ‚ÄúLiving by myself, nobody to look after, nobody coming in and out, no bits of jokes and bits of comfort! I may have had a lot to do for him, but I‚Äôve never begrudged it, never, except just lately perhaps, brushing his coats and ironing his trousers so that he could go out and meet that‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚ÅÝ‚Äîfat painted barmaid. You needn‚Äôt ask me that, Miss Trant.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThen you really haven‚Äôt given your life, you know. You‚Äôve been living it just as you wanted to live it all the time. I mean, I don‚Äôt see what more you could have done with it. You don‚Äôt mind my saying this, do you?‚Äù + 

Mrs.¬ÝTipstead shook her head, then was silent for a minute or two, struggling through into honesty. When at last she spoke, her voice sounded different; it was quieter, more sure of itself. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a funny business, isn‚Äôt it? I‚Äôve thought a bit about it lately. And I see what you mean. If you do give a lot, it‚Äôs only because you want to. But it‚Äôs terrible when it‚Äôs all thrown back in your face. You must wonder why I‚Äôm running after him like this. Of course I‚Äôm still fond of him‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I‚Äôve got my pride the same as anybody else, and perhaps a bit more than most. But I know Eric, and I‚Äôve nearly had trouble with him before. He‚Äôs weak, Eric is, for all he‚Äôs so clever and all that, and this woman‚Äôs simply got hold of him and made him do what she wanted. He never wanted another wife, not he. He only wanted somebody to show off in front of, somebody who didn‚Äôt know him like I did; he never wanted to be landed into this; and I‚Äôm sure he‚Äôs miserable even now and he‚Äôll be worse tomorrow. If he can tell me to my face, he doesn‚Äôt want to come back, that‚Äôll be different; I‚Äôll go away and never say another word. But he won‚Äôt, you‚Äôll see.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm sure you‚Äôre right,‚Äù said Miss Trant, remembering the uneasy little figure in the hotel. + 

‚ÄúA wife knows, Miss Trant,‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝTipstead observed earnestly. Then she looked up and, with a startling change of tone, cried: ‚ÄúWell, Miss, I hope you‚Äôre not going to charge us for butter when we‚Äôve had nothing but margarine.‚Äù And after wrangling with the waitress, she then proceeded to wrangle with Miss Trant, who wanted to pay the bill herself. Mrs.¬ÝTipstead did not want to pay it, she wanted to divide it scrupulously into two, and she had her way. + 

A few miles brought them to pleasant hilly suburbs and very soon they were threading their way towards the vast haze that was Sheffield. + 

III + 

Miss Trant sighed with relief. This was the street they were looking for, and though it was not far from the centre of the town, it had been very difficult indeed to find, and she was weary of stopping to ask the way, turning in crowded streets, dodging trams and lorries, all of which she had been doing for the last hour. It was a grimy and melancholy street, one of those that have steadily fallen in the social scale these last forty years, that begin by housing prosperous merchants and bank managers and gradually decline to the humble level of theatrical lodgings, corset agencies, palmists‚Äô consulting-rooms, and other and more dubious enterprises. The other end of the street, not far away, was blocked by a high wall. They had stopped the car a few yards round the corner, and now looked down the street, wondering what to do. + 

‚ÄúLook,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝTipstead, pointing. ‚ÄúIsn‚Äôt that it? It‚Äôs just like this.‚Äù + 

The car stood outside a house about halfway down on the left; it was the only one in the street. Miss Trant was sure it was hers. What a pity she couldn‚Äôt take it without a word! But some explanation was necessary, of course. Perhaps she could get it back without being involved in the affairs of the Tipsteads. + 

‚ÄúHadn‚Äôt I better go first?‚Äù she asked. ‚ÄúI shall have to see your husband, of course. What‚Äôs the name of this woman?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIf you mean her second name, I don‚Äôt know. It was just Effie on the letter. So far as I can see and from what Willy said, everybody in the town just called her Effie. They would, wouldn‚Äôt they?‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝTipstead added vindictively. + 

‚ÄúWell, I simply refuse to go up to that house and ask for Effie.‚Äù She thought for a moment. ‚ÄúPerhaps you had better go first and inquire for your husband.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, that wouldn‚Äôt do. I‚Äôll tell you what. I‚Äôll get out here and wait a bit. You drive right up to the house and ask for Eric‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬ÝTipstead‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou see, and I‚Äôll‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôll‚ÅÝ‚Äîcome in later on.‚Äù She was very excited now. + 

After some hesitation, Miss Trant agreed, though she did not understand what Mrs.¬ÝTipstead intended to do and could not imagine her waiting outside in the street very long. She drove up to the house, discovered that the car really was her own, with all its luggage there just as she had packed it in that morning, then knocked at the door, not very loudly because she suddenly felt quite uncomfortable, almost guilty, as if she were a spy. This feeling did not last long, however, and as nobody came she gave the door, which did not look as if it had had any attention from anybody for years, a good sound rapping. Then she noticed there was one of those old-fashioned bells that have to be pulled out. She gave it a little tug, but it did not move. She gave it a hard tug and immediately fell back with about a yard of wire in her hand. At that moment, of course, before she could release the wire, the door was opened. + 

‚ÄúGood evening,‚Äù said the man who had opened the door. He had a thick husky sort of voice. + 

‚ÄúGood evening,‚Äù gasped Miss Trant, feeling very foolish. She let go of the bell handle and it hung down absurdly, at the end of its yard of wire. + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôve had a bit o‚Äô bother with that, have you? Out of date, you know, out of date. All electric now, isn‚Äôt it. You can‚Äôt stir for it,‚Äù he observed amiably. He was a stout elderly man with a prominent reddish nose, an expanse of grey-bristled jowl, and a pair of spectacles pushed up to his damp forehead. One hand clasped a newspaper, and the other, now that the door was open, replaced in his mouth a short clay pipe. He wore neither coat nor collar, was lax in the matter of buttons, and altogether was a figure of unlovely ease. + 

‚ÄúIs Mr.¬ÝTipstead here, please?‚Äù + 

He took out his pipe to think this over. ‚ÄúTipstead? Tipstead? Nothing to do with the Bird-in-Hand Friendly Society, is it? ‚ÄôCos that‚Äôs two doors down. We‚Äôre always getting ‚Äôem here.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, it hasn‚Äôt. I was told Mr.¬ÝTipstead was staying here. He took my car by mistake, and I‚Äôve got his.‚Äù + 

The man‚Äôs eyes grew rounder, then one of them gave her a wink. He leaned forward. ‚ÄúOur Effie‚Äôs chap, you mean,‚Äù he whispered. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve heard about that car. Didn‚Äôt know his name was Tipstead, though. ‚ÄòEric‚Äô she calls him. ‚ÄòEric or Little by Little,‚Äô I said, right off. And he didn‚Äôt like it, neither. Come in.‚Äù + 

No sooner had Miss Trant followed him into the dilapidated little hall than the large blonde herself, Effie, bounced out of a back room, crying: ‚ÄúWho is it, Unkerlarthur?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúHalf a minute, half a minute! You‚Äôll soon know.‚Äù And Uncle Arthur ushered Miss Trant into this same back room, a rather small and dark apartment that contained a bewildering assortment of small tables and knickknacks and fretwork brackets and photographs. Among these, not unlike a knickknack or piece of fretwork, was seated Mr.¬ÝTipstead, nervously pulling at a cigarette. + 

Miss Trant addressed herself to him at once. ‚ÄúYou probably remember me. I was lunching at the next table to you this morning. You went off in my car‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

She could say no more. Mr.¬ÝTipstead sprang forward excitedly, and he and his Effie began explaining at the top of their voices. They continued for several minutes, first one of them taking the lead, then the other, correcting one another, as they went along. But it was Effie who concluded the explanation. ‚ÄúAnd so we found your name and address on one of the bags and were going to write this very minute, weren‚Äôt we, Eric, to tell you how it had happened, and Eric was going to offer to drive it back for you, weren‚Äôt you, Eric, to make it all right, and we‚Äôd sent a telegram to the hotel to ask about his car, you see, because that was left behind and somebody might have got it, hadn‚Äôt we, Eric?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYour car‚Äôs outside.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOutside!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes,‚Äù Miss Trant went on, ‚ÄúI came up here in it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThank God!‚Äù cried Effie, blowing hard. She had dropped the manner she had assumed at lunch, probably finding it too great a strain in such a crisis, and was clearly now her own natural self, dramatic, voluble, vulgar. + 

A weak smile lit up the face of Mr.¬ÝTipstead, who still had that vague hunted look. ‚ÄúWell, that‚Äôs a bit of all right. And thank you very much, Miss‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîTrant. That‚Äôs it, isn‚Äôt it‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMiss Trant? We got the name right, you see. And we can just change over now, can‚Äôt we? Drive it all right? Yours was OK. It‚Äôs the same bus, you know, but a bit newer than mine.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúJust fancy!‚Äù And Effie‚Äôs eyes, which were her best feature and looked quite bright under her thickly pencilled lashes, travelled from Mr.¬ÝTipstead to Miss Trant, from Miss Trant to Unkerlarthur who was leaning against the door, puffing at his little clay, and enjoying every moment of the scene. Gaiety itself, Effie invited them all to fancy with her. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve no idea what a load you‚Äôve taken off our minds,‚Äù she told Miss Trant. ‚ÄúIt was just spoiling everything, wasn‚Äôt it, Eric?‚Äù She smiled hugely at that gentleman and threw an arm about his shoulders. It was a fine solid arm coming out boldly, imperially, from the short sleeve of her lilac silk jumper, and it seemed to announce at that moment that it was ready to protect an Eric it contrived to diminish from all the trials and assaults of this world. Mr.¬ÝTipstead wriggled a little in its embrace. + 

‚ÄúNow then, Miss Trant,‚Äù Effie continued, ‚Äúdo sit down and make yourself at home. And Unkerlarthur, if you‚Äôre going to stop in this room, you‚Äôll have to go and put a collar and a coat on and make yourself look respectable; we‚Äôre not just by ourselves now. Aren‚Äôt you playing at the theatre this week?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI am that.‚Äù And Uncle Arthur blew out his cheeks, sent his hands sawing backwards and forwards and, in short, gave an excellent imitation of a trombone player. ‚ÄúPom-pom-poppa-pom. Pom-pom-poppa-pom. It‚Äôs a musical comedy‚ÅÝ‚ÄîThe Girl in the Garage‚ÅÝ‚Äîthis week‚ÅÝ‚Äîaugmented orchestra‚ÅÝ‚Äîso I‚Äôm in. You‚Äôll soon be rid of me. I‚Äôll have to go and change soon.‚Äù And he gave Miss Trant, who had turned to look at him, a prodigious wink. We know, don‚Äôt we?‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe wink said to her. + 

Miss Trant did not know, but she smiled at him. She liked Uncle Arthur, somehow, and the thought that he was one of those mysterious creatures who creep from under the stage and sit so coolly, blowing or fiddling away, in their little deep trench, gave her a thrill. She had always been fond of the theatre‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe whole enchanted absurdity of it‚ÅÝ‚Äîand had never been able to go often enough. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm sure you must be tired, Miss Trant,‚Äù Erne continued. ‚ÄúNow do sit yourself down and make yourself at home.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI won‚Äôt, if you don‚Äôt mind. Now that we‚Äôve settled which car is which, I think I‚Äôd better go.‚Äù And it occurred to Miss Trant, when she had said this, that she had not the faintest idea where she was going. + 

Effie looked really disappointed, almost aggrieved. ‚ÄúOh, but after coming all that way and bringing Eric‚Äôs car and us taking your car nearly all the day and you coming right out of your way like this! We can‚Äôt let you run away like that, can we, Eric? Hello! What‚Äôs the matter with you, Eric? No, don‚Äôt interrupt him. He‚Äôs thought of something, thought of it deep down in his little head, all by himself, and he‚Äôll tell us if we‚Äôll keep quiet a minute.‚Äù + 

This was badinage heavy enough to make an elephant wince, but it had no effect upon Mr.¬ÝTipstead, who still stared at Miss Trant, with his round little mouth open. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve just been trying to work it out,‚Äù he said at last, giving his weak laugh. ‚ÄúThis is what I can‚Äôt understand. How do you come to be here, Miss Trant? This address wasn‚Äôt on any of the bags was it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôve no idea,‚Äù replied Miss Trant easily. ‚ÄúI never looked at the bags.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, I never did! I never thought of that.‚Äù Effie looked from one to the other. ‚ÄúYou just came here and we‚Äôd got your car and you‚Äôd got ours and I never thought any more about it. Well, how did you know we were coming to this house? Hello! What‚Äôs that?‚Äù There was a repeated knocking at the front door. ‚ÄúUnkerlarthur, go and see who that is.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs somebody come to put the rent and rates up, ‚Äôcos he‚Äôs seen two cars standing at the door,‚Äù remarked Uncle Arthur, with a waggish glance all round. They could hear him chuckling down the hall. + 

‚ÄúWell, you don‚Äôt mind us asking, do you,‚Äù Eflie pursued, ‚Äúbut really it does seem funny, doesn‚Äôt it, you coming here‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝTipstead held up his hand. ‚ÄúHalf a minute,‚Äù he said, listening. Then he rose to his feet, a very shaky little man. There was a sound of voices in the hall. + 

‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs the matter? Who is it?‚Äù cried Effie, now looking alarmed. + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs her,‚Äù said Eric in a very small voice. It really seemed as if all his colour had ebbed away; he was obviously terrified. + 

Mrs.¬ÝTipstead marched into the room, a little figure but compact, charged with energy, all bristling. She halted, gave a quick glance at the astonished Effie, then surveyed the shrinking figure of her husband. ‚ÄúWell, Eric, I‚Äôve followed you, you see.‚Äù + 

Effie made a last desperate attempt to carry off the situation with a high hand. ‚ÄúHere,‚Äù she cried, ‚Äúwho told you to come in here? What do you want?‚Äù + 

Mrs.¬ÝTipstead was fully equal to the situation. The question presented her with a magnificent cue. ‚ÄúWhat do I want?‚Äù she cried. She pointed to the wretched Tipstead. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs what I want. My husband.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúO my God!‚Äù groaned Uncle Arthur at the door, and he promptly shut it and left himself on the other side. + 

‚ÄúNow then, Eric,‚Äù his wife continued briskly, ‚ÄúI‚Äôm not going to argue with you here. You can take your choice here and now. Just make up your mind whether you‚Äôll stay here with this woman or go back to the shop with me. One or the other. And it‚Äôs the last time, mind.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúEric, no; you wouldn‚Äôt, would you, Eric!‚Äù As she shrieked this out, Effie looked as if she were about to fling herself bodily at poor little Mr.¬ÝTipstead, who would certainly have gone down like a ninepin. He shrank back, moistened his lips with his tongue, and looked utterly abject. + 

‚ÄúNot after all you‚Äôve said, Eric,‚Äù moaned Effie, who was rapidly going to pieces. + 

‚ÄúYou be quiet and leave him alone,‚Äù commanded Mrs.¬ÝTipstead. ‚ÄúLet him make his own mind up.‚Äù + 

There was a silence. + 

‚ÄúWell?‚Äù asked Mrs.¬ÝTipstead. Eric looked up, looked down, cleared his throat, swung one foot, cleared his throat again, swung the other foot, then made a sound that bore no resemblance to any known word. + 

There was another silence. + 

It was Miss Trant who broke it, shattered it completely. Miss Trant, who had no business to be there at all. At the sight of Tipstead standing there, so dumb, so abject, a kind of angry shame had begun to take possession of her mind, had pricked and then at last gored her until she could bear it no longer. + 

‚ÄúOh, for goodness‚Äô sake, say something or do something!‚Äù she cried to him, stamping her foot and beating her hands together. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt stand like that. Do have some courage, and either go or stay. Anything, anything but this! It‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîabsolutely vile.‚Äù She was too excited to be surprised at herself, though this was perhaps the most astonishing speech she had ever made. + 

He said nothing but at last he did something. Slowly, with bent head, absurdly, pitiably like a small boy in deep disgrace, he walked to the door, opened it, and went out. He was going back home. Without saying a word, his wife immediately followed after him. The two left behind never moved. Effie stared at the open door, her lower lip hanging foolishly. A few moments later, Mrs.¬ÝTipstead marched in again. + 

‚ÄúHe‚Äôd left his hat in here,‚Äù she announced. She picked it up from the sideboard, flashed a smiling glance at Miss Trant as she passed, and went out, this time closing the door behind her. There came the sound of a car being started outside in the street. + 

Before Miss Trant could do anything at all, Effie suddenly became alarmingly active. She ran to the door and then came running back again, crying ‚ÄúOh, he‚Äôs gone, he‚Äôs gone. I‚Äôve lost him, I‚Äôve lost him‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîor something that sounded like that. With a final gesture of despair, she flung one arm along the mantelpiece and knocked over a large pink vase. Perhaps the hideous cheerfulness of this object enraged her, for now she picked it up and hurled it into the fender, instantly smashing it to pieces. Then she threw herself into the armchair and burst into a storm of tears, sobbed and sobbed, her whole body shaking and her feet drumming on the floor. + 

It was an alarming spectacle. Effie was no chit of a girl but a woman on a very generous scale. The room did not seem large enough for such convulsions. It was incredible that they could have been set in motion by Mr.¬ÝTipstead. ‚ÄúIn another minute,‚Äù Miss Trant thought, ‚Äúshe‚Äôll be in hysterics,‚Äù and saw herself trying to hold Effie down as she had once had to hold down a maid at home. She was annoyed with herself for not having gone before this, but on the other hand she felt she could not go now, not at this moment. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt, don‚Äôt!‚Äù she cried, and moved a step or two forward, with the intention of doing something. But she did not know what to do. The usual consolatory little actions seemed absurd, like trying to give a pat or two to an earthquake. + 

‚ÄúNow what‚Äôs up here?‚Äù Uncle Arthur was puffing and blowing before them, looking from one to the other. ‚ÄúHas that chap gone?‚Äù he asked Miss Trant. ‚ÄúI thought I heard him. Nay, lass, bear up, bear up.‚Äù He gave his niece an affectionate slap or two on the shoulder. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre well rid of him. He was nowt but two-pennorth o‚Äô copper. Nay, lass, take it easy, take it easy.‚Äù + 

Effie refused to take it easy. Violently she shook herself free from his hand, drummed her feet on the floor again, and cried louder than ever. + 

‚ÄúWell, you must have it out, I suppose,‚Äù he observed philosophically. Then he glanced at the hearth. ‚ÄúGone and smashed an ornament and all,‚Äù he said to Miss Trant, lowering his voice and speaking confidentially. ‚ÄúCan‚Äôt help it, you know. Temperament, that‚Äôs what it is. We‚Äôve all got it; runs in the family. If we‚Äôre up, we‚Äôre up, but if we‚Äôre down, we‚Äôre down. It goes with talent, you know, and it‚Äôs always been the same i‚Äô this family. Her mother‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe was my sister‚ÅÝ‚Äîcould sing ‚ÄòThe Volunteer Organist‚Äô and suchlike and make a whole club-roomful cry‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut if she were cross, she‚Äôd raise the roof, break anything. And her grandfather‚ÅÝ‚Äîmy father, you see‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas the best euphonium-player the Old Dyke Band ever had‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôve known ‚Äôem come fifty miles to hear his ‚ÄòDeath o‚Äô Nelson‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut if he didn‚Äôt want to play, he wouldn‚Äôt play, you couldn‚Äôt make him. It wasn‚Äôt beer, you know,‚Äù he added earnestly, as if to arrest the thought that surely must be uppermost in his listener‚Äôs mind. ‚ÄúHe liked a drop, but it wasn‚Äôt that. It was temperament. It runs in the family. I‚Äôm a bit that way myself. But I‚Äôll have to be off.‚Äù He was dressed for the theatre now, for he was wearing a very old dress coat and waistcoat, a queer turned-down collar and about an inch of black tie. He caught Miss Trant‚Äôs surprised glance, and winked at her. ‚ÄúAr,‚Äù he remarked complacently, ‚ÄúI know what you‚Äôre thinking.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúDo you? Well, what am I thinking?‚Äù Miss Trant was amused. + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôre thinking ‚ÄòHe‚Äôs gone and forgotten to change his trousers,‚Äô that what‚Äôs your thinking.‚Äù + 

Miss Trant laughed. ‚ÄúWell, as a matter of fact, I was.‚Äù And with good reason, for he still wore the same trousers he was wearing before and they were blue. + 

Uncle Arthur winked again. ‚ÄúWhat the eye doesn‚Äôt see, the heart won‚Äôt miss,‚Äù he observed. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm only on duty, you might say, from the waist up, and I could wear a kilt or clogs and it ‚Äôud make no difference you see. You notice next time you‚Äôre at the theatre, and you‚Äôll see what I mean.‚Äù + 

Effie was being overlooked and so she stopped crying, to exclaim indignantly: ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right, Unkerlarthur, go on, don‚Äôt bother about me! Standing there talking about trousers and kilts! And look at me!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, you feel a bit better now, Effie lass, don‚Äôt you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, I don‚Äôt.‚Äù And to prove it she began again. + 

‚ÄúWell, I must be off,‚Äù he said hastily. + 

‚ÄúAnd so must I,‚Äù said Miss Trant. + 

‚ÄúNo, no, Miss Grant,‚Äù cried Eme, ‚Äúdon‚Äôt leave me to myself. I won‚Äôt be responsible if I‚Äôm left to myself, I won‚Äôt really. Don‚Äôt go.‚Äù + 

Uncle Arthur stared at Miss Trant in pained surprise. ‚ÄúNay, Miss, have a heart. You‚Äôre not busy, are you? Well, stop on a bit and keep her company.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNobody wants me, nobody,‚Äù moaned Effie. + 

‚ÄúCourse they do, Effie lass,‚Äù said her uncle heartily. ‚ÄúMiss Dent here will stop and look after you a bit. I‚Äôm off then! Be good!‚Äù He gave Miss Trant a last wink as he went out. + 

Effie sniffed a little, then began to dry her eyes. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll bet I look a sight, don‚Äôt I?‚Äù And undoubtedly she did. ‚ÄúDo sit down and make yourself comfortable. I don‚Äôt want to keep you here if you‚Äôve anything to do, of course, but I wish you‚Äôd stay a bit. There‚Äôs nobody here, and if I‚Äôm by myself tonight, I shall get the jimjams, what with all the excitement there‚Äôs been today and the state I‚Äôve been in this last week and the way he went off just now. If Unkerlarthur hadn‚Äôt been working at the theatre this week, he‚Äôd have stayed with me‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs a good sort is Unkerlarthur‚ÅÝ‚Äîand this is really his house; well, really, me and my sister Elsie and him we all join in it, and we let rooms to theatricals, you know, as well, because my family has always been concerned with the profession, and I went on the stage for a time and then had to leave, it was too bad for my nerves, and Elsie‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe‚Äôs younger than me and very talented‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe‚Äôs still on, doing concert party work, you know.‚Äù All this came out in one unbroken torrent while she was still dabbing her eyes and patting her hair. How she contrived to say so much and say it so quickly, having apparently been in hysterics two minutes before, was a mystery. + 

‚ÄúNow, Miss Grant‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Effie began again. + 

‚ÄúTrant,‚Äù the lady put in, correcting her. + 

‚ÄúOh, you must excuse me. Of course it‚Äôs Trant, isn‚Äôt it. I had the name right at first, and then what with one thing and another‚ÅÝ‚ÄîDid you catch my name? Longstaff, it is.‚Äù She stood up and examined herself in the mirror. ‚ÄúFirst thing I must do is to tidy myself up a bit. I‚Äôll just slip upstairs, if you don‚Äôt mind. Take your hat off, Miss Trant, and rest yourself properly. What about a cup of tea and something to eat?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs awfully kind of you,‚Äù said Miss Trant, who was really touched by this show of hospitality. She was not merely an intruding stranger, she was the villain of the piece, for had she not brought Mrs.¬ÝTipstead to this very door? It was clear, however, that Effie was anxious to keep her there, probably because she needed a listener more than usual this melancholy evening. ‚ÄúBut I had tea, you know, some time ago,‚Äù Miss Trant went on. ‚ÄúAnd I really don‚Äôt think I want any more, thank you.‚Äù She took a sensible interest in food, and had already begun to wonder about dinner. + 

‚ÄúAh, that‚Äôs afternoon tea, you mean,‚Äù said Effie, ‚Äúbut we go in for high tea in these parts, though as a matter of fact in this house supper‚Äôs the big do, and I‚Äôll tell you why. You see what with Unkerlarthur being at the theatre and then us letting rooms to the profession, none of them really wants anything solid till the shows are over, about half past ten to eleven, that‚Äôs the time they want a proper set-to, and so Mrs.¬ÝMoore‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs the woman that looks after the house‚ÅÝ‚Äîgoes away in the afternoon and then doesn‚Äôt come back till about nine or half past and then cooks something hot for everybody, you see.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs a very queer way of living,‚Äù said Miss Trant. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt understand how anybody sleeps after that.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThey don‚Äôt, you know, not early. But they can stay in bed in the morning. And they couldn‚Äôt have a solid meal just before the show. Take these we‚Äôve let to this week‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôve not seen them but Unkerlarthur told me they were here again, and they‚Äôve been here before‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe Four Romanies‚ÅÝ‚Äîacrobats, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôll probably have seen ‚Äôem‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôre a good turn‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, if they‚Äôd their dinners at night and then went on to do their show, they‚Äôd have to be taken to hospital in ten minutes. And even Unkerlarthur has to wait. I‚Äôve heard him say many a time ‚ÄòGive me a good plateful of steak and kidney pudding and you just might as well push a cake of soap up the old trombone.‚Äô Can‚Äôt play, you see, after that.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI see. But you needn‚Äôt wait, eh?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOh, no, not at all. They weren‚Äôt expecting me, anyhow, tonight. That‚Äôs why I say let‚Äôs have a bit of something now. I could nip out for something in a minute. Just rough-and-ready, take-us-as-you-find-us, you know.‚Äù + 

Miss Trant was not anxious to take them as she found them. ‚ÄúLook here,‚Äù she said, ‚Äúwon‚Äôt you come out to some hotel and have dinner with me? And by the way, I can‚Äôt possibly leave Sheffield tonight. I must find an hotel to stay in tonight, and I must go and put my car away too.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWith having these Romanies here‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough one of ‚Äôem‚Äôs only a dwarf‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou never saw such a little man‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe‚Äôre rather full up, though I dare say I could squeeze you in here somewhere‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúDon‚Äôt trouble, thank you,‚Äù said Miss Trant earnestly. The thought of being squeezed in there was too much even for her new adventurousness. ‚ÄúProbably you can take me to some hotel where I can stay and we can have dinner too.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôd love that,‚Äù cried Effie enthusiastically. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs very nice of you, I‚Äôm sure, and if it‚Äôs not saying too much, I don‚Äôt mind telling you it‚Äôs just what I need a night like this, I mean having a little friendly outing. Hello!‚Äù She broke off, and listened. ‚ÄúFront door again. Hope it‚Äôs somebody for the Bird-in-Hand this time. I‚Äôm getting nervous.‚Äù She giggled uneasily, departed, only to return the next moment with a telegram in her hand. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs for Unkerlarthur. What‚Äôs he doing with telegrams? Here, I‚Äôm going to open this. It‚Äôs all in the family.‚Äù She did open it and, characteristically, read it out at once. ‚ÄúHere, listen to this. Show bust all stranded send other basket passenger train also three pounds anything wheres Effie. Elsie. Well, I don‚Äôt know! What do you think of that?‚Äù She stared at Miss Trant. + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt think anything of it,‚Äù replied Miss Trant, ‚Äúbecause I don‚Äôt understand it. What does she mean?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúShe doesn‚Äôt know I‚Äôm here, you see,‚Äù cried Effie excitedly. ‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôll bet anything she rang up Lichfield to tell me, and they told her I‚Äôd gone, they didn‚Äôt know where. Rawsley this is from. I knew they were at Rawsley all last week. It‚Äôs just like her, too, sending a long telegram like this‚ÅÝ‚Äîover a shilling, you see. It‚Äôs a funny thing those girls have always got money for telegrams, doesn‚Äôt matter how broke they are. They never write, nobody on the stage ever writes.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes, but what does it mean?‚Äù Miss Trant was now so curious that she was quite impatient. These little glimpses of that mysterious world behind the painted scenes excited her. + 

‚ÄúWell, don‚Äôt you see, the show‚Äôs suddenly busted‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe was with a concert party, pierrot troupe, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they‚Äôre all stranded. The old business. No salaries for a few weeks, then one morning the manager or the fellow that‚Äôs running it isn‚Äôt there, and they‚Äôre all up a gum tree. That‚Äôs what happened to them at what‚Äôs its name‚ÅÝ‚ÄîRawsley.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhere‚Äôs that?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs somewhere in the Midlands, not above thirty or forty miles from Lichfield. That‚Äôs all I know. I never heard of it before. It‚Äôs one of these small towns, you know, that some concert parties try out when they‚Äôve finished a season at the seaside. And now she wants her other basket sending on, by passenger train, you see, so she‚Äôll get it in good time, and a pound or two to get her out of the place. Some mangy old ma‚Äôs probably claimed her basket till she gets paid for her rooms. I‚Äôll get that basket‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs got all her other props in‚ÅÝ‚Äîoff in the morning, and if Unkerlarthur‚Äôs got a spare quid or two‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôcos I haven‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚Äôll post that on too, first thing.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôve got her address, of course?‚Äù Miss Trant did not inquire out of mere politeness; she was really interested. + 

Erne looked blank. ‚ÄúWell, if that isn‚Äôt just like her! She sends a long splathering telegram and never puts her address in it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúCan‚Äôt you send it to the theatre?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThey‚Äôve not been showing at a theatre because there isn‚Äôt one at Rawsley. It‚Äôs one of those holes where you do three nights at the Corn Exchange or all next week at the Assembly Rooms. Don‚Äôt I know ‚Äôem! Nowhere to dress and all draughts and the curtain never works. It‚Äôll have to go to the post office, that‚Äôs all, and take its chance‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean the money. The basket‚Äôll have to go to the station. It‚Äôs what I call a mess. Here, I‚Äôm going to tidy up, and then we‚Äôll go out and talk about this after. Won‚Äôt you come up?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, thanks. I might as well wait until I get to the hotel and then I shall have my things.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAll right. I shan‚Äôt be long. You have a look at our photos.‚Äù + 

The walls were covered with photographs, and Miss Trant spent the next quarter of an hour examining them. It was like catching a glimpse, in a peepshow, of another world. There were photographs of large ladies in tights, massive Dick Whittingtons and Prince Charmings, or small ladies in ballet skirts or pierrot costume. There were photographs of gentlemen in evening dress, in battered hats and monstrous-check trousers, in nothing at all but leopard skins and laced boots. Niggers and fairies and tramps and pierrettes stared out with the same wide impersonal smile. Nearly every photograph had not only a dashing signature, followed by a brief but imposing description of the writer‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúLeading Comedian in Hot Times, Principal Girl Mother Goose, Starring in The Doodahs,‚Äù and so forth‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut also flung out, with a prodigality of exclamation marks, some such message as ‚ÄúHeaps of Love!‚Äù or ‚ÄúAll the Best!!‚Äù It was impossible not to believe that the subjects of these photographs were living in a whirl of success; they seemed to smile out of a glittering triumph. Only by making an effort could Miss Trant realize that these radiant creatures might be stranded in little towns and be reduced to spending their last shillings on SOS telegrams. But she was aided by the sight of a postcard, crammed with broad grins and frills and pompoms, sent by Elsie herself, now so forlorn at Rawsley. It was all curiously fascinating. Here was a world that seemed as far away and fantastic as any of those she explored so eagerly in her favourite fiction, that of the embattled Huguenots or the Young Pretender, and yet it was only just round the corner. Indeed, she had one foot in it at that moment. That was an exciting thought, and though she laughed at herself a little, nevertheless the foolish little thrill of it remained, like a tune going on somewhere at the back of her mind. + 

Then Effie bounced in. Miss Trant had hoped that Effie would depress her evening‚Äôs toilet to the level of this disastrous day. She looked forward to seeing Effie more cheerful in mind but far more subdued in appearance. Actually, however, Effie was now more flamboyant than ever; her hair was a wilder gamboge; her eyebrows and lashes were astonishingly blackened and her mouth was a fiercesome daub of vermilion; her dress was a vivid green; and she carried an imitation Spanish shawl that promised to be the final catastrophe. + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know whether to wear it or not,‚Äù she mused. ‚ÄúPretty isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI shouldn‚Äôt wear it if I were you,‚Äù Miss Trant counselled earnestly. She was relieved to find that her companion immediately and quite meekly put the shawl away. It was soon apparent, however, that Effie had made her final onslaught upon the day‚Äôs melancholy upstairs in her room; she had called up her last reserves from her wardrobe and dressing-table and had gained a brief victory; but now she could do no more. Her appearance was hardily triumphant, but her manner became more and more subdued. When the car had been put away, the room secured at the hotel, and they sat down to dinner, Effie chattered no longer. Over the soup she looked as wistful as it is possible for a person so large, so bright of hue, to look when eating soup. After that she became sentimental, confidential. She would not talk of Elsie or Unkerlarthur; her thoughts were with Mr.¬ÝTipstead. + 

‚ÄúI didn‚Äôt think anything of him at first, you know, Miss Trant,‚Äù she confided mournfully. ‚ÄúThought he was a little swanker. He kept coming in and there was a bit of talk about him because he‚Äôd won a prize in one of these competitions. But that got nowhere with me, I can tell you; and I‚Äôm used to admiration and men saying silly things, what with being on the stage and then hotel work; they all run after you, you know, or pretend to, just to pass the time. But he kept coming in and coming in, and we got to exchanging bits of jokes, you know; and he‚Äôd make me laugh sometimes. You wouldn‚Äôt think he was droll, would you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI shouldn‚Äôt,‚Äù replied Miss Trant promptly and with decision. + 

‚ÄúWell, he is. But that was nothing. I‚Äôve met ‚Äôem far funnier than him‚ÅÝ‚Äîmake a cat laugh, some of the fellows I‚Äôve known would. Then, one day, I was walking round in the afternoon‚ÅÝ‚Äîoff duty, you know, and nothing much to do‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he comes along, and we go for a bit of a walk and sit down, and he asks me about my life, where I‚Äôve been and all that, and then he tells me all about himself, how he‚Äôs married and it‚Äôs all been a mistake and how his wife doesn‚Äôt understand him and won‚Äôt think about anything but making money‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI must say I think that‚Äôs nonsense,‚Äù Miss Trant put in. ‚ÄúI should think she understood him only too well. But men always say that, at least they always do in books and plays.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, in real life, they‚Äôll say anything for twopence, that‚Äôs my experience. And we‚Äôll always believe ‚Äôem. At least,‚Äù she added, with a sudden gleam of sagacity, ‚Äúwe‚Äôll believe ‚Äôem if they tell us what we want to believe. Anyhow, that started it. I felt sorry for him, and he said how sorry he was for me‚ÅÝ‚Äîand you can do with a bit of sympathy when you‚Äôve had nothing but a row of great fat fellows all talking silly round the bar every night. And then all of a sudden quicker than catching flu‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe got a real fascination for me; couldn‚Äôt keep my mind off him. I‚Äôd have gone anywhere, any time, to see him. But you know what it is.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm not sure that I do,‚Äù Miss Trant replied, with some hesitation. There came, unbidden, to her mind the thought of a tall Scots ship‚Äôs doctor, a deep voice, a glint of hair about prominent cheekbones. Hugh McFarlane. How queer to think of him now! But then, hadn‚Äôt she suddenly thought about him the other day, when Mrs.¬ÝChillingford had told her that Dorothy was engaged? It was time she forgot about him. She knew less about him now than she did about‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMr.¬ÝTipstead. Yet, really, that was queer, too. She hardly noticed what Effie was saying. Something about her being pretty. The word startled her into attention. + 

‚ÄúPretty!‚Äù she cried. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt be absurd. I‚Äôm not pretty, and never was.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúMy words but you are!‚Äù exclaimed Effie in all seriousness. ‚ÄúAnd don‚Äôt think I‚Äôm flattering you, either, ‚Äôcos I never flatter anybody‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs not my way. Course you‚Äôre pretty. I only wish I was half so pretty. You‚Äôve got lovely hair and eyes and teeth‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôre your own, aren‚Äôt they?‚ÅÝ‚Äîand nice features and a nice slim figure. Mind you, Miss Trant‚ÅÝ‚Äîif you‚Äôll let me say so‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt think you make the best of yourself. Your style‚Äôs too quiet‚ÅÝ‚Äîof course, it‚Äôs ladylike and all that, but you can have too much of the ladylike, if you see what I mean.‚Äù + 

Miss Trant did not see what she meant, or did not choose to see. Effie told her and produced, among other things, what she called ‚Äúsome tips and wrinkles you won‚Äôt find in any of the books of words,‚Äù and this she did with great precision and fluency but still with a certain melancholy, as if life were all over for her and she was only shouting a few last messages to the fading shore. Most of this advice Miss Trant instantly decided to ignore, not having any desire to look like a human oleograph, but now and again she heard something that left her more determined than ever to take stock of herself. Indeed, she was all eager attention, having been started into it by the initial compliment. Elizabeth Trant of the Old Hall, Hitherton-on-the-Wole, was sitting in the dining-room of an hotel in Sheffield with a barmaid, a large, loud, and badly painted female who had failed that day to capture another woman‚Äôs husband; and because she had just been told she was pretty, Colonel Trant‚Äôs daughter was pleased and excited at once, perhaps better pleased and more excited than she had been for years. Hitherton would never have believed it. + 

Was it this conversation, was it the sight of those photographs in the sitting-room, was it merely a sudden lack of interest in cathedrals, at Liverpool or elsewhere, or was it a combination of all these things that made Miss Trant offer her services? She will be seen arriving at other decisions but at none really of greater importance than this, which is of such moment indeed that everything related up to now has been a mere overture to it. It came easily enough, and as usual with nothing to indicate that here was a little lever that might move whole worlds. Effie had returned to the subject of Mr.¬ÝTipstead, whose sun was still setting with her; then she had passed rather mournfully to talk of herself and her own prospects, and hinted at trying the next day for a place in a certain gentlemanly bar in Sheffield, where apparently she might be able to piece together a broken heart; and finally and momentously she arrived again at her sister Elsie, waiting in Rawsley for her basket and some money. It was then that Miss Trant made her offer. + 

‚ÄúIf you like, I‚Äôll take them down for you tomorrow,‚Äù she announced quite calmly. ‚ÄúNo, it won‚Äôt take me out of my way because really I haven‚Äôt got a way. I was going to Liverpool to see the cathedral but I‚Äôd much rather go to Rawsley and see your sister.‚Äù + 

Effie agreed with enthusiasm. It was arranged that Miss Trant should call at the house next morning for the basket and whatever sum Unkerlarthur might be able to raise at such short notice. There would be no difficulty, Effie pointed out, in finding Elsie in a town of that size, where everybody knew everybody else‚Äôs business. She launched upon a description of Elsie that soon became a bewildering biography, and at last Miss Trant had to cut her short, pleading that she was tired and would like to go to bed early. That was quite enough. Instantly, Effie was for rushing her upstairs at once and putting her to bed with her own hands, and by the time Miss Trant had excused herself from any such treatment, she was tired indeed. + 

The day had been so long, so eventful, so cluttered with other people‚Äôs lives, with Tipsteadery, that it seemed to press upon her now, a weight and huddle of experience not to be borne without some little respite of darkness and quiet. Thus it was a relief to see the last of Effie, now almost tearful again and threatening huge embraces, to meet the chill emptiness of the hotel bedroom, as impersonal as a packing case, to slip out of the day altogether, after having crowned it with a little gesture of one‚Äôs own. In short, Miss Trant did not regret her change of programme and slept well. + 

IV + 

Thus it was that she found herself, on the Thursday afternoon, on the road a few miles from Rawsley. Behind, on top of her own bags, was a theatrical basket, the property of Miss Elsie Longstaff, and in her handbag was a letter from Effie and an envelope in which she had seen Unkerlarthur place a dirty pound note and an equally dirty ten shilling one; all he could muster. She had hinted that she could lend Elsie some money herself, but Unkerlarthur had insisted on sending this thirty shillings. It had never occurred to Miss Trant that she, a stranger, was being trusted with these things, and neither Unkerlarthur nor Effie had pointed out this fact or shown the least hesitation; all of which says something for the company we are keeping. + 

The rain that had driven Mr.¬ÝOakroyd under the trees had compelled Miss Trant to put up the hood of her car. With the first appearance of the sun, she had stopped to take down the hood, and this time had stopped altogether. The car refused to start again. She cranked away until she was breathless and aching. She pressed the self-starter until at last it would not even make a noise. When she was not attending to one or the other, she was hopefully flooding the carburettor. It was useless; the engine would not start, never even gave a promising little cough or splutter. She looked wistfully at its mysterious pipes and wires and cylinders. ‚ÄúHow absurd these things are!‚Äù she told herself. ‚ÄúIt looks just the same, exactly the same as it does when it‚Äôs going, and yet it won‚Äôt go.‚Äù There was nothing for it but to wait until someone came along who knew more about the interior of a car than she did. As the roads now are crowded with people who know all about such things, her position did not make her feel uneasy. The road to Rawsley, however, was singularly deserted that afternoon. Ten minutes passed and brought not a soul. Then a little figure came into the struggling sunlight. And this, of course, was Mr.¬ÝOakroyd walking into his adventure. + 

When he came closer, Miss Trant noticed that he was carrying a bag of tools and, of all things, one of those absurd little basket trunks, and the very smallest she had ever seen. When he came closer still, she noticed that this sturdy middle-aged workman had a broad pleasant face and eyes of bright blue. His brown cap was on the back of his head and looked too small for him, and this cap and the ridiculous little basket trunk made Miss Trant want to laugh. What she did do, however, was simply to smile at him and to ask if he knew anything about cars. + 

He did not raise his cap, he did not touch it in salute, but he pushed it further back on his head. In this way he contrived to give the lady some sort of salute and also keep his independence at the same time. ‚ÄúWell,‚Äù he replied to her question about cars, ‚ÄúI do and I don‚Äôt, as you might say.‚Äù And he smiled back at her, his face wrinkling pleasantly in the sunshine. + 

‚ÄúI wonder if the ‚Äòdo‚Äô part of it would apply to this car, because I can‚Äôt make it start, you see. I wonder if you‚Äôd mind having a look at it. I‚Äôm sure you could do something with it.‚Äù Miss Trant had great confidence in all men who carried bags of tools about with them, and would have been surprised to learn that joiners usually know very little about internal-combustion engines. + 

‚ÄúWhat I mean is this,‚Äù he went on, following his own thoughts stubbornly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve nivver driven a car i‚Äô my life. Cars as cars has nowt to do wi‚Äô my job. But where I‚Äôve been working, they‚Äôve a lot o‚Äô lorries and I‚Äôve spent many an hour watching t‚Äôlads set ‚Äôem to rights, so I‚Äôve picked up a bit about ‚Äôem. Nar do you understand me, Missis‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI mean, Miss?‚Äù + 

His caution, his broad North-country speech, and certain whimsical details of his appearance all delighted Miss Trant. ‚ÄúI see. But I‚Äôm sure you could find out what‚Äôs wrong with it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI might and I might not. You can nivver tell wi‚Äô these things. I‚Äôll have a do at her, though. Nar what have you done so far?‚Äù And he listened to her tale of cranking and petrol flooding with the deep solemnity of a man about to take over a job. When she had finished, he remarked: ‚ÄúI‚Äôll bet it‚Äôs either t‚Äôplugs or magneto. She won‚Äôt start if her plugs is mucky. We‚Äôll have a look at ‚Äôem.‚Äù + 

Cheerfully he set to work, first pulling out the car‚Äôs tool box, then unscrewing one plug after another. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôre none so bad,‚Äù he observed, ‚Äúbut we‚Äôll give ‚Äôem a bit of a rub up while we‚Äôre on t‚Äôjob.‚Äù + 

It was while he was giving them his bit of rub up that the sky suddenly darkened. From the massed clouds in the West there came a vague roll or two of thunder, and the next minute there was something more than a mere shower, there was a downright pelter. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd hastily covered up the engine and then helped Miss Trant to raise the hood. ‚ÄúCome inside and shelter,‚Äù she cried, climbing in. After a moment‚Äôs hesitation, he followed her, and there they sat together, looking through the windscreen at the downpour, a very queer pair indeed. + 

‚ÄúEh, I‚Äôve left that basket o‚Äô mine out,‚Äù he exclaimed, and brought it in. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve all my clothes i‚Äô that, an‚Äô they wouldn‚Äôt dry so quick once they‚Äôd gotten sopped through.‚Äù + 

This last remark was made, in his excitement, in a brogue so broad that Miss Trant could hardly understand it. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sure you must come from Sheffield,‚Äù she said, after a pause. ‚ÄúI was there last night.‚Äù This nice little man reminded her of Unkerlarthur. + 

‚ÄúNay, I don‚Äôt,‚Äù he replied, apparently in some surprise. ‚ÄúI belong many a mile off Sheffield. I came from Bruddersford. Nar, I‚Äôll bet you‚Äôve heard o‚Äô Bruddersford, haven‚Äôt you, Miss?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes, that‚Äôs where they make cloth, isn‚Äôt it? But that‚Äôs in Yorkshire too, surely?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAy, I should think it wor. It‚Äôs more i‚Äô Yorkshire ner Sheffield. You couldn‚Äôt have owt more Yorkshire ner Bruddersford. An‚Äô I‚Äôve lived there all my life, except for a bit when I was down South, till this week.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd where are you going to now?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúEh, I don‚Äôt know. I was just going to have look round this Rawsley place today, but I don‚Äôt rightly know where I‚Äôm going.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm rather like that, too, at the moment,‚Äù Miss Trant remarked. The parallel amused her. + 

‚ÄúI nobbut set off o‚Äô Monday night,‚Äù he continued, a trifle dreamily. ‚ÄúAnd what is it now? It‚Äôs nobbut Thursday, isn‚Äôt it? Well, it seems like months sin‚Äô I was i‚Äô Bruddersford, I‚Äôve done that much and seen that much these three days. I‚Äôm fair capped wi‚Äô mesen. It‚Äôs like being one o‚Äô these chaps on t‚Äôpictures. And nobbut three days!‚Äù + 

Miss Trant could have clapped her hands, just as she used to do when she was a little girl and as she had never thought of doing for years. ‚ÄúBut how queer!‚Äù she cried. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve been just like that too. I‚Äôve been away since Monday and all kinds of things have happened and I feel as if I‚Äôd been away months and was quite a different person. Don‚Äôt you feel that too?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI do an‚Äô all.‚Äù He was as delighted as she was. + 

‚ÄúDo tell me all that‚Äôs happened to you,‚Äù she commanded. ‚ÄúBut tell me your name first.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOakroyd‚Äôs my name. It‚Äôs a right old Bruddersford name.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd mine‚Äôs Trant, and that‚Äôs an old name, too, in Gloucestershire. And now you must tell me all your adventures since Monday night. I‚Äôm sure you‚Äôve had adventures, haven‚Äôt you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI have that. I‚Äôve had so many, I don‚Äôt fairly know where to start. It‚Äôll tak‚Äô a bit o‚Äô time.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNever mind about that, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. It‚Äôs raining hard and we can‚Äôt do anything until it stops, and I want to hear all about it.‚Äù + 

After some hesitation, he told the whole story, with Lily and his wife and Leonard, the twenty pounds and the dismissal, the lorry, the Great North Road and Nobby and the Kirkworth Inn, the caravan and Joby Jackson and the fair and Jim Summers, in short, with everything in it. Miss Trant, who occasionally asked questions and insisted upon all the details, enjoyed it all and decided that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd himself was adorable. In return, she told him enough to prove that she was really a fellow-adventurer. Then the sun came out again to brighten the last spatter of rain. + 

‚ÄúNar we‚Äôll have a do at them plugs,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who liked to push on with a job once he had put his hand to it. His ‚Äúdo‚Äù was crowned with success, for the car started easily. Miss Trant waved him back to his seat, and they moved towards Rawsley. The town began, as so many small towns do, with a railway station, and on the opposite side of the road, about a hundred yards farther along, was a corrugated iron hut labelled ‚ÄúMounder‚Äôs Station Refreshment Rooms.‚Äù Miss Trant‚Äôs eyes were caught by a pink bill pasted on the wall of this hut, near the doorway. She pulled up, then got out to examine the bill. It told her what she wanted to know: The Dinky Doos, in their Musical Medley of Fun and Frolic, were to be seen, it proclaimed, in the Assembly Rooms, Rawsley; and among the promised attractions were ‚Äúthe Dainty Numbers‚Äù of Miss Elsie Longstaff. + 

While she was reading this notice, a middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway. Perhaps she was Mounder herself, for she had the mournful resignation of one doomed to be encased in corrugated iron and to serve station refreshments. + 

Miss Trant turned to her. ‚ÄúCan you tell me if these people‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe pointed to the notice‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúare still in the town?‚Äù + 

Mrs.¬ÝMounder immediately folded herself up, her arms, her face, her whole body, being compressed at once, so that she seemed the very image of bitter stoicism. ‚ÄúYes indeed they are,‚Äù she replied grimly. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôre in here.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat! Do you mean they‚Äôre in there now?‚Äù + 

Mrs.¬ÝMounder shut her eyes, put her lips away altogether, and nodded her head so violently that the whole of her seemed to rock slightly. ‚ÄúCame an hour ago, six of ‚Äôem,‚Äù she said at last, ‚Äúand ordered one pot of tea and one plate of bread-and-butter, and they‚Äôve asked for two lots of hot water already, and some of ‚Äôem‚Äôs eating what they brought themselves. And sitting there jabbering away and ordering me about! They‚Äôll get no more hot water, I can tell you,‚Äù she added, looking sternly at Miss Trant, as if to anticipate that lady‚Äôs request that they should be given still more hot water. + 

‚ÄúOh, what a shame!‚Äù cried Miss Trant, remembering their plight. + 

‚ÄúYou might well call it that, Miss. If everybody went on like that, I couldn‚Äôt keep a door open.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, I was thinking about them,‚Äù said Miss Trant, boldly correcting her. + 

‚ÄúThem indeed!‚Äù Mrs.¬ÝMounder sniffed. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt you worry about them. They‚Äôve impudence for anything, they have. We‚Äôve heard about them.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôm coming to see one of them, and I‚Äôll have some tea too.‚Äù She turned away to invite Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who was still sitting in the car, to have some tea with her. At this moment, however, two men, looking rather bedraggled, approached the hut, and in the narrow space between the road and the doorway there was hardly room for the three of them. The men stepped back to let her pass, but as they did so, the one in front, a fair youth with a wild lock of hair and no hat, called out to Mrs.¬ÝMounder: ‚ÄúGood afternoon, Madam. Have you Dinky Doos here?‚Äù + 

It sounded as if he were an officer of health inquiring about some infectious disease. Miss Trant smiled as she hurried past them. She heard the second man cry: ‚ÄúLead on, Jollifant,‚Äù noticed that he carried a large flat case that looked as if it contained some musical instrument, and wondered if they were theatrical people too. They disappeared into the Station Refreshment Rooms. Then Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, a little diffident, followed them, and Miss Trant, who had returned to her car for her handbag, was last of all. In the doorway, she lingered a moment and heard an astonishing clatter of tongues coming from the inner room. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm quite excited,‚Äù she told herself happily. + 

VI + 

Inigo Meets a Member of the Profession and Turns Pianist + 

I + 

We left Inigo Jollifant hurrying away from Washbury Manor in the darkness of Monday night. We have just seen him arrive at the Station Refreshment Rooms in Rawsley on Thursday afternoon. In order to understand how he came to be there at all, we must know what happened to him during those three days, or, to be more precise, those sixty-four hours that began at 12:30¬Ýa.m. on Tuesday. + 

Then it was that Inigo decided that Fauntley had been right. He ought to have gone to bed. The night was not warm enough and certainly not light enough to make walking very pleasant, especially after a long day of French and History and birthday celebrations. He ought to have drunk more Rob Roy or less. As it was, Rob had played him false, for after conjuring him out of the school, out of his bed, he had not stayed with him and kept him glowing inside but had gradually dropped behind, and now, at the end of half an hour‚Äôs walk, had slunk away altogether. A little more Rob or a little less, and he would have been in bed now. So Inigo argued, and incidentally entertained himself, as he walked the last half mile or so of a familiar side-road that linked Washbury to the world. When he came at last to the main road, running north and south, he was back again in the world, but there was little of it to be seen as nothing was happening in it. He turned to the right, then spent the next minute wondering which of the faint points of light was the North Star, and the next ten minutes wondering about stars in general. It was, as usual, a cheerless meditation. If you are going to bother about these things, he decided, you have to turn astronomer, to weigh them and measure them, out of sheer self-defence. + 

A rumble that he had heard behind him for some time turned at last into a lorry. This was the first vehicle he had seen on the road. He turned round and gave a shout when it came near. It pulled up, but the driver seemed dubious when he was asked for a lift. + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs all right,‚Äù said Inigo, ‚ÄúI‚Äôm on a walking tour.‚Äù + 

That was sufficient. The driver realized at once that a man on a walking tour is an enemy to nobody but himself, and may safely be given a lift. + 

‚ÄúBut I can‚Äôt take yer far,‚Äù the driver shouted as they rumbled on again. ‚ÄúAbout ten mile and no more. That‚Äôs where I finish. I live there, yer see.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhere?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNear Dullingham. And I‚Äôll tell yer what. Yer can get a train at Dullingham Junction. Yer wouldn‚Äôt think it but yer can. It‚Äôs the only place for miles and miles where yer can get a train at this time o‚Äô night is Dullingham Junction.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSplendid!‚Äù cried Inigo at the top of his voice. The lorry appeared to be full of suits of armour carelessly packed. ‚ÄúI like to hear that. You wouldn‚Äôt imagine anything ever happened at a place with a name like that, would you? Dullingham Junction! Where do they go to, these trains?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI dunno. Up Lincoln and Grimsby way or Doncaster way I dare say, but I don‚Äôt rightly know. I‚Äôve never been on ‚Äôem but there‚Äôs a feller I know, feller called Harry Briggs, works at the station and I know he‚Äôs on duty at night for this train. Always late too, he tells me. I‚Äôm not sure he isn‚Äôt on this week.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôd like to have a look at this station.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù roared the driver. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll put yer down close to it.‚Äù And then he went on to shout of other matters, the chief of them being a very awkward journey he had just made to Northampton, and he so often demanded agreement that Inigo, who felt that he ought to be sympathetic, made himself hoarse before the ten miles were covered. + 

At last the driver pulled up and pointed. ‚ÄúThere y‚Äôare. See them lights. That‚Äôs Dullingham Junction. Yer just go down that bit o‚Äô road and yer there. See if it‚Äôs Harry Briggs.‚Äù + 

The road curved down sharply to the station. As he descended, Inigo could see the signal lights, the faint gleam of the metals, and a dim yellow glow from somewhere in the station itself. His spirits dropped at the sight. There was something very melancholy about Dullingham Junction. The wide night itself was somehow not so cheerless as this halfhearted attempt to drive it away, this sad glimmer of light. It was so quiet too. He could not imagine a train ever arriving there. The usual cheerful railway bustle seemed as remote from this little station as Paddington itself. He began to ask himself what he was going there for, whether it would not be better to return to the main road, and about twenty yards or so from the entrance he stopped and leaned against the wooden rail at the side of the road. Dullingham Junction only confirmed his opinion that he was indeed a young ass. + 

Perhaps he would have turned away (and walked out of this chronicle altogether) had he not heard a most astonishing sound. The sound itself was pleasing and its unexpectedness, its daft incongruity, were ravishing. He listened in delight, telling himself that he had judged Dullingham Junction too hastily. It was saying that he was not a young ass, that this is still a world in which midnight exits may be rewarded, that he has not everything who has bed and breakfast. Somebody in Dullingham Junction was playing the banjo. + 

If this was Harry Briggs, Inigo decided as he drew nearer, then Harry Briggs was wasting his time in the service of the London and North Eastern Railway, for this banjo was not being fumbled with but was being played. The night retreated hastily before its impudent twanka-pang, twanka-pang. Tired as he was, Inigo found that his feet itched to break into a double shuffle. If the station had been crammed with grinning coons, buried under melons and cotton blossoms, he would not have been surprised. + 

He walked through the booking office, where only one tiny light was burning, and on to the dim and empty platform. The banjoist, now in a happy fury of syncopation, was obviously in the waiting-room. Inigo peeped in through the half-opened door. At one side of the little fire was Harry Briggs or one of his colleagues, a young man with a round red face, and at the other side, sprawling on the seat, was the banjoist himself. One was so busy playing and the other staring and listening, with his mouth wide open, that Inigo stood there several minutes without being observed. + 

With a final and triumphant wag of his head, the banjoist concluded his performance. ‚ÄúHow about that, my boy?‚Äù he cried, holding up the banjo as if inviting it to share in the applause. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve heard that? Now where are you going to hear the next like it? Can I rattle the old banjo or can I not?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou can that, Mister,‚Äù replied his audience earnestly. ‚ÄúMy word, you‚Äôve got a touch, you ‚Äôave!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôve said it. I have got a touch,‚Äù the banjoist remarked with dignity. His utterance was rather thick and there were other indications that he had been refreshing himself very generously earlier in the night. Apart from this thickness, however, his voice was peculiar. It was a curious, harsh drawl, and though he could not be said to have a definite American accent, nevertheless his accent was not quite an English one. It was so unusual that it excited Inigo‚Äôs curiosity. + 

‚ÄúYou ‚Äôave got a touch, and I don‚Äôt care where the next one comes from,‚Äù his listener went on, enthusiastically if a trifle vaguely. ‚ÄúWhat about giving us just another, Mister? ‚ÄôEre, do you know ‚Äò‚ÄôEr ‚ÄôAir Was Golden‚Äô?‚Äù And, fixing his gaze sternly on his companion, who looked rather startled, the railwayman sang very slowly and solemnly, with the most lugubrious portamentos, the following ballad: + 

‚ÄúErrair was go‚Äëolden on the day + 

She gave ‚Äôer love to mee-yer, + 

And though it‚Äôs long since turned to gray, + 

We‚Äôre still in sympathee-yer, + 

And ‚Äôand in ‚Äôand‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

But here he was interrupted. + 

‚ÄúNo, no,‚Äù cried the banjoist. ‚ÄúNo, don‚Äôt know it. And between you and me, stationmaster, it‚Äôs not quite my style. A little too heavy on the sentimental side, too much heart message, for me, a matter of taste, you know, a matter of taste.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAr, ar, I like a good ballad.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou like ‚Äôem tender and trew, I can see that,‚Äù said the banjoist, with a droll glance. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs because you stay up so late by yourself, waiting for the midnight express. Did you ever see The Midnight Express‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe drama? I played in it once for three nights in Montreal!‚Äù + 

Inigo chose this moment for his entrance. + 

‚ÄúHallow, hallow!‚Äù cried the performer. ‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs this?‚Äù + 

The railwayman jumped to his feet, looking startled, and was then annoyed because he had felt frightened for a moment or so. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre, what‚Äôs the idea?‚Äù he demanded angrily. ‚ÄúComing creeping in like that!‚Äù Then, having taken a good look at Inigo, he moderated his tone. ‚ÄúBeg your pardon, but you made me jump. What is it you want?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI want a train,‚Äù replied Inigo, though up to that moment he had not really thought about trains. + 

‚ÄúOh, you want the 1:20, eh? Where do you want to go to?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhere do I want to go to? Now that‚Äôs rather a puzzler. Let me see,‚Äù Inigo meditated. ‚ÄúWell, what about Stockport?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúStockport! You can‚Äôt get to Stockport on this line.‚Äù + 

The banjoist now took charge of them. ‚ÄúStockport,‚Äù he repeated, rather condescendingly. ‚ÄúEver been to Stockport?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNever set eyes on it,‚Äù Inigo told him. + 

‚ÄúThen my advice is‚ÅÝ‚Äîdon‚Äôt bother. There‚Äôs nothing there, not at all. I know it well, my boy. I‚Äôve been there; I‚Äôve been everywhere. If you do go, you ask ‚Äôem. Ask ‚Äôem at the Red Lion if they don‚Äôt know me. They‚Äôll remember me all right. Morton Mitcham, that‚Äôs my name. They‚Äôll remember Morton Mitcham.‚Äù And he stood up, perhaps to show exactly what it was they would not be able to forget. He was certainly not a person who would be easily forgotten. He was tall but very thin, and his clothes, a light check, merely hung upon him. There was a Shakespearian cast about the upper part of his head, for he was bald on the crown but had very thick dark hair at each side, bushed about his ears. His eyebrows were immense and dramatic; his nose boasted a fine curve and a rather richer colouring than the rest of his face; his long upper lip and his long pointed chin were blue; his slightly hollow cheeks were blue below and brown above; and indeed his whole face had that curious parchmenty look that comes from exposure, at some time or other, to hotter suns than this country ever sees. His collar and tie reminded Inigo vaguely of Tenniel‚Äôs Mad Hatter. Altogether, Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham was an unusual person; his appearance was as puzzling as his accent, oddly combining the tropical planter, the tragic actor of the old school, and a rather down-at-heels senator from one of the remoter states of those that are united. + 

‚ÄúI was listening to you playing the banjo,‚Äù Inigo told him. ‚ÄúAnd by jingo, it was good too. It‚Äôs a rattling good instrument played like that.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt is. But it‚Äôs a difficult instrument, let me tell you. Yes, sir. It‚Äôs good, as you say, when it‚Äôs played like that, but how often is it played like that?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAr,‚Äù said the railwayman fervently. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝMitcham fumbled in a waistcoat pocket and finally brought out about an inch and a half of dusty cheroot. ‚ÄúIndian cheroot,‚Äù he explained. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs nothing to beat ‚Äôem once you acquire the taste. I had twenty boxes of the very best given to me once when I was up at Bangalore. I never knew who sent ‚Äôem, didn‚Äôt know a thing. ‚ÄòTo Morton Mitcham Esquire from an admirer‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs all it said, on a plain card. Woman‚Äôs handwriting, though. I‚Äôve one or two of the boxes still, in there.‚Äù He pointed to a very large and disreputable bag on the seat. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve carried ‚Äôem round ever since. But no cheroots in ‚Äôem. Ha, ha!‚Äù Nor did it seem likely that he had any stock of cheroots with him, for the one he was lighting now had evidently been smoked before. He began putting away his banjo in its case. ‚ÄúYou a musician?‚Äù he inquired of Inigo. + 

‚ÄúI play the piano from time to time.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúA professional?‚Äù And he raised his immense eyebrows. + 

‚ÄúNo, a very ordinary amateur.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAh, pity!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham lowered his eyebrows, but did not condescend to explain why it was a pity. + 

Inigo suddenly remembered the chocolate and biscuits that Daisy Callander had given him, and now he brought them out, inviting the others to eat with him. + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôre a traveller, a campaigner, a trouper, my boy, I can see that,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝMitcham approvingly, helping himself and carefully extinguishing the cheroot. ‚ÄúGive me a few biscuits and some chocolate and a few bottles of whisky, rye for choice, and I‚Äôll face anything. Blizzard, shipwreck, anything. I once lived for a fortnight on nothing else, up on the Black Hills between Wyoming and South Dakota‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSouth Dakota!‚Äù Inigo‚Äôs cry was ecstatic. The man must really have been there because you couldn‚Äôt think of South Dakota, couldn‚Äôt just lift it out of some mental map. + 

‚ÄúYes, South Dakota. There were two of us. Let me see, what was that fellow‚Äôs name? Ah, yes‚ÅÝ‚ÄîSheerman. He was an ex-Wesleyan minister who‚Äôd been running a quick-lunch bar down in Denver. Hardest winter they‚Äôd known for forty years, and the two of us walked right into it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúHave another biscuit,‚Äù said Inigo enthusiastically. + 

‚ÄúThanks, my boy, I will. Of course we‚Äôd whisky there too, any amount of it. Perhaps you‚Äôre thinking whisky wouldn‚Äôt shake down with biscuits and chocolate, but let me tell you, they‚Äôre fine together. If you‚Äôve got a flask with you, just try it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSorry, but I haven‚Äôt.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAlways carry a flask,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham severely. Then he turned to the railwayman, who was demolishing a gigantic sandwich. ‚ÄúWhat about that tea you were talking about, stationmaster?‚Äù + 

The other mumbled something in his sandwich. Evidently he was dubious now that there were three of them. + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôre not Harry Briggs by any chance, are you?‚Äù Inigo asked him. + 

He was Harry Briggs; admitted the fact with delight, and insisted upon Inigo explaining exactly how he came to hear of him. When the identity of the lorry-driver had been fully established, Harry Briggs at once changed his attitude towards Inigo, who felt he was now regarded almost as an old Dullinghamian. His round red face beaming at the thought of what coincidence could do, Harry Briggs set to work now to make some tea. + 

Mr.¬ÝMitcham fastened the straps of his banjo-case. ‚ÄúJust a little hobby of mine, you know,‚Äù he remarked airily, tapping the case. ‚ÄúBut it‚Äôs most useful; made the evening go all over the place. ‚ÄòAsk Morton Mitcham to come in and play his banjo,‚Äô they‚Äôd say. Guest nights at Residencies, you know, and that sort of thing. I‚Äôve played to at least half a dozen colonial governors in my time, and they simply ate it, simply ate it‚ÅÝ‚Äîall except one and that was old Lord Stennenfield.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat was the matter with him?‚Äù asked Inigo. ‚ÄúNo soul?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúDeaf as a post, couldn‚Äôt hear his own brass cannon going off. And the best bridge-player east of Alexandria, they used to tell me. That‚Äôs what he wanted, you see. ‚ÄòGet the card tables out,‚Äô he shouts, right in the middle of my performance, I walked straight out. You can‚Äôt do that to Morton Mitcham.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúQuite right,‚Äù murmured Inigo. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre an artist, sir, I can see that.‚Äù And he saluted him with a stick of chocolate. + 

‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôve been told so. I‚Äôve been asked to give lessons by a colonial governor. I‚Äôll give you his name‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough this is in confidence, gentlemen.‚Äù And he looked sternly at Harry Briggs, who was standing open-mouthed, with a kettle in his hand. ‚ÄúIt was Sir Elkin Pondberry. ‚ÄòDamn it all, Mitcham,‚Äô he said to me, ‚Äòyou‚Äôll have to teach me how to play that thing.‚Äô ‚ÄòVery proud, Sir Elkin,‚Äô I told him, ‚Äòbut it can‚Äôt be done.‚Äô ‚ÄòDamn it all,‚Äô he said, ‚Äòit must be done.‚Äô ‚ÄòIt would take years,‚Äô I told him. ‚ÄòThen you‚Äôll have to stay here years,‚Äô he said. ‚ÄòI‚Äôll have you kept here, Mitcham, damned if I won‚Äôt.‚Äô ‚ÄòCan‚Äôt be done,‚Äô I told him, ‚ÄòI‚Äôm catching the next boat up to Bangkok.‚Äô And he had to give in. But I told him about Stennenfield‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey were meeting at Singapore very soon‚ÅÝ‚Äîand showed him how to deal himself four aces and four kings. ‚ÄòDamn me if you‚Äôre not a genius, Mitcham,‚Äô he said when he‚Äôd got the hang of it. ‚ÄòI‚Äôll try that on old Stennenfield.‚Äô And he did, and it was the great joke that year in all the clubs out there. I heard about it up at Hong Kong.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúHong Kong!‚Äù cried Inigo, who was feeling rather dazed. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve held the gorgeous East in fee, absolutely. But what about those aces and kings? You‚Äôre not a conjuror, are you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot exactly a conjuror. I‚Äôve never bothered about illusions and the mechanical trick acts, you know. But sleight of hand‚Äôs a hobby of mine. I think I can do most things with a pack of cards.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôve got a heap o‚Äô talent, if you ask me, Mister,‚Äù said Harry Briggs, who had now made the tea. ‚ÄúI wish I‚Äôd only got a bit of it. You wouldn‚Äôt catch me ‚Äôere. You‚Äôve got a touch on that there banjoey, my word! ‚ÄôEre, ‚Äôave a drop o‚Äô tea. One‚Äôll ‚Äôave to ‚Äôave the cup and other the saucer.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt passes the time, it passes the time,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham, and with an apparent absence of mind, he took possession of the cup. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve found these little accomplishments useful now and again on my travels, and polished ‚Äôem up a bit as I went along. I learned a trick or two in the sleight-of-hand business from an old Chink I met one time in Shanghai, and then another time one of the Frenchified niggers you get in New Orleans showed me one or two things I didn‚Äôt know about playing the banjo when I was down there. Though one of the best players I ever heard‚ÅÝ‚Äîin a class right above all these New York jazz-band men, and, mind you, I‚Äôve heard them all‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas an old Irishman I struck down in Sydney.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThere‚Äôs a cousin o‚Äô mine there,‚Äù Harry Briggs put in eagerly, ‚Äúsame name as me, except he‚Äôs Jim, and he drives a van for a laundry. You might ‚Äôave come across ‚Äôim.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat, Jim Briggs of the laundry!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝMitcham, with a wink at Inigo. ‚ÄúI knew him well. He told me he‚Äôd a cousin down here. ‚ÄòLook him up,‚Äô he said, ‚Äòif you‚Äôre ever at Dullingham Junction.‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat was clever of ‚Äôim, seeing that I‚Äôve only worked ‚Äôere six months and it‚Äôs two or three years since we ‚Äôeard from ‚Äôim. You can‚Äôt pull my leg, Mister.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWell, it‚Äôs fifteen years or more since I was there,‚Äù remarked Mr.¬ÝMitcham imperturbably. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve been all over since then. I‚Äôm a wanderer over the face of the earth, I am, my boys. I‚Äôve only been back in the Old Country two years, just looking round, you know, visiting a few old friends.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAr, a gentleman o‚Äô leisure like, now,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝBriggs observed with respectful envy. + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôve hit it,‚Äù said Ulysses, in his queer harsh drawl, now American, now English. Once more he brought out the stub of cheroot, this time a very small and dusty stub, lit it, and blew out clouds of smoke in a manner that contrived to suggest leisure, a rich indolence, a return at last from innumerable and astonishing journeys round and round the globe. + 

‚ÄúHeureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage,‚Äù said Inigo, who was wondering how this incredible personage had ever been able to land himself at Dullingham Junction in the middle of the night. It was really surprising that he had been able to find this small island of ours at all. + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right, my boy,‚Äù he replied condescendingly. Then he yawned. ‚ÄúWhat about that train of yours?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúShould be ‚Äôere this next half-hour,‚Äù said Harry Briggs, slowly turning himself into a railway official again. ‚ÄúShe‚Äôs an hour late tonight. I‚Äôll just ‚Äôave a walk round.‚Äù And he lumbered out. + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know whether I shall bother catching it,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham, settling himself down on the seat. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm going on to Nottingham, just to see a few old friends, you know. But I might as well wait until the morning now. I missed a connection down the line. + 

‚ÄúDid you?‚Äù yawned Inigo. ‚ÄúWhere was the place?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúUm‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt remember.‚Äù For once, it seemed, that unusual memory of his had failed him. + 

Inigo had a suspicion that Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham had not missed any connection. Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham was a very unusual person, either a great traveller or a great liar. Inigo decided that he wanted to see more of him. + 

What he did see, however, was Mr.¬ÝTarvin. He and Mr.¬ÝTarvin were struggling through deep snow up a hill, and when they were halfway up, Mr.¬ÝTarvin stopped and looked round, saying: ‚ÄúAll this is South Dakota then. Chumha. Just call the boys, Jollifant,‚Äù and he called the boys, though there were none to be seen. But the next moment they were there, a whole crowd of them, making the most extraordinary humming noise. It made Inigo so angry that he shouted at them, but they made more noise than ever. Then he stared so fiercely at the nearest boy, young Withington, that he stared himself out of South Dakota altogether, back again into the waiting-room, where Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham was sleeping with his mouth wide open and snoring prodigiously. + 

Inigo stretched himself out at full length on the seat and used his knapsack as a pillow. He listened to the snores for a minute or two, then slipped away again, not into South Dakota this time, but into oblivion. There he stayed, though once or twice it seemed as if the darkness and quiet were being mysteriously invaded, as if there were alarms and skirmishes on some distant frontier. + 

II + 

Somebody was shaking him. He opened his eyes, to see a black moustache, large and badly trimmed, and it annoyed him so much that he closed his eyes again. ‚ÄúNow then, sir, now then!‚Äù it said. + 

Inigo did not feel called upon to reply. + 

‚ÄúTime you was moving if you want the 6:45,‚Äù it went on. + 

This remark was so extraordinary that it opened his eyes again. The waiting-room looked quite different in the morning light. He stared at the porter. ‚ÄúWhere‚Äôs Morton Mitcham?‚Äù he asked. + 

The porter shook his head. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôTain‚Äôt on this line. I never ‚Äôeard of it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs not a station but a man. He was sitting there last night, talking about banjos in Bangkok and conjuring in Singapore. Unless I dreamt him.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI shouldn‚Äôt be surprised. I‚Äôm that way myself,‚Äù said the porter earnestly. ‚ÄúLet me ‚Äôave a few or a bit of tinned salmon last thing, and I‚Äôm off, all night. The stuff I‚Äôve seen! Banjos and Singapore‚Äôs nothing to it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know that I care for Old Rob Roy,‚Äù Inigo mused. ‚ÄúHe‚Äôs split my head open and left a sort of dark brown taste in my mouth, as if I‚Äôd been chewing some of his Highland peat. But look here, where‚Äôs what‚Äôs-his-name‚ÅÝ‚Äîwait a minute‚ÅÝ‚ÄîHarry Briggs?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAr, now you‚Äôre talking! You didn‚Äôt dream ‚Äôim, I can tell you. Went off duty a bit back, he did. You missed the 1:20, didn‚Äôt you? Going North, aren‚Äôt you, sir?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAm I?‚Äù Inigo thought it over. ‚ÄúI suppose so, but before I go anywhere I want a bath and a shave and some health salts in a tumbler of tepid water and then some tea and toast. And perhaps an egg‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou never know‚ÅÝ‚Äîone of those young and tender eggs, the little brown ones. Now,‚Äù and he produced a shilling, ‚Äúwhat do you think about that programme?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThank you, sir. Well, what I think is you‚Äôd best get on to Grantham on this next train. Dullingham‚Äôs no good to you, I give you my word. Get anything you like at Grantham, anything you like.‚Äù And the porter smacked his lips at the thought of this roaring metropolis. + 

So Inigo went to Grantham. He sneaked through the early morning sunshine to the Angel and Royal, where he slipped into a bathroom before most of its guests had looked at their early cups of tea, and had to keep several of them at bay because he stayed so long luxuriating in nakedness and warm water. By the time he was fit to appear at the breakfast table, he was ready for anything it had to offer. After breakfast he smoked his pipe and stared, in a rather dreamy fashion, at several newspapers, and it was half past ten when he finally took the road. + 

It was only because he was the prospective author of ‚ÄúThe Last Knapsack,‚Äù that prose elegy of pedestrianism, that Inigo chose to walk out of the town, which offered him innumerable trains and buses. Walking did not seem very pleasant that morning; the day was warm already; the westward road was dusty and never free from motor traffic; and he did not feel inclined to exert himself. It was better when at last he was able to turn down a side-road, which brought him, after many a corner that seemed alarmingly like a blank end, to a small redbrick inn and bread and cheese and beer. There was nobody to talk to at the inn, for the landlord evidently had other work to do during the day, his wife had so little time to spare that she appeared even to serve the beer under protest, and there was no company; but Inigo lingered there until two o‚Äôclock, in a dreamy reverie. When he sauntered on again, skirting fields of stubble and bright but decaying woods, the beer within and the sun without conspired to make that reverie dreamier still. + 

He did not know where he was or where he was going, and he did not care. He drifted like a leaf down the vacant lane. The whole burnished afternoon was only an idle fantasy. ‚ÄúI move among shadows a shadow,‚Äù he told himself over and over again, for his mind was a shining jumble of quotations from the more melancholy anthologies. Here everything was golden, and nothing real perhaps except the dust. ‚ÄúGolden lads and girls‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ come to dust.‚Äù That was how it went, and that too he repeated with swelling vowels that sent little shivers of pleasure down his spine. He came at last to a place of exquisite shade and peace, where the lane turned into a narrow road and great branches hung over a grassy space at the corner. It was a place where a man could meditate or perhaps sleep for an hour. But someone had left a little car there. There was plenty of shaded space on either side of the car, but the sight of it, suggesting noise and fuss, kept Inigo standing where he was. The car spoilt the place. He looked at it in disgust. Then he looked at it in astonishment. He went nearer. + 

Yes, there it was. Along the bottom of the windscreen was a notice printed in bold crimson letters: Take heed for the end draweth nigh. In the rear compartment were a number of placards, two or three feet square and printed in even bolder crimson letters. Inigo did not scruple‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor clearly this was no time for scruples‚ÅÝ‚Äîto take out two of them. And the stars of heaven fell upon the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken by a mighty wind. And the heaven departeth as a scroll when it is rolled together; and every mountain and island were moved out of their places. Then he turned to the other, which said: And I beheld, and heard an angel flying though the midst of heaven, saying with a loud voice, Woe, woe, woe, to the inhabiters of the earth by reason of the other voices of the trumpet of the three angels, which are yet to sound! He carefully replaced the placards and stretched himself on the grass by the side of this strange apocalyptic little car. + 

It was very quiet. The few sounds there were, a distant creaking, a vague twittering, were so remote that they might be coming from another world, another life. He stared out of the shade about him into the shimmer of green and gold beyond. The whole afternoon had been insubstantial. Now it all seemed little more than so much painted silk, quivering at a breath. Its fragility hurt him; he closed his eyes. But the ground he was resting on was solid enough, and the blades he pulled were the old sweet blades of grass. He opened his eyes again. The car itself, though a little battered, had very definite substance. He noticed it had been fitted quite recently with a new set of tyres. Inigo juggled idly with the thought of these tyres. Perhaps the prophet who owned the car bought them because he expected to be still running about in his car when the cities were sheets of flame and the mountains were fading like smoke. He might run right through Armageddon in it. That would be a record indeed; a nonstop run into the new heaven and earth. And all the journalists and advertising men, poor ghosts, biting their spectral lips because the very last edition had been printed, sold, withered away, long before! These fancies made Inigo feel more comfortable, though there was still a little hollow place, as hollow as the world without, inside him. He yawned, shut his eyes, wondered who owned the car, then fell asleep. + 

He awoke about an hour later, sat up, and discovered that the owner of the car was there, fussing with it. For a minute or two, Inigo could only blink at him, but he decided that the man looked disappointingly unprophetical. Their eyes met. + 

‚ÄúHello!‚Äù cried the man. ‚ÄúDo you think I disturbed you? I must have done, mustn‚Äôt I? But you weren‚Äôt here, were you, when I first came? It‚Äôs very warm this afternoon, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù He spoke in rather high chanting tones, and as he spoke his whole face beamed. He was a man of about forty, and he had curly auburn hair damply clustered about a somewhat lumpy forehead, gold spectacles, prominent cheekbones, a small curling moustache and too many teeth. He was very neatly dressed in a dark blue suit and a black tie, and there was something vaguely evangelical about his appearance. + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt think you disturbed me,‚Äù Inigo replied, ‚Äúand it doesn‚Äôt matter if you did. It‚Äôs stupid to fall asleep like this, gives you a headache‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I was awfully tired.‚Äù And he yawned. + 

The other flashed his spectacles at the knapsack. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve been walking, haven‚Äôt you? I should think you‚Äôre taking a holiday, aren‚Äôt you? What splendid weather we‚Äôre having, aren‚Äôt we? Perhaps you‚Äôre going about alone, are you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI wander lonely as a cloud, absolutely.‚Äù Inigo struggled to his feet. + 

‚ÄúAh, I recognize that, you know,‚Äù cried the other enthusiastically. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs Wordsworth, isn‚Äôt it? About the daffodils, isn‚Äôt it? A beautiful piece too, don‚Äôt you think? Now you‚Äôre probably not feeling like walking, are you? I wonder if I could give you a lift. I‚Äôm going on to Oxwell. Do you know it? Are you going that way at all?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúTo tell you the truth,‚Äù said Inigo, ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know where I‚Äôm going. I‚Äôm just wandering about for a day or two, on a kind of holiday.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs splendid, isn‚Äôt it? Though, mind you, I don‚Äôt envy you because the work I am doing‚ÅÝ‚Äîand it takes me all over the country‚ÅÝ‚Äîis better than any holiday, much better. Do you know what I‚Äôm doing? Of course you don‚Äôt. I‚Äôm organizing secretary to the Second Resurrectionists. Perhaps you‚Äôre a Second Resurrectionist, are you?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo. I‚Äôm not even a First Resurrectionist. I‚Äôm afraid I never heard of them before.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIs that so?‚Äù The man‚Äôs face clouded for a moment, then brightened again. ‚ÄúBut there, you have now, haven‚Äôt you? I thought you might be one because we‚Äôre holding one of our special gatherings tonight at Oxwell, and I thought you might be on your way there. I‚Äôm going there myself, but I told you that, didn‚Äôt I? Yes, the special meeting for all the East Midland district‚ÅÝ‚Äîincluding both Ephraim and Gad‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúEphraim and Gad!‚Äù cried Inigo. ‚ÄúWhat have they got to do with it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAh, that puzzles you, does it? You recognize them of course? Well, I must explain, mustn‚Äôt I? One moment, though. I must tell you my name.‚Äù He looked quite grave when he said this: ‚ÄúI‚Äôm E. G. Timpany.‚Äù Then he smiled again. + 

‚ÄúAnd my name‚Äôs Jollifant, Inigo Jollifant‚ÅÝ‚Äîrather absurd, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù + 

E. G. Timpany held up his hand. ‚ÄúNo, no, no. Not at all. You mustn‚Äôt say that. I know the name. Yes, I do. A Mrs.¬ÝJollifant is one of our prominent workers in the Southwestern district‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs Simeon, you know. Exeter is the headquarters of Simeon, and Mrs.¬ÝJollifant is, I believe, an Exeter lady. Yes, she keeps a teashop there. A relation perhaps?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI don‚Äôt think so,‚Äù replied Inigo. ‚ÄúBut tell me about Gad and Ephraim, and why Exeter is in Simeon.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWe divide up our country as Jehovah divided up Canaan among the twelve tribes. I was the humble instrument of the command. At the Annual Convention, someone complained about the confusion between the various districts. Our President turned to me. ‚ÄòPerhaps Mr.¬ÝE. G. Timpany can suggest something,‚Äô he said. At that very moment, I heard a Voice. And the Voice said ‚ÄòLook in your Bible.‚Äô In a flash, I saw what we were to do. ‚ÄòAre we not the Children of Israel?‚Äô I said, for we believe that the great Anglo-Saxon race is descended from the ten lost tribes, just as the British Israelites do, only we have looked further into things than they have. ‚ÄòWe will divide up our territory as Canaan itself was divided,‚Äô I said.‚Äù He stopped and took out his watch. ‚ÄúTime is getting on, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI suppose it is,‚Äù said Inigo, disappointed. He did not want to lose Mr.¬ÝE. G. Timpany. + 

‚ÄúNow I want you to do me a favour, Mr.¬ÝJollifant. I‚Äôm sure you‚Äôre an educated man, aren‚Äôt you? Have you any profession?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôm a schoolmaster of sorts.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúA university man perhaps?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúCambridge. A Third in French, and a History Special.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúA Special, eh? That‚Äôs splendid, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝTimpany, whose notion of a Special was evidently quite different from that of the university authorities. ‚ÄúI knew, though, I knew. I could tell in a moment. You always can, can‚Äôt you? Not that I‚Äôm a university man myself. I‚Äôm not. I‚Äôm self-educated. I left school when I was fifteen‚ÅÝ‚Äîa day school in Wolverhampton, it was‚ÅÝ‚Äîand all I‚Äôve had since has been a Correspondence Course‚ÅÝ‚Äîin Accountancy, and very poor, I thought, not at all thorough‚ÅÝ‚Äîand some evening classes in Commercial Spanish. That was before I discovered the great teacher, Mr.¬ÝJollifant‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe Bible, the common, everyday, beautiful old Bible.‚Äù And he suddenly produced one from nowhere, like a conjurer. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm sure you‚Äôre not one of these so-called higher critics, are you?‚Äù + 

Inigo truthfully replied that he wasn‚Äôt, but tried to convey the impression that he might have been a higher critic if he had cared about that sort of reputation. + 

‚ÄúBut there I go, talking and talking away,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝTimpany. ‚ÄúWhat I wanted to ask you, as a favour to me, was to come with me to Oxwell. You‚Äôll be very welcome, Mr.¬ÝJollifant. There‚Äôs a high tea at half past six‚ÅÝ‚Äîpeople coming from all parts, you see‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then a gathering afterwards. I want you to come simply as my guest, my friend, if you don‚Äôt mind my calling you that, and I‚Äôm sure you don‚Äôt, do you? Now what do you say? I‚Äôd like nothing better than to stay here and talk to you about some of our Second Resurrection truths, but‚ÅÝ‚Äîas you can see, can‚Äôt you?‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI haven‚Äôt the time.‚Äù And he smiled his wide innocent smile, with its flashing confusion of ivories, and passed a hand over his damp forehead and auburn curls. + 

There was no resisting this invitation. Inigo packed himself and his raincoat and knapsack (both of which found a place among the texts from Revelations at the back) in the little car, and off they went. They slowly chut-chutted down the winding lanes, crawled through half a dozen villages, for Mr.¬ÝE. G. Timpany was an excessively cautious driver, so that there was plenty of time for people to read the notice on the windscreen: Take heed for the end draweth nigh. If such people grinned, as they frequently did, Inigo gave them a solemn and prophetic stare, but if they looked puzzled or startled‚ÅÝ‚Äîand one little girl and a man in a milk-cart really did look startled‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe beamed upon them with the air of a man bringing glad tidings. His companion did not talk much because there were so many corners and crossroads and the like to be carefully negotiated, but from time to time he let fall some information about either the Second Resurrection movement or himself. So far as Inigo could gather, then and later, the Second Resurrectionists took their stand on some fantastic interpretation of the twentieth chapter of Revelations, believing that Satan was let loose, given almost unlimited powers, about 1914, when he instantly set to work deceiving the nations and gathering them together for battle, that worse was soon to follow, more and bigger battles, floods and earthquakes, fire out of heaven, all within the space of the next two or three years, after which the sea would give up its dead, the sun, the moon, stars, and the round earth would vanish like clouds, and there would be an end of all material things. In addition to this apocalyptic dream, there were astonishing theories about the ten lost tribes and the Great Pyramid. It was all very confusing, not unlike hearing somebody describe a nightmare. Mr.¬ÝTimpany‚Äôs own history, or such scraps of it as Inigo caught, seemed simplicity itself. The central fact in it was that he had sold what he called ‚Äúone of the best insurance books in Wolverhampton‚Äù to devote the remainder of his life, three years at the most, to the Second Resurrectionists. When Inigo applauded such courage and faith, Mr.¬ÝTimpany was very modest indeed, and pointed out that once he had come to believe in the Second Resurrection view of the future, it was impossible for him to remain in the insurance business. + 

‚ÄúI want to talk to people about our S.R. truths,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝTimpany, ‚Äúand I felt it wrong to take their money, just as you would, wouldn‚Äôt you? What was the use of my trying to persuade a man to take out a twenty-years endowment policy, a thousand pounds, we will say, with benefits at a premium of fifty-one pounds ten, when I knew so well in my own heart that everything was coming to an end long before then? The very last day, I remember, a man came to me because he wanted to take out an education policy for his two boys, and I had to tell him outright that his boys never would be educated, not as we know education, you see. It was the least I could do, wasn‚Äôt it? It wouldn‚Äôt have been honest to have gone on, would it? Not that I wanted to, but in any case it wouldn‚Äôt, would it?‚Äù + 

Inigo thought this over. ‚ÄúI think it would,‚Äù he announced at length, as gravely as he could. ‚ÄúAfter all, I suppose people only insure themselves to set their minds at rest, because they feel assured about the future. Well, they‚Äôd have had that, you see. And their future is settled anyhow, you believe. They‚Äôd really have had their money‚Äôs worth, you see.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝTimpany did not see, and they were at Oxwell before the question was settled. Oxwell proved to be a miserable little town, and Mr.¬ÝTimpany explained that it had only been chosen as the scene of the gathering because one of the chief Second Resurrectionists in the district happened to live there and it was he who was providing them with the hall for the meeting and the tea. ‚ÄúMr.¬ÝGrudy is one of our old stalwarts, a strong character and very deep-thinking man,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝTimpany went on to explain, ‚Äúentirely self-made and quite well-to-do. He‚Äôs a farmer and corn-chandler and horse-dealer and several other things besides. Quite a patriarchal character, and one of our most substantial S.R.s. I‚Äôd been taking a message to one of his married sons when I met you,‚Äù he added, as if that somehow clinched the matter. + 

There were several cars, a trap or two, and a little bus standing outside the hall, a redbrick building of small size and less dignity that evidently served the town as a recreation-room. People, mostly women, were already buzzing in and out of the place, and Mr.¬ÝTimpany, with a hasty excuse to Inigo, immediately dived among them and finally disappeared for some time, leaving Inigo outside, staring at the people and at the large notices that surrounded the door. These were even more fiercely apocalyptic than those in Mr.¬ÝTimpany‚Äôs car. In crimson lettering, bright as arterial blood, they announced a speedy end to all familiar things. And in those days, they screamed, shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them. The Second Resurrectionists, all washed and brushed, stiffly erect in their best clothes, passed in and out and shook hands, asked one another how they were and said they were quite strangers. Inigo moved nearer the door and was pleasantly assailed by the smell of freshly cooked ham. He remembered that he had had nothing since breakfast but a little bread and cheese. Yes, he was hungry. Then his eye was caught by the furious crimson of another placard: Therefore I will shake the heavens, and the earth shall remove out of her place, in the wrath of the Lord of hosts, and in the day of his fierce anger. He was also feeling very dirty and untidy. + 

‚ÄúThis is Mr.¬ÝJollifant.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝTimpany was beaming upon him once more. ‚ÄúMr.¬ÝGrudy.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWe are very pleased to see you here today,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝGrudy in a very deep voice. There was certainly something patriarchal about him. He was a gaunt elderly man carefully dressed in black. His eyebrows were bushy, intimidating; his nose had a masterful Semitic curve; his long white moustache was not altogether of this world. It was a face you could see framed in the smoke of a desert sacrifice. + 

Inigo said he was very pleased too, and then took Mr.¬ÝTimpany on one side and asked him about washing and brushing. Mr.¬ÝTimpany remembered that Inigo would have to spend the night somewhere. He consulted Mr.¬ÝGrudy, who advanced upon Inigo again. ‚ÄúThere is room in my house for you tonight,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúYou will stay with us.‚Äù + 

Inigo, wishing he could reply in the same grand manner, could only stammer something about thanking him awfully, better not, lot of trouble, very decent, easily manage somewhere though, to all of which Mr.¬ÝGrudy paid no attention. + 

‚ÄúThere is a place for you,‚Äù he announced. ‚ÄúMy wife is superintending the preparations for tea, but my niece shall take you to the house.‚Äù And he stalked away, followed by Mr.¬ÝTimpany. + 

Inigo waited for the tall bony female with the large nose, the daughter of Ephraim or Gad. To his astonishment, however, Mr.¬ÝTimpany returned with a girl about twenty, all rosy and smiling, quite a pretty girl. And this was Mr.¬ÝGrudy‚Äôs niece, Miss Larch, the maiden of the tribe, who would wait upon him. Inigo, an almost painfully susceptible youth, shook her hand enthusiastically and accompanied her to the house, which was only about quarter of a mile away, in the highest spirits. There, it is true, he was handed over to an elderly woman, who showed him into a neat little bedroom; but when he had washed and brushed himself and returned to the hall, Miss Larch, still rosy and smiling, was waiting for him. He wanted to shake hands with her all over again. She wore a charming blue dress that gave place, at the knee, to silk stockings of a most admirable contour; the five freckles dotted about her small nose were delicious in themselves; she had large blue eyes, thickly fringed, and they seemed to twinkle when they turned upon him. It was incredible that she should be a daughter of either Ephraim or Gad. + 

‚ÄúYou don‚Äôt look a bit like a Second Resurrectionist,‚Äù he boldly confided on the way back. And then, of course, he had to tell her what a Second Resurrectionist did look like, and drew a strong picture of a bony female that made her laugh. Didn‚Äôt she look like that, then? She didn‚Äôt, he replied with fervour, and left her more rosy and smiling than ever. But he too didn‚Äôt look like one, she told him. He wasn‚Äôt one. Then what was he doing there? He explained shortly, then drew from her an explanation of her own presence on the scene. She had lived there for the last eighteen months, Mrs.¬ÝGrudy being her mother‚Äôs sister, and she helped in the house and it was all very, very dull, though her uncle and aunt were very, very kind, but there was nothing really to do and everybody who came was either old or stuffy or both, and nobody talked about anything but the Bible and the lost tribes and the Pyramids, and sometimes she thought it was silly and then at other times she had to believe in it, they were all so sure about it, and then she felt she was awfully wicked and was a bit frightened, yes, awfully frightened sometimes. It all came out in one breathless rush, and it was evident that Miss Larch‚ÅÝ‚ÄîFreda‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad not exchanged confidences with anyone for a long time. By the time they reached the hall, they were not so much friends as fellow-conspirators, for Youth, when it is exiled into the kingdoms of the old, at once turns itself into the strongest of secret societies. At the door, Inigo glanced meaningly at the crimson letters, and Freda glanced at them too. Then their eyes met. + 

The door was closed but they opened it softly and peeped in. Some sixty or seventy people were sitting at the long tea-tables. They were not eating but listening to Mr.¬ÝGrudy, who was apparently concluding an address from the platform at the far end of the room. He boomed on for some little time before Inigo could make out what he was saying, but his final quotation from the Bible he carried in his hand came clearly enough, and Inigo, peeping over Freda‚Äôs shoulder, heard it with a sense of incredulity, as if all Oxwell were some fantastic dream. + 

‚ÄúAnd it shall come to pass,‚Äù roared Mr.¬ÝGrudy, ‚Äúin that day, that his burden shall be taken away from off thy shoulder, and his yoke from off thy neck, and the yoke shall be destroyed because of the anointing. He is come to Aiath, he is passed to Migron; at Michmash he hath laid up his carriages.‚Äù Then, after a suitable pause, Mr.¬ÝGrudy stepped down from the platform. ‚ÄúLet us have tea,‚Äù he said in a milder voice, and instantly there was a babel. + 

‚ÄúIt looks as if we‚Äôve come to Michmash, absolutely,‚Äù muttered Inigo. Mr.¬ÝTimpany had reserved a space for them next to him, but the table was so crowded and the others had been sitting there so long that not much of the space was left, for they were using long wooden forms and not chairs. Freda sat down, then Inigo jammed himself between her and Timpany, who was almost steaming. ‚ÄúWarm in here, isn‚Äôt it?‚Äù he said to Inigo. ‚ÄúBut a splendid gathering, really splendid!‚Äù + 

It may have been a splendid gathering but it was certainly a very odd meal. Inigo remembered other high teas but none higher than this. The forms were a solid mass of eaters and drinkers, and the tables were a solid mass of food. There were hams and tongues and rounds of cold beef and raised pies and egg salads; plates heaped high with white bread, brown bread, currant teacakes, scones; dishes of jelly and custard and blancmange and fruit salad; piles of jam tarts and maids of honour and cream puffs and almond tarts; then walnut cake, plum cake, chocolate cake, coconut cake; mounds of sugar, quarts of cream, and a steady flood of tea. Inigo never remembered seeing so much food before. It was like being asked to eat one‚Äôs way through the Provision and Cooked Food departments of one of the big stores. The appetite was not tickled, not even met fairly; it was overwhelmed. The sight of these tables drove hunger out of the world, made it impossible to imagine it had ever been there. Inigo ate this and that, but he hardly knew what he was eating, he was so warm, so tightly wedged in, so amazed at the spectacle. The Second Resurrectionists were worthy of the colossal meal spread before them. This highest of high teas had met its match. If they had all been forty years in the wilderness, they could not have dealt with it more manfully. They were not your gabbling, laughing eaters; they did not make a first rush and then suddenly lose heart; they did not try this and taste that. No, they were quiet, systematic, devastating; they advanced steadily in good order from the first slice of ham to the last slice of chocolate cake; and in fifty minutes the tables were a mere ruin of broken meats, the flood of tea a pale and tepid trickle. Inigo, who retired early from the conflict, though he had to stay where he was, with Mr.¬ÝTimpany steaming on one side and Freda delicately grilling on the other, looked on with wonder and admiration. Across the table were two middle-aged women with long yellow faces, almost exactly alike, and a little round man who had no teeth and whose nose and chin came within an inch of one another as he worked away. It did not look as if three such persons would be able to do more than skirt the fringes of a high tea, but actually they walked right through and emerged unruffled at the other end. Above their heads, high on the opposite wall, was yet another of Mr.¬ÝGrudy‚Äôs crimson placards, which began: And the light of a candle shall shine no more at all in thee. Inigo stared, now at the people, now at the placard. It was all very odd, absolutely. + 

Tea was over. Freda disappeared; Mr.¬ÝTimpany was borne away by the daughters of Ephraim and Gad; and Inigo strolled outside to taste the air, which had a novel and delicious flavour. After that he smoked a pipe and sauntered up and down the road, keeping an eye on the door so that he should not miss the fair Freda. A few belated Resurrectionists, whose work had kept them from the last Grudy high tea but two that this world would know, hurried into the hall. Then a large car arrived and carefully deposited on the road several persons who evidently could not be expected to grapple with a high tea. There was a tremendous middle-aged woman, purple and commanding, who was attended, as such women so often are attended, by a thin depressed-looking girl in a frock she had never liked. There was also a tall man with an excessively long and lean and brown face and a military bearing. Inigo watched these three new arrivals sail, drift, and march into the hall. Then he caught a glimpse of Freda‚Äôs blue frock in the doorway. + 

‚ÄúWell,‚Äù he asked her, ‚Äúwhen does the meeting begin?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIn a minute,‚Äù she replied. ‚ÄúThe nobs have arrived. Did you see them? They won‚Äôt come to the tea, they‚Äôre too grand. That woman with the red face and the big nose is Mrs.¬ÝBevison-Burr, and that‚Äôs her daughter with her‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe never says a single word and wears the most awful clothes. And the man with them is Major Dunker. He‚Äôs rather nice, but he‚Äôs a bit cracked.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNever mind. We‚Äôre all a bit cracked.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou may be,‚Äù retorted Freda, ‚Äúbut I‚Äôm not‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI know what you‚Äôre going to say next,‚Äù he told her. + 

‚ÄúYou don‚Äôt.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI do. You were going to say ‚ÄòSo there?‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, I wasn‚Äôt,‚Äù cried Freda. Then she made a little face at him, plainly asking for more. This was Freda‚Äôs idea of conversation. After sitting in corners so long and listening to stuffy old people who said things that were either silly or downright frightening, to contradict a young man who smiled at her and had nice eyes‚ÅÝ‚Äîit was lovely. So Inigo exchanged a little more of this stuff‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúsandbag badinage,‚Äù he called it‚ÅÝ‚Äîand had time to reflect that if she had worn steel spectacles or scaled three stone more, he could not have done it, would have been elsewhere. As it was, he too was happy, delighted with Freda herself, with the phrase he had just made, and with his own ironical reflections. + 

It was time, however, for the meeting, the gathering, the convention‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhatever it was‚ÅÝ‚Äîto begin. The tea things had been cleared away, the tables moved back, and all the forms ranged in front of the little platform. Now Mr.¬ÝGrudy, Mrs.¬ÝBevison-Burr, Major Dunker, and Mr.¬ÝTimpany marched on to the platform and looked as if they were about to sing a quartette. Everybody else made a rush at the forms. Freda and Inigo were among the last, with the result that they had to squeeze in at the end of one of the back forms. Freda was jammed against a very stout woman, who smiled at her and patted her hand. Inigo was jammed against Freda and in order to sit there at all he had to hold on to the form itself, just at the back of Freda. There was really only half of him on the form. + 

Mr.¬ÝGrudy stepped to the front of the platform and surveyed them with a benevolent patriarchal stare, as if he saw before him his shepherds and bowmen and handmaidens and flocks and herds. Then he lifted a hand. Immediately everybody leaned forward and covered their faces. Inigo was not sure what was about to happen, but he leaned forward too, with a sharp jerk, so that the arm behind Freda slipped up and landed somewhere in the neighbourhood of her waist. She shook herself and whispered something. ‚ÄúSorry, couldn‚Äôt help it,‚Äù he began whispering, and at the same time, by a gigantic effort, contrived to remove the innocently offending arm. She gave him a fierce little Sh-sh-sh. Mr.¬ÝGrudy was opening with a prayer. It was rather a long prayer, and Inigo was so uncomfortable, his body twisted at a fiendish angle, that he found it impossible to listen to it. Nevertheless he was in sympathy with it, for Mr.¬ÝGrudy continually referred to captivities and migrations across great deserts and Inigo felt them in every limb. When everybody sat up again at the end of the prayer, Mr.¬ÝGrudy stood there, very erect, and did nothing but look at them for at least two minutes. Inigo wondered what would happen next. + 

‚ÄúJee‚Äëee‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù sang Mr.¬ÝGrudy. + 

Everybody jumped up at once‚ÅÝ‚Äîexcept Inigo. He sat there a second too long; his end of the form went down and he fell with a crash; the other end shooting up and slightly forward, hurled a little round man‚ÅÝ‚Äîit was the toothless one‚ÅÝ‚Äîinto the seat in front; and there was a confusion and uproar. The hymn could not begin until the little man had been restored to his own row, the seat had been put back in its place, and Inigo, crimson, dusty, and furious, had scrambled to his feet. + 

‚ÄúJee‚Äëee‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù sang Mr.¬ÝGrudy again, and this time they were off. Inigo did not sing, for the hymn was one he had never heard before. He felt foolish. When they came to sit down again, he felt still more foolish because the few inches allotted to him had now been swallowed up. He was about to abandon the seat altogether, to go and lean against the wall, when Freda captured about six inches from the large lady on her right and offered it to him so prettily that he could not refuse. And there he sat, very close, for the rest of the evening. + 

Mr.¬ÝE. G. Timpany was called upon to address them. Moist and triumphant, he stepped forward, clutching at a large bundle of notes, and looked all gold spectacles and teeth and preposterous auburn curls. He beamed upon them. For such moments as these he would gladly have sold all Wolverhampton. He produced figures, compared the numbers in Ephraim with those in Dan, was convinced that Gad would soon outstrip Issachar and even gave them percentages. Indeed, he made such good use of his correspondence course in accountancy that Inigo expected him at any moment to remember his other course and drop into Commercial Spanish. It was impossible not to like Mr.¬ÝTimpany, he was so innocently happy, so naively proud of his position as organizing secretary. Inigo found it quite painful to think that just when Mr.¬ÝTimpany was beginning to enjoy this life, he would either have to quit it or be compelled to admit he was a fool‚ÅÝ‚Äîunless it was possible for the Second Resurrectionists continually to postpone Doomsday. + 

Mrs.¬ÝBevison-Burr, the commanding woman, came next. Her subject was Unbelief. She referred to Unbelief as if it were a very obnoxious person who was in the habit of insulting her every morning and evening. Mrs.¬ÝBevison-Burr commanded them to do all manner of things to Unbelief. She did not hold out any great hopes for them when they had done all these things. Only a few of them were wanted by Jehovah, but the least they could all do was to settle Unbelief. They were asked to remember that Unbelief and Bolshevism were one and the same. There was a little more about Jehovah, to whom she referred as if he were a prominent politician staying at her country house. Mrs.¬ÝBevison-Burr was not a success, though her presence there was evidently gratifying to most of her audience. + 

Major Dunker followed. His themes were the Pyramids, international relations, and earthquakes. Holding a little notebook very close to his face, he talked at some length of pyramid inches, which determined all the chief dates in the world‚Äôs history, but it was difficult to follow this part of his speech because of the notebook. He passed on to international relations, which were rapidly approaching a supreme crisis. We were on the eve of the greatest and the last of all wars, the real Armageddon. But worse was to come. Earthquakes. Everybody had noticed that in recent years there had been more and more storms and floods and earthquakes, and scientists had all been baffled by these phenomena. All over the world they were investigating to discover the causes of these disturbances. They could find nothing. The causes were not in the mere rise and fall of the barometer nor even in spots in the sun. Forces were being let loose upon this planet that had formerly been restrained. These were the first activities of the newly released Prince of Darkness. And when the thousand years are expired, Satan shall be loosed out of his prison. And having delivered this quotation in the same dry tones he had used throughout, the Major abruptly concluded. He was, Inigo decided, quietly and decently mad. + 

Mr.¬ÝGrudy called for the testimony of other friends. Nobody spoke for a minute or two. Then a man with a black beard jumped up, said something about King George the Fifth being the ninety-ninth in succession from King David, and then sat down again. He was followed by a shrill little woman, who declared that she had dreamt four times that year of an angel waving something that looked like a golden coal-scuttle over the dome of St.¬ÝPaul‚Äôs. Mr.¬ÝGrudy nodded approvingly at her, but there seemed to be a general impression that she had not done well in putting herself forward in this way. After that there was another wait. Then Mr.¬ÝGrudy stepped forward again and was about to address them when there was a stir at the back of the hall. + 

‚ÄúI see that our friend, the Reverend Higginworth Wenderby, has arrived,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝGrudy. ‚ÄúI am sure he will be pleased to give us his testimony. It is a privilege to have him here with us.‚Äù + 

A tall stout man in black climbed on to the platform, and stood there, panting and mopping his brow, while they applauded furiously. He was a curious figure. He had a mane of dark hair and an unusually large, white, wet face, which retreated at the forehead and the chin. ‚ÄúMy dear friends,‚Äù he boomed, ‚Äúplease allow me a moment. I cannot talk to you without breath, and I have come here in such haste that I have no breath.‚Äù Everybody applauded again, including Inigo, who looked round and saw that a change had come over the whole meeting. Everybody seemed expectant. They were leaning forward now, all eager attention. + 

Mr.¬ÝWenderby held up a large white hand. ‚ÄúMy friends,‚Äù he began, softly this time, ‚Äúit is a joy to address you once more, and there are not many joys in this vale of suffering and sorrow. We live here in sin, and Death is busy among the people. The husband must go from the wife, and the mother must weep over the departed child.‚Äù He continued in this strain for some time, his voice as artful and moving as a passage for muted strings. The matter was nothing, the manner everything; and even Inigo, who had disliked the man at sight, found himself vaguely moved. As for the rest of his audience, they frankly abandoned themselves to the luxury of easy emotion. Some of the women sobbed. Freda stirred uneasily and bit her underlip. Inigo sat there in both physical and mental discomfort. + 

Mr.¬ÝWenderby paused and let his huge head droop. Then he raised it, higher and higher, until at last his white wet face seemed to shine in the light. ‚ÄúBut have I come here, my friends, to bear testimony to these things?‚Äù he asked, without raising his voice. ‚ÄúAre they strange tidings, these of sin and misery and death, that I should come and relate them to you? Have I nothing more to say? Is this the end of our message?‚Äù He stepped forward another pace, so that he stood on the very edge of the platform. ‚ÄúNo,‚Äù he thundered. ‚ÄúNo, and a thousand times, no!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúEphraim!‚Äù yelled a voice in Inigo‚Äôs ear. + 

‚ÄúI beg your pardon,‚Äù he cried, startled. But the man, who had drawn up a chair just behind Inigo, took no notice whatever of him but stared fixedly at the preacher. + 

‚ÄúI look for the Word, and the Word is here.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝWenderby, now in full diapason, held up his Bible. ‚ÄúAnd after these things,‚Äù he chanted, ‚ÄúI heard a great voice of much people in heaven, saying, Alleluia; Salvation, and glory, and honour, and power unto the Lord our God. For true and righteous are his judgements; for he hath judged the great whore, which did corrupt the earth with her fornication, and hath avenged the blood of his servants at her hand. And again they said, Alleluia. And her smoke rose up forever and ever.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝWenderby then crumbled the world to dust and blew it away in one mighty shout. He led the faithful to their eternal home. He arrayed them in fine linen and took them through the gates of pearl and along the streets of pure gold to where the river of the water of life flowed from the throne of the Lamb. + 

The arms he raised seemed to lift most of his audience out of their seats. If they had groaned before, now they shouted. Only Mrs.¬ÝBevison-Burr and Major Dunker remained unmoved. Mr.¬ÝTimpany had taken off his spectacles and was wiping them feverishly. Mr.¬ÝGrudy towered in his chair and his face grew bright in the glow of unseen desert suns. Inigo looked round in astonishment. The place was a pandemonium. Face after face, almost transfigured, caught and held his glance. This then was the secret, these moments, crashing in Dionysiac rout through months of boredom, glittering and trumpeting for a space in lives as quiet and faded as an old photograph. Something pitiful tugged at his heart, then was gone. + 

Mr.¬ÝWenderby, dripping and paler than ever, blessed them fervently. All was over. There was a rush to the platform. ‚ÄúWhat do we do now?‚Äù asked Inigo. + 

‚ÄúLet‚Äôs go, shall we?‚Äù said Freda. ‚ÄúIt wasn‚Äôt quite so frightening this time, but it was bad enough. You feel better about it all outside, I‚Äôve noticed.‚Äù + 

They walked up the road, cheerfully libelling all the Second Resurrectionists, but when they arrived at the house, Freda hesitated. ‚ÄúI suppose I ought to go in, really. My aunt may want me to help her with supper.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSupper!‚Äù Inigo was horrified. ‚ÄúThere can‚Äôt be supper, not after that tea. Surely none of ‚Äôem want supper‚ÅÝ‚Äîunless they‚Äôre going to stay up all night.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYes, they will. They‚Äôre awful greedies, I can tell you. And Uncle will be bringing some of them in. That‚Äôs why I don‚Äôt want to go in. They‚Äôll talk and talk and talk, and I‚Äôve had enough of it, haven‚Äôt you?‚Äù + 

He admitted that he had had a good deal of it. They strolled about a mile farther up the road, stood on a bridge and talked nonsense, and then returned to the house. Freda did not go in, however, but crept up to a lighted window and peeped through a space between the drawn curtains. + 

‚ÄúThey are there,‚Äù she announced, ‚Äúand they‚Äôre eating sandwiches. Didn‚Äôt I say they would?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúIt‚Äôs incredible,‚Äù Inigo cried softly. ‚ÄúThey can‚Äôt go on putting it away like this. They simply will bring the world to an end. I can see Timpany‚Äôs teeth just fastening on a wretched sandwich. Horrible, horrible! Come away.‚Äù + 

Freda had another peep, then joined him. ‚ÄúMr.¬ÝWenderby‚Äôs there. I don‚Äôt like him, do you? He‚Äôs the queerest of them all, I think. Do you know, he always calls me ‚ÄòLittle Sister‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúLike his infernal cheek!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAnd‚ÅÝ‚Äîand‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe always looks as if he wants to kiss me. He doesn‚Äôt, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI should think not.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúBut I always feel he would if I didn‚Äôt dodge. He frightens me.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThen he‚Äôs a vile brute,‚Äù cried Inigo. He was quite indignant. The arm he slipped round her, as she stood there looking so defenceless, so prettily forlorn, quivered with righteous indignation. + 

‚ÄúDo you think so?‚Äù she murmured, not stirring except to lift her face a little. + 

‚ÄúBeyond the pale, absolutely,‚Äù said Inigo firmly. He saw her fair face tilting until it caught the light. He saw the dark curve of her mouth. It was irresistible. He bent forward, and at that very moment the front door opened. Before anybody could come out, Freda had flown round the corner. Inigo went after her but by the time he had caught up to her they had been all round the house and were back again at the front door. + 

In the hall they met Mr.¬ÝTimpany. ‚ÄúA splendid gathering, wasn‚Äôt it?‚Äù he called to them. + 

They replied, breathlessly, that it was, absolutely splendid. + 

‚ÄúNow don‚Äôt tell me you‚Äôre sorry you came, Mr.¬ÝJollifant,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝTimpany continued. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt tell me you weren‚Äôt interested.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI won‚Äôt,‚Äù said Inigo, shaking him by the hand. + 

III + 

On the following night, Wednesday, Inigo was sauntering through the streets of Nottingham. He had not gone there to look for Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, though he had reminded himself with a certain quickening of interest, that this was Mr.¬ÝMitcham‚Äôs destination, where, like the gentleman of leisure he was, he had decided to look up a few old friends. At any moment, Inigo told himself, he might be passing an old friend of Mr.¬ÝMitcham‚Äôs. Inigo was there, however, because at the breakfast table that morning Freda had declared that she must go to Nottingham to visit a dentist. It then appeared at once that Inigo, who had been rather vague about his movements, was really on his way to Nottingham too. This astonishing coincidence had landed the pair of them on the same motorbus from Oxwell, given them the same table for lunch, and finally, at Freda‚Äôs request, had condemned them to spend the afternoon together, and some of it unnecessarily close together, in a huge sensuous cavern that called itself a picture palace. + 

Inigo did not care very much for films, especially in the middle of the afternoon, when their bludgeoning sentimentality, their glycerine tears, seemed downright blasphemy. This picture palace had an organ that was nothing but one gigantic, relentless, quavering vox humana stop, and listening to it was like being forcibly fed with treacle. However, Freda, having escaped from the wilderness of Oxwell, the captivity of the Second Resurrectionists, enjoyed it all. She munched chocolates, drank tea, ate little cakes, and coughed her way through two cigarettes; she laughed when the screen told her to laugh, stared mournfully when all was lost save love and the vox humana stop, shuddered and gasped and clutched at Inigo at all appropriate crises; and filled in the duller intervals in the programme by flirting with him. They were in there so long that Inigo was surprised to emerge, blinking, into broad daylight, and for a moment or so the sane and three-dimensional world about him looked quite unreal. It also made him feel rather foolish, and somehow he said goodbye to Freda, still rosy and smiling as she mounted the 6:15 motorbus, with a feeling that was more like relief than regret. He returned to the mournful little commercial hotel where he had left his knapsack and there had a very bad dinner. + 

After wandering about the streets for quarter of an hour or so, Inigo turned into the nearest tavern for a glass of bitter. The place was almost empty, fortunately, for he wanted to be quiet and to think. What was he going to do? Should he wander on like this for a few days more, then return to his uncle‚Äôs place at Dulwich and, once there, go the rounds of the scholastic agents? Did he want to go on teaching? No, he did not. But what did he want to do? He didn‚Äôt know. He could afford to give himself a little holiday, but sooner or later he would have to decide about a job. This was an opportunity to experiment, certainly, but what was he going to experiment in? Journalism? His soul revolted, absolutely. It was while he was still telling himself how much his soul revolted or was prepared to revolt that the landlord came in and nodded to him. + 

‚ÄúBreakin‚Äô up now,‚Äù said the landlord. ‚ÄúBut we can‚Äôt grumble, can we? ‚ÄôAd a good month.‚Äù + 

Inigo never knew what to reply to remarks of this kind about the weather. People who made them always seemed to belong to a society of weather observers or even weather owners, and he always felt that he himself was too much of an outsider to do more than merely mumble something in response. He mumbled now, then hesitated, and finally remarked: ‚ÄúI‚Äôve just been wondering what to do. Now what would you do if you were a young man like me, with a little, just a very little, money of your own?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI wouldn‚Äôt go into this business again,‚Äù replied the landlord promptly. + 

‚ÄúYou wouldn‚Äôt, eh?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWouldn‚Äôt touch it, wouldn‚Äôt have it given. Nothing in it now. All to pieces. What with dogs, football, pitchers, one thing and another‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou can‚Äôt sell beer, can‚Äôt get ‚Äôem regular, yer know. Oh I wouldn‚Äôt look at it.‚Äù He straddled in front of the fireplace and jingled some coppers in his pocket. + 

‚ÄúWell, what would you do?‚Äù asked Inigo. + 

‚ÄúIf I‚Äôd my time over again, I wouldn‚Äôt ‚Äôesitate,‚Äù replied the landlord, lowering his voice. ‚ÄúI‚Äôd make a book, go in the ring. It‚Äôs money for dust. They can‚Äôt give it to you fast enough. Why, there‚Äôs fellers come in ‚Äôere‚ÅÝ‚Äîtut‚Äët‚Äët‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù And he tut-tutted away and wagged his head to show that mere words were failing him. + 

‚ÄúBe a bookie, eh? That‚Äôs no good to me, I‚Äôm afraid. Nothing in my line. I don‚Äôt understand racing and I couldn‚Äôt shout loud enough.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúDon‚Äôt need to shout, don‚Äôt need to know anything,‚Äù cried the other. ‚ÄúSome o‚Äô these fellers ‚Äôardly know where they live. Doesn‚Äôt matter. They get it all the same. Rolling in it, rolling! And where do they get it from, where do they get it from?‚Äù He walked right across the room to ask this momentous question and stood over Inigo, who told him he didn‚Äôt know where they got it from. ‚ÄúAll right, I‚Äôll tell you,‚Äù said the landlord. ‚ÄúThey get it from mugs, like you and me. Mugs! Don‚Äôt they, Charlie?‚Äù This was to a man who had just entered the room. + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right, Jack,‚Äù said Charlie, winking at Inigo. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt know what you‚Äôre talking about, but that‚Äôs right.‚Äù And he sat down, pushed his cap to the back of his head, and began whistling very loudly. + 

‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre, Charlie,‚Äù said the landlord, ‚Äúwhat‚Äôs this about old Fred telling Jimmy you said I‚Äôd picked up a tenner on Cherry Lass?‚Äù + 

Inigo made his escape. The streets were lighted now and livelier, but the only entertainment they offered him was that of watching innumerable youths ogle innumerable pairs of over-powdered and undernourished young girls, who took care to parade within easy reach of the various picture theatres. He soon came to the conclusion that these streets were not lively at all. They began to depress him. He thought once of going in, to add a few sentences to ‚ÄúThe Last Knapsack,‚Äù but the image of that melancholy commercial hotel daunted him. No good literature could be composed in that hotel. ‚ÄúIt would all come out wrong,‚Äù he told himself. ‚ÄúI should be putting down ‚Äòas per yours‚Äô and things like that.‚Äù + 

He stopped outside a large and glittering tavern. It announced that it had a Singing Room, and Inigo did not remember ever having been inside a Singing Room. He walked in, to find himself facing a long curved bar that had far too many mirrors and electric lights. Business was brisk, so brisk that the bar counter was flooded, the change he received was all wet, and the beer itself had a nasty rinsed look. There were several swing doors, gorgeous with leaded lights, opening out of this bar, but there was nothing to indicate the one that would admit him to the Singing Room. He took a sip of beer, put the glass down, and determined to forget about it, and began dodging through the throng, to find the Singing Room. It was then that he heard, behind the back of a man who held one of the swinging doors open, the voice. ‚ÄúIn the absence of the pianist, ladies and gentlemen,‚Äù said the voice, ‚ÄúI will not give you one of my famous banjo solos, but I will, with the kind permission of one and all, endeavour to entertain you with a few feats of sleight of hand.‚Äù + 

There was no mistaking it. This was the voice of that returned traveller, that gentleman of leisure, that looker-up of old friends in Nottingham, Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham. + 

Inigo pushed his way in. This was the Singing Room, and there, at the far end of it, near the piano, addressing an audience of about twenty men, youths, and girls, who did not seem particularly interested in him, was Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham. He wore the same light check suit, the same Mad Hatter collar and tie; and his eyebrows seemed larger, his nose richer, and his chin longer and bluer than they did before. ‚ÄúI will open,‚Äù he was saying, ‚Äúwith a little trick I‚Äôve performed in all parts of the world, America, Australia, India, and every important place in the U‚Äënited Kingdom‚ÅÝ‚Äîexcept Nottingham. Notice that, ladies and gentlemen‚ÅÝ‚Äîexcept Nottingham.‚Äù He held out a pack of cards. ‚ÄúNow I want a lady or gentleman to take a card‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAny orders,‚Äù cried a waiter suddenly springing up from nowhere. + 

‚ÄúWairer, I wanternother double.‚Äù This was from a very ripe gentleman, who was sprawling at a little table by himself. + 

Inigo told the waiter to bring him a bottle of Bass and sat down not far from the ripe gentleman and near a middle-aged man and a little woman with eyeglasses who were sitting over two glasses of stout and placidly holding hands. Mr.¬ÝMitcham stared at the newcomer, brought his immense eyebrows down and pursed up his lips. Inigo grinned at him and at last got a nod and a grin in return. Mr.¬ÝMitcham, who clearly did not want to begin his trick until the waiter had returned, crossed over and calmly remarked to Inigo: ‚ÄúI know you, my boy, and I see you know me. I‚Äôm just trying to place you.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWe met the other midnight at Dullingham Junction,‚Äù said Inigo. + 

‚ÄúOf course we did. And you had the chocolate and biscuits. And a merry little session we had, didn‚Äôt we?‚Äù He lowered his voice. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm just filling in the evening here, you know, just amusing myself. This isn‚Äôt my kind of thing at all.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, I should think not. Have a drink?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThank you, my boy, I will. I‚Äôll have a whisky, just a‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, you might as well make it a double Scotch.‚Äù He lowered his voice again. ‚ÄúIf you told most people you‚Äôd seen Morton Mitcham here, they wouldn‚Äôt believe, simply wouldn‚Äôt believe you. But it amuses me, you know. And I like to show these boys and girls a thing or two. They‚Äôve seen nothing, absolutely nothing.‚Äù + 

The waiter having returned and departed again for the double whisky, Mr.¬ÝMitcham began his performance. A man in a brown hat far too small for him was persuaded to take a card. ‚ÄúLook at that card, sir,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham impressively, ‚Äúexamine it carefully. You may show it to any other members of the audience but don‚Äôt let me see it, ha-ha! Now take this envelope, an ordinary plain white envelope, you observe, and place the card in the envelope and put the flap inside. Don‚Äôt lick the envelope, sir, I may want it again. Now I take the envelope. It is impossible for me to see what the card is. Now follow me closely. I shall place the envelope‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

But here the ripe gentleman created a diversion. ‚ÄúNever mind about cards,‚Äù he cried thickly. ‚ÄúI wanner a bit o‚Äô music.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI say, I shall place the envelope underneath this handkerchief‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI wanner a bit o‚Äô music.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝMitcham frowned at him. ‚ÄúAll in good time, sir, all in good time. Just now I‚Äôm trying to entertain the company with this trick. I shall be much obliged, sir,‚Äù he said severely, ‚Äúif you will not interrupt.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThaz all ri‚Äô, thaz all ri‚Äô!‚Äù He waved a hand, and a large and idiotic smile slowly spread over his rubicund face. + 

‚ÄúIt is, you will observe, an ordinary handkerchief. I slip the envelope underneath‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúBer I like a bit o‚Äô music.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝMitcham stopped and glared. Two or three members of his audience laughed, but a young man in a green cloth cap was very annoyed. ‚ÄúOh, put a sock in it,‚Äù he said to the ripe gentleman, who immediately and very loudly asked him what he meant by it. + 

‚ÄúNow then, gentlemen, give order if you please,‚Äù cried the waiter, who had returned with Mr.¬ÝMitcham‚Äôs double whisky. They gave order, and Mr.¬ÝMitcham was able to finish the trick, which he did by producing the card that was placed in the envelope from the middle of the pack, to the astonishment and admiration of everybody except the ripe gentleman and the two people who were holding hands. Inigo himself thought it a very good trick indeed. The young man in the green cap was loud in his admiration. ‚ÄúClever!‚Äù he cried aggressively. ‚ÄúAnd new to me. Clever!‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI seen it done once before,‚Äù said the man who had first taken the card. ‚ÄúFellow at the Hippodrome ‚Äôere done it.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúMay I ask his name, sir?‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham, frowning. ‚ÄúBecause that‚Äôs my trick. I think you must be mistaken.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, I‚Äôm not,‚Äù replied the other, mildly though firmly. ‚ÄúI seen it all right. And I‚Äôll tell you his name. The Great Julius, that was him. The Great Julius. He was a Yank.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou‚Äôre right, you‚Äôre right,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝMitcham, with hearty condescension. ‚ÄúIf it was the Great Julius, you‚Äôre right. I taught him that trick in Philadelphia in 1910. There was no Great Julius about him then, I can tell you. He was just plain Julius Isenbaum, and nobody could be plainer. Yes, I taught him that trick.‚Äù + 

Inigo gazed at him in admiration, caught his eye, and indicated the presence of the whisky. The great man strode across, gave him a wink and ‚Äúthe best, my boy!‚Äù and halved the liquor in one gulp. Then he produced a number of cards from his elbow, his knee, and the empty air, and finally asked the young man in the green cap, who still said ‚ÄúClever!‚Äù at intervals, to put the four queens wherever he liked in the pack. Mr.¬ÝMitcham then shuffled the pack, held it up in one hand, held it up in the other hand, and put it down on the nearest table. The four queens, however, he produced from the pocket of the ripe gentleman, who had fallen into a doze. This delighted everybody except the ripe gentleman himself, who hit the table and cried: ‚ÄúAll a lorrer bunkum! Lessav a birrer music.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right. Where‚Äôs Joe?‚Äù asked someone. + 

‚ÄúJoe‚Äôs the pianist,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham explained to Inigo. ‚ÄúRegular job here, you know, but hasn‚Äôt turned up tonight. Here‚Äôs the vocalist,‚Äù and he waved a hand at a rather short and flat-faced man who had just entered the room. ‚ÄúHe can‚Äôt do anything, either. But I shall try ‚Äôem with the banjo soon, pianist or no pianist. I‚Äôve kept a whole room going with that banjo in places where there wasn‚Äôt a piano within two or three hundred miles. Believe me, my boy, I‚Äôve travelled a hundred and fifty miles just to play it at a wedding party. That was up in Saskatchewan one time, Ninety-five or Ninety-six, I think it was.‚Äù He finished the whisky, then added: ‚ÄúNo, it wasn‚Äôt. I‚Äôm not telling you the truth.‚Äù Inigo gasped. ‚ÄúIt was in Ninety-four,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham concluded triumphantly. + 

Inigo glanced across at the piano, which was an ancient grand. ‚ÄúLook here,‚Äù he said finally, ‚ÄúI think I could knock something out of that, if you really want a pianist.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOf course you could,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝMitcham enthusiastically. ‚ÄúDidn‚Äôt you tell me the other night you played? You‚Äôre the very man we‚Äôre looking for. Let me see‚ÅÝ‚Äîyour name‚Äôs just slipped‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, Jollifant, is it? Of course it is.‚Äù He beckoned the vocalist and rose impressively at his approach. ‚ÄúMeet Mr.¬ÝJollifant, an old friend of mine, who‚Äôs just turned up and who‚Äôs one of the finest pianists that‚Äôs ever stepped into this town. He‚Äôs just promised to help us out.‚Äù + 

Five minutes later Inigo found himself sitting at the piano with some tattered sheets of music in front of him. It had been arranged that the vocalist should take his turn first. Inigo ran his fingers over the keys, which were very yellow, burned in places, and far too loose. The piano itself, however, was better than he had imagined it to be, and was certainly capable of making a terrific din. He dashed into the opening bars of the first tattered song, and the vocalist, in a voice so hard and so high that it hurt, proclaimed to the Singing Room that he lived in a la‚Äëand of rer‚Äëhoses but he drer‚Äëheamed of a la‚Äëand of sner‚Äëhow. At the conclusion of this astonishing ballad there was a certain amount of applause, led by the ripe gentleman who had been beating time and humming in a vague sort of way. The vocalist treated his ravaged throat to a draught of stout, waited until six newcomers had sat down and given orders, then nodded to Inigo and declared, in his highest and hardest notes, that the woman for him in all the world was just his dear old mother. This was a sentiment that aroused the enthusiasm of the company, and one after another of them joined in until at last they were all asserting that the one woman for them was just their dear old mothers. By the time it was ended, the room was nearly full, and there was so much applause that the vocalist, now purple in the face, had ‚Äúto thank them one and all‚Äù and burst into an encore. Here again it appeared they had all a common enthusiasm, this time for dear old Ireland, especially the colleen in the cabin back in Connemara. Only Inigo, Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, and the waiter appeared to have no tender memories of this colleen. + 

The vocalist departed; Mr.¬ÝMitcham began tuning his banjo; the waiter collected orders and told Inigo to give it a name; more people came crowding in and filled the room with smoke and babble; Mr.¬ÝMitcham whispered instructions and hummed tunes in Inigo‚Äôs ear; the waiter dumped glasses of beer and whisky on the piano; the ripe gentleman vainly demanded more double Scotches; and Inigo emptied the glass in front of him and began to feel excited. + 

Off they went, softly at first, Mr.¬ÝMitcham wagging his head to his lilting twanka-pang, twanka-pang, Inigo vamping away and putting in artful variations. More and more people came crowding in, to tapper-tap-tap with their feet. Mr.¬ÝMitcham wagged furiously, quickening the pace. Inigo never lagged behind for a second and the louder and faster they went, the crazier were his elaborations. He would bring down both hands to crash and rumble in the bass and then would send them tinkling like hey-go-mad in the treble. ‚ÄúQuiet!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝMitcham, and then played as softly and solemnly as it is possible to play a banjo; indeed, you would not have thought it possible. Then after a minute of this‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúlet her go!‚Äù he cried. And they let her go, in a triumph of twanging and panging and tinkling and crashing. And when it was done, the Singing Room let itself go too. There was such a din that the landlord himself looked in and was delighted to see how enthusiastic and hot and thirsty everybody appeared to be. + 

‚ÄúWith your permission, ladies and gentlemen,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham, after he acknowledged the applause, mopped his face, and drained his glass, ‚Äúa little impression of a military patrol. I may say that I first thought of this number when listening to some of our own brave boys up at‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîAllahabad.‚Äù + 

There was a great stamping of feet and banging of glasses, and a red-faced man roared out that the banjoist was a good old something-or-other ‚Äúwallah.‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham bowed his acknowledgements, then produced his impression of a military patrol, which he did simply playing a quickstep very softly at first and gradually increasing the tone. As no accompaniment was necessary, Inigo took another drink from those that were still steadily finding their way to the top of the piano, looked about him, and tried, not very successfully, to simmer down and give the appearance of being an old hand. The military patrol was a tremendous success, and Mr.¬ÝMitcham had to give the latter half of it all over again. He then waved a hand to show that he was completely exhausted. ‚ÄúYou give ‚Äôem something,‚Äù he told Inigo, and emptied several glasses. + 

Inigo promptly played some of his own little tunes, finally arriving at the one we all know too well now, his ‚ÄúSlipping Round the Corner.‚Äù While he was still strumming it quietly, he heard a queer clinking sound and saw the long lean figure of Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham moving about the crowded room. That gentleman of leisure was undoubtedly going round with the hat. Inigo had a shock, but it did not last long. ‚ÄúIn for a penny, in for a pound,‚Äù he told himself, and then added: ‚ÄúIf it is a pound.‚Äù He could hear the feet tapping to his tune. Perhaps he did not play it as well as he had done at Washbury Manor‚ÅÝ‚Äînow a little dark place thousands of miles away‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut he ended by playing it even faster and louder. Nor did he end alone, for Mr.¬ÝMitcham, presumably with the hat, returned to join in with admirable gusto, having picked up the tune. The whole Singing Room was slipping round the corner. + 

‚ÄúTime, gentlemen, please!‚Äù the waiter shouted, but nobody appeared to take any notice of him, except the two performers, who came to a triumphant conclusion. There was no doubt about their reception. The Singing Room had not heard so enthusiastic applause for years. Three glasses were broken. There were cries of ‚ÄúEncore‚Äù and ‚ÄúKeep on, boys.‚Äù But Mr.¬ÝMitcham, still the dignified performer in spite of his dripping face and the innumerable drinks he had consumed, shook his head at Inigo. + 

‚ÄúTime, gentlemen, if you please!‚Äù cried the waiter again now in an agony of supplication. Several moist enthusiasts insisted upon shaking the musicians by the hand, and there was trouble with the ripe gentleman, who was crawling about the floor looking for his hat; but gradually the room was cleared. Inigo felt rather dazed. He saw Mr.¬ÝMitcham very carefully counting a heap of small change. Then he discovered the landlord at his elbow. + 

‚ÄúYou can tickle ‚Äôem all right,‚Äù said the landlord, pointing to the keyboard. ‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôEre, ‚Äôalf a minute.‚Äù And he dragged Inigo to one side. ‚ÄúIf thirty bob a week‚Äôs any good to you,‚Äù he said, lowering his voice, ‚Äúand all the drinks you want, the job‚Äôs yours and Joe can go to ‚Äôell.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThanks,‚Äù Inigo found himself muttering, ‚Äúbut I don‚Äôt want the job, if that‚Äôs what you mean.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs the matter with it?‚Äù the landlord demanded. ‚ÄúYou won‚Äôt get better money in this town, let me tell you.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúBut I‚Äôm not staying on in this town.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAh, that‚Äôs different, that is. Well, you can tickle ‚Äôem all right. Give us a call and a tune any time you‚Äôre round this way. ‚ÄôEre.‚Äù And he dragged Inigo back again, to where Mr.¬ÝMitcham was counting his coppers. ‚ÄúThis is my little contribution, gentlemen.‚Äù He threw a ten shilling note on the heap, drew Mr.¬ÝMitcham on one side to whisper to him, then shouted to the waiter and walked away. + 

Mr.¬ÝMitcham wrapped up the money in a handkerchief. ‚ÄúI know a place where they‚Äôll give us a decent little feed, that is, decent for these parts. There‚Äôs no food really here, of course; you mustn‚Äôt expect it. Now what about giving ourselves a little supper? I‚Äôve hardly had a bite all day, didn‚Äôt want it, you know. I‚Äôm so used to feeding late. Come on then; it‚Äôs not far, just near the station.‚Äù + 

They sat in the window of the upstairs room of the unpretentious little restaurant, which was almost empty. Inigo ordered a mere snack, but Mr.¬ÝMitcham, who gave Inigo the impression of having been on short commons for a day or two, asked for large steaks and bushels of onions and potatoes. As soon as the waitress had gone, he brought out the handkerchief containing the money. ‚ÄúNow, then,‚Äù he began, ‚Äúthe landlord made it ten, didn‚Äôt he? And the takings in the room were twenty-three shillings and ninepence ha‚Äôpenny. That‚Äôs exactly thirty-three shillings and ninepence ha‚Äôpenny. Now what‚Äôs half of that?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúSixteen and something,‚Äù replied Inigo. ‚ÄúBut why do you want to know? Are you thinking of dividing it between us?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNaturally, my boy, naturally! Like an honest trouper! No quibbling about shares, either. I don‚Äôt say,‚Äù he added thoughtfully, ‚Äúthat some of this might not have been a little appreciation of my sleight of hand, and of course you‚Äôd nothing to do with that. That card in the envelope trick went devilishly well, you know. But‚ÅÝ‚Äîshare and share alike, I say, and no quibbling.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI can‚Äôt take any of it. It‚Äôs jolly good of you, but I can‚Äôt.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúYou can‚Äôt?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo. You see‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝMitcham patted him on the arm and at the same time, with great dexterity, swept all the money away with the other hand. ‚ÄúMy dear boy, of course I see. You‚Äôve no need to tell me.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI did it for a lark, you see‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúJust for the fun of the thing and to oblige a friend,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝMitcham enthusiastically. ‚ÄúAnd naturally you wouldn‚Äôt touch a penny of it. I know, because that‚Äôs just how I feel myself. Done it myself many a time. Ask them in Toronto what Morton Mitcham did at old Reilly‚Äôs benefit, or for that fire concert in ‚ÄôFrisco, or the time when the stage hands went out at Melbourne. I know your feelings, know them to a hair, my dear boy. They‚Äôre the feelings of a gentleman, a musician, a true artist. You remind me‚ÅÝ‚Äîeverything you‚Äôve done has reminded me of Captain Dunstan-Carew‚ÅÝ‚Äîplayed for me, played with me, scores of times out in India, and ‚ÄòProud to do it, Mitcham,‚Äô he‚Äôd say, and he was the best amateur pianist out there‚ÅÝ‚Äîand a Dunstan-Carew. You‚Äôve both got the same touch‚ÅÝ‚Äîrecognized it in a minute‚ÅÝ‚Äîa gentlemanly touch, but full of fun, plenty of devil in it.‚Äù + 

Inigo said he was proud to have the same touch as Captain Dunstan-Carew. + 

‚ÄúBut I‚Äôll tell you one thing, my boy,‚Äù continued Mr.¬ÝMitcham. ‚ÄúYou may not let me give you a share of the takings, but you‚Äôre going to let me pay for this supper. I insist. I don‚Äôt care what you‚Äôre having tonight, I insist. The supper is mine.‚Äù He looked first at Inigo and then round the room with such an air of noble generosity that Inigo found it difficult to remember that his own share of the supper would only amount to about tenpence. + 

‚ÄúFor that matter, of course,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham, after he had wolfed in silence the greater part of his steak, ‚Äúthe business tonight‚Äôs been a mere piece of foolery with me. As I told you before, I think, it‚Äôs not at all my line of country. But, the fact is, I‚Äôve been unlucky just lately. You know what it is. Twenty years ago I was landed in the same damned hole. No, it was worse. I was down there in Memphis‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNot Memphis!‚Äù cried Inigo in delight. + 

‚ÄúMemphis,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝMitcham firmly. ‚ÄúAnd I hadn‚Äôt a nickel to my name. And you can imagine what a hole Memphis is when you haven‚Äôt a cent.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúRather!‚Äù cried Inigo. ‚ÄúYou couldn‚Äôt be in a worse place, could you?‚Äù He said this with conviction, though actually all that he knew about Memphis was that it is a city somewhere in the United States. + 

‚ÄúYou couldn‚Äôt. Well, three months afterwards, exactly three months‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere was I? I‚Äôll tell you. I was in a suite on the first floor of the best hotel in all New Orleans, and telegrams pouring in, just pouring in. Go here, go there, go everywhere! Three syndicates all eating out of my hand! I don‚Äôt say it will be the same all over again exactly. Times have changed, my boy, you can take it from me. There‚Äôs not enough money in this country. But as I was saying, I‚Äôve been unlucky just lately. Vaudeville‚Äôs gone to pieces here, absolutely to pieces. And what with one thing and another, these last few weeks I‚Äôve just been living from hand to mouth; on little engagements picked up here and there, some of it damned near to busking. If it was summer, I wouldn‚Äôt mind, but winter‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know what it is. You want a cast-iron contract in winter. I tell you, things have been so bad, I‚Äôve even considered band work, but I couldn‚Äôt get near, couldn‚Äôt get near. The Union, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîthey‚Äôve a union and it won‚Äôt let an outsider come within a mile. Then I thought of concert-party work, pierrot stuff. It‚Äôs a hell of a drop, of course. Mind you, I won‚Äôt say I‚Äôve never done it before. I‚Äôve even done the blackface business, though that was in the days when it still had style.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúBut these concert parties or pierrots or whatever they call themselves, don‚Äôt they just go round, hopping from pier to pier, so to speak, in summer? Won‚Äôt they all have just finished?‚Äù And it struck Inigo that he had not seen any of these troupes for years. Did the men still bend their knees in an idiotic way when they sang choruses? What a life! + 

‚ÄúMost of them have finished now, but some keep on through the winter, doing small inland towns, you know, where people are glad to see anybody.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThey must be,‚Äù said Inigo, who was still turning over his memories. + 

‚ÄúWell, I‚Äôll tell you what I‚Äôm going to do, and I want you to listen very carefully, my boy. I‚Äôm going to see a concert party tomorrw. And I‚Äôll tell you why. I ran across two people I know‚ÅÝ‚Äîdecent nice folks, man and wife, vocalists, but not, I think, absolutely bursting with talent‚ÅÝ‚Äîand they told me they were in a troupe that was running on through the winter and there might be a vacancy or two in the autumn. I saw a notice in The Stage saying they were at Rawsley for two weeks, that‚Äôs not too far from here, and so tomorrow I‚Äôm running over to have a look at ‚Äôem. Now if you‚Äôre doing nothing‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut look here, what are you doing?‚Äù + 

Inigo gave a brief but spirited sketch of his own position. + 

‚ÄúIf you do anything but play the piano,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham earnestly, ‚Äúyou‚Äôre just throwing yourself away. I was watching your work tonight, and I said to myself, ‚ÄòThat boy was born with it. A bit of experience, a few tips from an old hand, and he can go anywhere.‚Äô And believe me, I know. I‚Äôve seen and heard thousands.‚Äù Inigo laughed. ‚ÄúDid you like my tunes?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúCatchy stuff, very catchy stuff, and new to me. Where did you pick ‚Äôem up?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOut of the ether.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúAh, I never bother with this wireless myself,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham judiciously, ‚Äúbut I‚Äôve no doubt you can pick up a good tune or two occasionally if you listen long enough.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, no, I don‚Äôt mean that. I mean, they‚Äôre my own tunes. I make ‚Äôem up myself.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝMitcham stared at him. Then he extended a long yellow hand. ‚ÄúShake that,‚Äù he commanded, ‚Äúand as hard as you like. Now you listen to me. There‚Äôs a pot of money in those tunes if they‚Äôre properly handled. You‚Äôve got the gift, though, mind you, I don‚Äôt say you don‚Äôt need experience or a little advice from people who‚Äôve had experience. After this, I can‚Äôt let you go, I just can‚Äôt. It would be a crime. You‚Äôve just got to stick to the old man, my boy. Come with me tomorrow. If there‚Äôs an opening for me, there‚Äôll have to be one for you too. If there isn‚Äôt, we can move on. We‚Äôll try that stuff out somewhere.‚Äù + 

Inigo had come to the conclusion that it really would be rather a lark. ‚ÄúBut what do they call this pierrot troupe?‚Äù he asked. + 

‚ÄúI‚Äôll tell you in a minute,‚Äù replied the other. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and finally produced a little newspaper cutting. ‚ÄúHere it is. They call themselves ‚ÄòThe Dinky Doos.‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù + 

Inigo gave a yell. ‚ÄúBut I couldn‚Äôt be a Dinky Doo,‚Äù he gasped. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt ask me to be a Dinky Doo.‚Äù + 

Mr.¬ÝMitcham lowered his great eyebrows. ‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs the matter? Do you know the show?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, but the name, the name! It would hurt, absolutely.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNo, a mere nothing, that!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham‚Äôs face cleared, and it was as if the sun had risen upon those black hills of South Dakota he had once mentioned. He stood up, then patted Inigo on the shoulder. ‚ÄúIf I don‚Äôt mind the name, you shouldn‚Äôt. At your age, my dear boy, it doesn‚Äôt matter what they call you or make you wear; you can get away with it. But look at me, at my age! I ask you, do I look like a Dinky Doo?‚Äù + 

He looked fantastic enough for anything, Inigo thought. All that he said, however, was that they might put it to the waitress, who was approaching with the bill. ‚ÄúNow would you say,‚Äù Inigo solemnly inquired of her, ‚Äúthat either of us looked like a Dinky Doo?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúGet on with you!‚Äù said the waitress, who understood this to be some sort of chaff but was too sleepy to bother her head about it. + 

‚ÄúAnd that‚Äôs the answer all right,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham as they walked down the stairs. ‚ÄúGet on with it. I‚Äôll look you up in the morning. Where are you staying?‚Äù + 

And in the morning, quite early, Mr.¬ÝMitcham arrived at Inigo‚Äôs hotel, accompanied by his banjo-case and his large and disreputable bag. He did not say where he had been sleeping, and had the appearance of not having slept anywhere except in his check suit. Two little cross-country trains finally landed them in Rawsley, and in the early afternoon they walked past those Station Refreshment Rooms to which, later, they had to return. Mr.¬ÝMitcham did not know where his acquaintances, whose name was Brundit, were staying, in the town, and it took some time to find their lodgings. Inigo did not see how it was to be done at all, but Mr.¬ÝMitcham, pointing out once more that he was an old hand, declared that everybody in these small towns knew everybody else‚Äôs business and succeeded in uncovering a trail that brought them at last to the temporary home of the Brundits. There, a little woman with five curling-pins stuck round her furrowed forehead gave them cheerless news. The ‚ÄúDinky Doos‚Äù were no more. + 

‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôm sure I‚Äôm right sorry for them. Mr.¬Ýand Mrs.¬ÝBrundit, too. Very nice people, and them with a little boy of their own,‚Äù said the bepinned landlady breathlessly. ‚ÄúOff he goes on Sunday, this chap that‚Äôs running it all, and the young woman that plays the piano for them going with him, and not a penny they‚Äôve had for weeks. And people in the town‚Äôs saying all sorts of things about them‚ÅÝ‚Äîand of course you do want your money, don‚Äôt you, especially these days, when everything‚Äôs top price‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut as I say, and I‚Äôm as much out as anybody, I feel right sorry for them, and didn‚Äôt know where to look when they came and told me, and Mrs.¬ÝBrundit, such a dignified and ladylike person, not like some of them, crying the eyes out of her. And now they‚Äôve gone down to the station to see about something, and they told me they‚Äôd be all having a cup of tea and a bit of a meeting down at Mrs.¬ÝMounder‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs the Station Refreshment Rooms, a tin place, just opposite‚ÅÝ‚Äîand that‚Äôs where you‚Äôre likely to find them, if you ask me.‚Äù + 

That is how they came to be at the Station Refreshment Rooms, entering them‚ÅÝ‚Äîor rather it‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor there was only one large public room in the hut‚ÅÝ‚Äîat the same time as a slender fair woman and her surprising companion, a short but sturdy man who looked like a workman of some kind or other. The four of them seemed to Inigo to make a very odd quartette indeed. + 

There were only six people in the tearoom, and they were all sitting together at the far end. Obviously these were the forlorn entertainers, though they did not sound very forlorn, for they all seemed to be talking at the top of their voices and laughing a great deal. Mr.¬ÝMitcham marched up the room to them, and he was followed by the fair woman who had just come out of the car. Inigo, for once unaccountably shy, hesitated, took off his knapsack, then stopped where he was. He turned to find that the little man who looked like a workman had also stopped. Their eyes met. Inigo raised his eyebrows and gave a little grin. The other replied with a wink. + 

‚ÄúAre these here,‚Äù he began, in a kind of hearty whisper, ‚Äúthe thingumjybobs‚ÅÝ‚Äîpier‚Äërots?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúThey are,‚Äù replied Inigo. ‚ÄúThey call themselves the Dinky Doos.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúEh, they get some daft names!‚Äù Then he added ruminatively: ‚ÄúI know nowt about a Dinky Doo, but it seems to be a queer do all right. But it‚Äôs been nowt but a queer do all t‚Äôweek wi‚Äô me.‚Äù + 

Inigo was amused by his impressive tones and broad accent and earnest open face. ‚ÄúOh, how‚Äôs that?‚Äù he asked. + 

‚ÄúIt began o‚Äô Monday night, when you were i‚Äô bed and fast asleep, lad‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúHalf a minute, my dear sir, half a minute! Let me tell you,‚Äù said Inigo, with mock solemnity, ‚ÄúI was not in bed and fast asleep on Monday night. I never saw a bed that night‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù + 

‚ÄúNer more did I. Nobbut a sofa.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI was in the waiting-room of a Godforsaken place called Dullingham Junction, listening to my friend over there playing his banjo. What do you think about that?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI nivver knew there were so many folk wandering about. Once you‚Äôve fairly set off, you come on ‚Äôem all over t‚Äôplace. Do you know where I was o‚Äô Monday night?‚Äù + 

‚ÄúI give it up.‚Äù + 

‚ÄúOn a lorry wi‚Äô two o‚Äô t‚Äôbiggest rogues you ivver clapped eyes on, coming down t‚ÄôGreat North Road.‚Äù And Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs blue eyes fairly shone with pride. This time he had a listener worthy of him. + 

‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the stuff, absolutely the stuff!‚Äù cried Inigo, beaming upon this droll little Yorkshireman, who was evidently a Romantic like himself. Then he looked down the room, to see Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham beckoning him with waves of his gigantic arm. + 

At that moment a voice came ringing from the centre of the group. ‚ÄúCome on, you two,‚Äù it cried. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt be shy. Hurry up and join in.‚Äù It was a girl‚Äôs voice, casual but a trifle mocking. Inigo heard it with a curious little thrill of excitement that afterwards he was at great pains to explain. He has not forgotten it yet, and perhaps he never will. It came ringing‚ÅÝ‚Äîand up went a curtain. + 

‚ÄúNowt shy about yon lass,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúWell, we‚Äôve come a fair way, we mun join in.‚Äù + 

And that will do very well for the last word now. It is the tag of the first higgledy-piggledy piece, with its glimpses of too familiar backgrounds, scenes that are undoubtedly set scenes, and of roads jogging invitingly out of them, with its scattered hints of discontent and rebellion and escape. Here they all are, our people, and for a little space we darken the stage that holds them, leaving them staring at one another. + 