No. 17. J. Farjeon Jefferson

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       Enter No. 17

      Ben stared at the street door, now open wide, and then at the young woman, whose hands were clasped in fright. Ben’s own heart was beating somewhat rapidly.

      ‘Was that yer customer, miss?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, dear! What’s it all mean?’

      Ben had a theory, but, before expounding it, he played for security. Both the street door and the door to the inner room were open. They required closing.

      He walked to the street door first. He peered cautiously out into the wall of yellow, coughed, drew his head in again, and closed the door. Then, even more cautiously, he shuffled across to the inner room, a small portion of which was dimly discernible through the aperture.

      ‘Is anybody in there?’ whispered the woman.

      ‘If there is, ’e can blinkin’ well stay!’ Ben whispered back, as he whipped the door to and locked it. ‘The on’y chap it’d be is that chap wot was at the winder, and if ’e come hin at the winder, then ’e can go hout o’ the winder. I reckon that’s fair, ain’t it?’

      ‘Yes,’ murmured the woman. ‘Why do you suppose he ran out like that?’

      ‘’Cos ’e was runnin’ away from somebody,’ answered Ben obviously, ‘and the somebody was the chap at the winder. Pline as a pikestaff, ain’t it? ’Ide and seek in the fog. Yus, and you thort somethin’ was hup afore I come along, didn’t yer?’

      ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘He acted so peculiar.’

      ‘’Ow—peckyewlier?’

      ‘Well, he put his head in first, and had a quick look round. Then he went out again, and then he came in again. “Say, give me something to eat,” he says, “and I’ve no time to waste.” One of those Yanks. I never did like them. And in he goes to that room just as if the whole place belonged to him.’

      ‘That’s a Yank,’ said Ben.

      ‘And once, when my back was turned,’ she went on, ‘he came out of the room quietly, and gave me such a turn. He went to have a look out of the front door, and I said, “Isn’t the fog awful?” just to make conversation, and he grinned and replied, “I like it.” “I like it,” he said, and then went back to the room sudden, as if it was a joke, Of course, I thought I was just silly,’ she concluded, ‘thinking that way about him. But, you see, I wasn’t!’

      ‘No, you wasn’t,’ agreed Ben. ‘’E’s a wrong ’un.’

      He glanced uneasily at the door of the inner room, and the young woman followed his glance.

      ‘I say,’ she said quietly. ‘Suppose there is somebody in there?’

      ‘That’s why I locked it,’ replied Ben.

      ‘Yes—but oughtn’t we to go in and have a look round?’

      ‘Not till I’ve got somethin’ in me stummick. Wot abart that Carlton lunch, miss?’

      ‘Yes—in a minute,’ she answered, her eyes still glued on the door. ‘I think we ought to have that look round first, though.’

      ‘Wrong order, miss,’ Ben assured her. ‘Eat fust, ’eroism arterwards. It’s a motter in the Merchant Service.’

      But she hardly listened to him. In spite of her fear, a sense of duty was reasserting itself within her, and Ben noted this transition with inward misgivings.

      ‘You wait a minute,’ murmured the young woman, coming away from the counter. ‘I’m going to open that door!’

      Ben protested.

      ‘Wait a minit yerself,’ he said. ‘Ye’r’ actin’ silly.’

      ‘No, I’m not! Unless you mean I’m acting silly standing here, doing nothing.’

      ‘’Ere! ’Arf a mo’!’ gasped Ben, as she made another movement towards the locked door. ‘I’ll show yer ye’r’ silly, if yer like.’

      ‘Go on, then,’ she answered, pausing. ‘But be quick about it.’

      ‘It don’t tike two ticks. Fust, s’pose there ain’t nothin’ in that there room?’

      ‘I don’t suppose there will be.’

      ‘Orl right, then. Wot’s the use o’ wastin’ yer time, goin’ hin?’

      ‘But there might be something.’

      ‘Ah, then you’d be an idjit to go hin,’ exclaimed Ben, triumphantly crowning his point. ‘Get me?’

      ‘I get you that you’ve no pluck,’ she retorted, frowning.

      ‘Ah, you orter seed me in the war, miss. I was blowed up by a mine once, and come dahn singin’.’

      ‘Go on with you!’ she said, trying to remain severe, and finding it rather difficult. He was a queer card. ‘If that’s true, go in there singing!’

      She took hold of his arm, but he backed hastily away.

      ‘That’s dif’rent,’ he frowned. ‘We was orl together in the war like. But—wot’s ter say there ain’t a corpse in there?’

      ‘Here—enough of that!’ cried the woman.

      ‘Lummy!’ muttered Ben, following his new train of thought.

      ‘I’ll bet that’s wot it is. A blinkin’ corpse. That feller at the winder got in arter that Yank, the Yank murders ’im, and ’ops it.’ Gentle perspiration moistened the theorist’s brow as he added, ‘Nah, miss—’oo’s goin’ ter hopen that door?’

      ‘I am,’ responded the woman breathlessly.

      Ben’s theory terrified her, but it also decided her. The man in there might not be dead; he might be merely hurt, and require their aid. The utter silence of the inner room lent colour to these notions. Yes, yes—clearly, the door must be unlocked and opened without any more delay.

      ‘Orl right—yer will ’ave it!’ chattered Ben, as she turned the key. He looked round for a missile or weapon of some sort. A wooden chair was nearest, and he seized that. The door was flung open, and the woman entered.

      Some breathless moments went by. She did not reappear.

      ‘Oi!’ shouted Ben, in a sudden frenzy. ‘Oi!’

      Raising his chair high, he approached the door, but sprang back as the woman suddenly reappeared.

      ‘Lor’ luvvaduck!’ he gasped. ‘Wotcher wanter spring at a feller like that for?’

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