No. 17. J. Farjeon Jefferson

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СКАЧАТЬ his interest, the fog thinned momentarily, allowing the street lamp to shine more clearly on the number ‘17,’ and even revealing, for an instant, the front door.

      The front door was ajar.

      The man with the crooked shoulder looked at the door; then, turning his head, he glanced up and down the street. His eyes, of course, met nothing, since another man could have been standing five feet off without being seen. When he turned his head back to the front door, the fog had thickened again and he could no longer see the door. But he knew the door was ajar, and the knowledge fascinated him.

      He stood there, perhaps, twenty seconds. Then, suddenly, he slipped into the house, and the door closed behind him.

      And now it really seemed as though that silent street of ghosts and whisperings began to wake up and enter the arena of more normal, commonplace matters. A new figure groped its way along the pavement, a figure, this time unsinister and fashionable.

      ‘Hey! W-where are you?’ it stammered. ‘Where the d-dickens—’

      It turned, and looked back—or tried to look back—along the way it had come. A well-dressed young man, with a good-natured, pleasant face, was revealed by the lamp-light. The lamp-post itself was revealed to the young man only when he backed into it.

      ‘Hallo! So there you are!’ he cried, in a voice of relief. ‘Where the devil did you g-get to, old chap? I—’

      He stopped abruptly, as he turned to the lamp-post. Good-humoured annoyance shone on his features.

      ‘Oh! It’s you, is it?’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, h-haven’t you got something b-better to do than to stand there pretending to be a h-h-human being?’

      He brushed himself, then raised his voice and called into the callous mist.

      ‘Fordyce! FORDYCE! Where the devil are you?’ He strained his ears for a reply, but none came. ‘Oh, all right—I don’t care!’ he ran on. ‘But just tell me this. W-what’s the b-bally use of a f-feller who meets a f-feller and can’t stick to a f-feller in a f-fog?’

      No one answered the question. He veered round, shook his fist at the lamp-post, and then leaned against it. In his depressing circumstances, no little bit of comfort the street offered could be neglected.

      ‘What weather!’ he muttered. ‘Lovely! Sunshine in L-London, thirteen hours decimal eight. I don’t think. Je ne pense pas. Ich glaube nicht. And in all the other b-bally languages!… I s’pose this is London? Upon my soul, it m-might be Timbuctoo for all one can s-see of it.’

      He waited a minute, then raised his voice and called again.

      ‘Fordyce! Fordyce! Gilbert Fordyce! Fordyce Gilbert! B-biggest ass that ever was, is, or w-will be, where are you?’ He began to cough suddenly. ‘There, that’s done it! Broken my beastly larynx now. Well, I’ll say this for you, old m-man. You may be a damned fool and s-stutter—yes, some p-people say you d-do stutter—but you’ve got the temper of a bally saint. H-haven’t I, my long friend?’ He gave the lamp-post a friendly, familiar slap. ‘I say, you don’t mind my talking to you, do you, old chap? Thanks, very much. Most awfully obliged. Even a lamp-post’s company—when there ain’t n-nobody else.’

      As though in response, and to show what good company it could be, the light made an extra effort, and illuminated the number on the door-post. The young man stared at the number, and blinked. ‘No. 17, eh? Sweet seventeen! Made a lot of m-money on you once at dear old Monte Carlo. Good old seventeen—hallo! W-who …’

      The front door swung open suddenly, and a figure hurried out. It was the figure of a man with a crooked shoulder. He seemed in a considerable hurry, for he blundered down the steps and was into the young man before he knew it. The young man fell back against the lamp-post.

      ‘What the hell—!’ muttered the blunderer.

      ‘Eh? Oh, don’t mention!’ replied the young man. ‘I like it!’

      The next moment he was alone again. The other had vanished. The young man stared into the void.

      ‘Hi! W-wait a minute!’ he cried, waking up. suddenly. ‘W-what’s the hurry? I’m not c-contagious! Hi!’

      He ran after him, and the road was empty once more. And, almost as though it had waited until there were no observers, the light in the house which had descended from the top now reappeared, and began to ascend again. It flickered dimly behind windows of the ground floor and first floor. Soon, it reached the top floor. Then, all at once, it went out …

      ‘Eddie!’ called a voice, along the street. ‘Eddie! Where are you?’

      A tall, strong-limbed young man felt his way up to the lamp-post. He had come from the same direction as the stutterer, and was in the same predicament. But he did not expend his emotion upon the unresponsive lamp-post. Instead, he paused when he came to it, muttered, ‘Damn!’ and lit a cigarette.

      And as he did so, the door of ‘No. 17’ burst open, and a terrified figure came flying out.

      ‘Hello—what’s all the excitement?’ exclaimed Gilbert Fordyce, catching hold of the flying man’s collar.

      ‘Gawd!’ choked the terrified figure, and hung limp in his captor’s grasp.

       7

       Ben Tells His Story

      Fordyce regarded with sympathy the sorry specimen of humanity hanging limply on his arm, but he did not allow that sympathy to affect his actions or his judgment. Here was some matter, clearly, which required careful investigation, so he tightened his grasp—for many a rascal ‘acts floppy’ before a frantic attempt to escape—and shook his captive gently.

      ‘Now, then,’ he repeated, ‘what’s all the excitement? Come along!’

      His captive made no movement, and Fordyce concluded that he was not shamming. Still, he did not loosen his grip.

      ‘Pull yourself together!’ he urged, with another shake. ‘Wake up!’ He called again more sharply, ‘Wake up!’

      ‘’Elp!’ bellowed the man, suddenly obeying his captor’s injunction, and waking up. He woke up so effectively that he began to struggle.

      ‘Whoa! Steady!’ reproved Fordyce. ‘Don’t be a fool! What’s the matter?’

      ‘Lemme go!’

      ‘Certainly—when you’ve explained your hurry.’

      ‘’Urry,’ chattered the limp figure. ‘Gawd! You’d be in a ’urry if yer’d seed a corpse!’

      Fordyce frowned, and studied the man a little more intently.

      ‘Corpse, eh?’ he said seriously. ‘So you’ve seen a corpse?’

      ‘Yes,’ whined the man. ‘Lemme go, guv’nor. I ain’t done it! СКАЧАТЬ