Ben Sees It Through. J. Farjeon Jefferson

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       1

       The Cap That Started It

      As England grew nearer and nearer, the deck rose and fell, and so did Ben’s stomach; for Ben’s stomach wasn’t what it used to be, and it rebelled against all but the most gentle treatment. It rebelled against the coast that could not keep still, against the taff-rail that went down when the coast went up, and up when the coast went down, against the Channel spray that leapt into the air and descended over you like a venomous fountain, against the wind that sent you bounding forward again after you had bounded back to escape from the spray. Yes, particularly against the wind, for that attacked your meagre raiment, and sent the best piece flying!… Oi!…

      As Ben’s cap flew into the air, Ben flew after it. You or I, richer in earthly possessions, would not have followed it into the ether, but Ben’s possessions had a special value on account of their rarity, and the departure of anyone spelt tragedy. Thus, starting from scratch, he lurched in the cap’s wake, spraying out from the ship’s side like an untidy rocket.

      Then, fortunately, the head that had ill-advised this unwise adventure realised its mistake, and sent an urgent S.O.S. to the boots at the other end. The boots, responding smartly, hooked themselves round the taff-rail. There was a sharp wrench as boots fought Eternity. A moment later, Ben’s head, instead of proceeding outwards, curved downwards, ending upside-down against a port-hole.

      There followed a fleeting glimpse of a converted world. A chair grew down from a ceiling, and a suspended electric lamp grew up from a floor. Then the chair and the electric lamp shot in one direction while Ben shot in another. He felt his nose scraping upwards against the side of the ship. Finally came a bumping; a sensation like an outraged croquet-hoop; and momentary oblivion. When the oblivion was over, Ben found himself back on deck, with the man who had pulled him up bending over him.

      ‘By Jove! That was a narrow shave!’ exclaimed the benefactor.

      ‘Go on!’ mumbled Ben, as he came back to the doubtful gift of life. ‘That ain’t nothink ter some I’ve ’ad!’

      ‘Feeling all right, then?’

      ‘Corse! It does yer good!’

      Reassured, the benefactor took out his cigarette-case. He was a tall young man, with a face that ought to have been pleasant but that somehow was not. He opened the case, and held it out.

      ‘Have one?’ he asked.

      Ben rose unsteadily to his feet and considered the matter. He considered it cautiously. Was it wise to smoke on a stomach that was doing all the things his was doing and that was trying to do many things more?

      ‘I owe you some compensation,’ urged the young man, ‘for I’m afraid it was I who bumped into you.’

      ‘That’s orl right,’ muttered Ben. ‘I was born ter be bumped.’

      The cigarette was gold-tipped, so Ben risked it. After all, you couldn’t feel worse than you felt when you couldn’t feel worse, could you?

      ‘Thank ’e, guv’nor,’ he said.

      ‘Not at all,’ responded the young man, amiably.

      That ought to have been the end of it. Later, Ben wished devoutly that it had been. The young man seemed disposed to continue the conversation, however, and took up a position beside the piece of ragged misery who was smoking, somewhat anxiously, his first State Express 999.

      ‘Been away from England long?’ inquired the young man, amiably.

      ‘Eh?’ blinked Ben.