No. 17. J. Farjeon Jefferson

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      ‘Where are you going to sleep tonight?’ he asked.

      Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw the waitress approaching.

      ‘’Aven’t reely decided yet,’ he answered. ‘Is the Ritz any good?’

      ‘Fourpence,’ said the waitress.

      While Ben forked out, the policeman seemed to be looking at him rather harder. In fact, he was so interested in Ben’s pockets, that Ben turned them inside out.

      ‘No deception, guv’nor,’ he remarked. ‘There goes the end of it.’

      ‘Then it don’t look much like the Ritz for you,’ observed the policeman. ‘But, of course, if you’d done a little post-office robbery today, now, you’d keep your notes in some other pocket, wouldn’t you?’ Ben stared at him, and the policeman laughed. ‘Your face tells your story, mate, as well as your pockets,’ he said. ‘Here’s a shilling for that bed at the Ritz.’

      Ben began to readjust his ideas about the police force.

      ‘Wot’s this?’ he asked. ‘A catch?’

      ‘That depends on you,’ smiled the policeman, and tossed him the coin.

      Ben caught it. It occurred to him that, if he stayed any longer, he might grow sentimental, or the policeman might want his shilling back. Both events would be pitiable. So, slipping the coin into his pocket, he murmured, ‘Toff, guv’nor, yer are—stright!’ and shuffled out of the shop.

      Through the fog once more Ben resumed his strange way, drawing nearer and nearer every moment to the unseen port that was waiting for him. Warmed by the tea, and cheered by his unexpected affluence, he groped his way along while the short day began to slip unnoticed into evening. The death of the day was not marked by gathering darkness, but by a change in the texture of a darkness already present.

      ‘Wunner wot it’s orl abart?’ reflected Ben. ‘Fust that there ticket I picked up in that there pub—Number Seventeen—and then that there tork in that there restrong—Number Seventeen agin. And then them bobbies. And then that feller leavin’ in the middle of ’is meal like that. And then that fice at the winder—Gawd, that give me the creeps, stright! And then those two quarrellin’ quiet-like, and then that bobby torkin’ ter me abart a post-orfice robbery, and then givin’ me a shillin’ becos’ o’ me angel-fice … It’s rum, ’owever yer looks at it … ’Allo. Steady, there!’

      He had swerved against a parapet, and as he collected himself and began to swerve away again, a faint, muffled sound rushed by on the other side of the wall.

      ‘Trine,’ thought Ben, and his mind harped back to the reference to the train in the restaurant. ‘Wot’s funny abart a trine?’

      He swerved a little too far from the wall, and got off the pavement. A bus-driver shouted at him. He shouted back, and returned to the pavement. Progress grew more difficult. Instinctively, he groped about for some quiet district, where the traffic would be less and the expectation of life greater. He walked mechanically for ten minutes, or an hour, or two hours—he couldn’t say which. And then, abruptly, a practical sense entered into him, he realised that he was tired, and that he needed a plan.

      ‘This ain’t no night fer the Embankment,’ he pondered. ‘Besides, ’ow’d one find the blinkin’ Embankment?’

      It would be a pity, too, to waste precious coppers in an apology for a bed—even if he could find that, either. Maybe, if he set seriously to work, he could discover some odd corner to curl into for the night, a corner that would cost him nothing and would allow him to wake up no poorer than he had been when he went to sleep. Somewhere round about here, perhaps. It was quiet enough. Not a sound came to him, not a movement. Even the fog itself hung heavy and static.

      ‘Yus, I’ll ’ave a look rahnd,’ thought Ben, and suddenly stopped dead.

      He was standing by a lamp-post, the light of which revealed dimly the lower portion of an empty house. The door of the house was ajar, and upon it was the number ‘Seventeen.’

       4

       The Empty House

      Ben stared at the number, closed his eyes, opened them again, and then emitted a simple but expressive exclamation.

      ‘Well, I’ll be blowed!’ he gasped. ‘There ain’t no gettin’ away from it!’

      A queer sensation passed through him as he stood on the narrow strip of pavement that divided the lamp-post from the railings, and blinked at the number that had dogged him ever since he had entered the arena of fog. But, after all—why should he get away from it? The number had not hurt him yet. There were hundreds of houses numbered ‘Seventeen.’ And this house was an empty house, with the door ajar!

      ‘Come in!’ the door seemed to say. ‘Here’s your free lodging. I’ve been waiting for you!’

      Ben hesitated, annoyed with himself for his hesitation. This was the very thing he had been looking for. A gift from the gods! Just because …

      ‘G’arn!’ he muttered to himself, and walked to the front steps.

      Now he was on them—there were only four—and the half-open door was two feet in front of his nose. He turned his head, and glanced back into the fog. It was so thick that he could not see the railings he had passed through. The dim light from the lamp-post sent its feeble rays above them, appearing to have no object in the world but to tell a wayfaring seaman that this house was No. 17, and that he must not pass it by. It would hardly have surprised Ben if the lamp-post had suddenly gone out now, its mission done. It appeared to be waning from where he stood.

      Satisfied that nobody was immediately behind him, Ben turned to the door again, crept up to it, and gave it a careful, gentle push. It yielded rather more easily than he had expected, and he prepared to spring back. But nothing jumped out at him. A dark, narrow passage was revealed, and the beginning of an ascending staircase.

      Rounding upon himself once more for his fears, he entered; and as soon as he entered, his fears returned.

      ‘’Ow do I know there ain’t nobody be’ind that door?’ he thought.

      Anxiously, he peeped. Nobody was hiding behind the door. The house was as silent as a tomb.

      ‘Well, we’ll keep the fog aht, any’ow,’ muttered Ben, and closed the front door quickly.

      That was better! Now no one could leap in from the street. To ensure further against this unpleasant possibility, Ben bolted the door, and then turned to other places where leaping creatures might lurk. It will have been noted, long before now, that Ben was not a man of iron; but even a man made of sterner stuff than Ben might be forgiven for a few qualms in a strange, empty house, with a thick fog outside, and no illumination inside.

      To remedy the latter evil—temporarily—Ben struck a match.

      ‘Oi!’ he shouted, as something rose and jumped СКАЧАТЬ