I

When Mr. Oakroyd 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.

“Na Jess!” somebody cried.

“Na lad!” 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’Mucky Duck, turning into Woolgate, he ran full tilt into somebody, a big man.

“ ’Ere, weer the ’ell are yer coming to!” shouted the big man. Then he saw who it was. “Eh, it’s Jess Oakroyd. Weer yer going, Jess?”

“Off for me holidays, Sam,” replied Mr. Oakroyd, 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’s nephew, who had said last night that he could have a trip whenever he wanted one. Loading at Merryweather’s in Tapp Street, up to eleven o’clock or after, and then going somewhere down South⁠—where was it?⁠—Nuneaton. 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. Oakroyd, 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. Oakroyd trotted up towards it, the engine burst into a roar. In another minute the lorry would be off. “Hi!” cried Mr. Oakroyd, and fairly ran now. It was quivering with impatience.

“Here, Ted,” shouted Mr. Oakroyd, “I’m coming wi’ yer.”

A face he could not see distinctly looked from the driver’s seat. “Less noise, mate,” it said hoarsely. “An’ if yer coming, yer’ll have to get on at the back. There’s only room for two ’ere in front. ’Urry up. Take it or leave it.”

This was certainly not Ted’s voice, but Mr. Oakroyd did not trouble his head about that. “All right,” 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. Oakroyd 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’t 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. Oakroyd 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’t care what happened after this. He could hear himself telling somebody⁠—Lily it ought to be⁠—all about it. “Middle o’ t’night,” he was saying, “we got on t’Great North Road.” 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.

“By gow!” he cried, “this is a bit o’ life, this is. Good old Ted! Good old Oglethorpe! I owe him summat for this.” 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. “Hey there!” came the shout. “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” 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. Oakroyd to see him. He stood still but moved his hand. Above the din of the lorry sounded the policeman’s whistle, that horribly urgent shrilling. Again and again it sounded, but now they were rapidly gaining speed and soon left it far behind. Mr. Oakroyd, 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. Oakroyd 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. Oakroyd 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. Oakroyd 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.

“Where’s that screwdriver?” he heard from the front. It was the voice of the man who had spoken to him in Tapp Street.

It went on: “That’s right. Better stay ’ere, Nobby, and gimme the office if yer see anybody.” The man was climbing out.

“D’yer think ’e took it?” asked the other.

Mr. Oakroyd was astonished. That wasn’t Ted’s voice. Ted was not on the lorry at all, then.

“Whether ’e ’as or ’e ’asn’t, I’m risking nothing,” said the first man. “There’s no going straight through now, and ’owever far we go round, this lorry’s got to ’ave another bloody number before we see daylight. ’Ere, Nobby, yer might as well get down. Chuck us them number plates.”

At this point Mr. Oakroyd thought that he might as well get down too. He fell rather than climbed out⁠—for he was stiff and shivering with cold⁠—and tottered round to the front, rubbing his hands.

“ ’Ello, ’ello!” cried the first man, staring. “I’d fergotten all about yer, mate. You’ve ’ad yer liver and lights shaken up all right, ’aven’t yer?”

“I have an’ all,” replied Mr. Oakroyd grimly. “But where’s Ted?”

“Ted? Ted? Oo the ’ell’s Ted?” demanded the other. And then he stepped forward and peered into Mr. Oakroyd’s face. “And oo the ’ell are you, anyhow? ’Ere, Nobby, this isn’t ’im.”

“Isn’t it?” 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. Oakroyd. “No begod, it isn’t at all. It’s a stranger. He’s a stranger to me, Fred.”

“And to me. ’Ere, wot’s the idea?” he demanded fiercely.

“Ar d’yer mean wot’s the idea?” asked Mr. Oakroyd valiantly.

“I mean wot’s the bloody idea, that’s wot I mean,” he repeated with passion.

Mr. Oakroyd felt very uncomfortable indeed. “Well, this is Ted Oglethorpe’s lorry, isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t Ted anybody’s lorry, this isn’t. It’s our lorry, this is, and I want ter know wot yer doing on it.” 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. Oakroyd 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. “I come on it because I thought it belonged to a friend o’ mine,” he said sturdily. “And you said nowt to stop me neither when I said I were coming.”

“I took yer for somebody else,” said Fred sullenly.

“And I took you for somebody else,” said Mr. Oakroyd. “So that’s that.”

“Well, yer came and yer ’ere and now yer’d better be moving on.” And Fred, turning his back on Mr. Oakroyd, began whistling.

“Half a minute, though,” said Nobby, “we’d better have a bit of a talk about this.” And he beckoned Fred, and the two of them walked away and began whispering. Mr. Oakroyd overheard several phrases, of which one⁠—“knows too much”⁠—was repeated more than once by Nobby.

“If you want to change these numbers,” Mr. Oakroyd called out, “get on wi’ it. It’s nowt to do wi’ me.”

“Not so loud, not so loud,” said Fred, returning with his companion. “All right, Nobby, I’ll get on with it. You can do the patter. Only for God’s sake keep it quiet.” He busied himself with the front number plate.

Nobby brought his large mysterious bulk close to Mr. Oakroyd, and when he spoke his accents were bland and conciliatory. “And where might you be making for, Mister?”

“Well, you see, I thowt I’d move down South for a bit,” explained Mr. Oakroyd. “Leicester way p’raps. I’ve been there afore an’ I’m out of a job and so I thowt I’d try a move.”

“Going at a funny time, wasn’t you?” pursued Nobby, still blandly but with a certain significant emphasis.

“Ay, I was moving late⁠—like you. But this ’ere friend o’ mine had told me he’d be there late, you see, at Merryweather’s i’ Tapp Street.”

“That’s all right, Nobby,” grunted Fred, bending over his task. “Saw it further down and it got off about ten minutes afore we did.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said Nobby smoothly. Then he lowered his voice. “The fact of the matter is, Mister⁠—I dare say you thought one or two things about this job was a bit queer like, didn’t you?⁠—but the fact of the matter is, me and Fred here hasn’t got a licence⁠—driving licence, you know⁠—between us, and so we’re having to do a bit of dodging.”

“It’s no business o’ mine,” replied Mr. Oakroyd reflectively, “but I don’t see how changing t’numbers is going to help you if you haven’t got a licence. You can be pulled up, just t’same. Still, you know your own business.”

Nobby made a smacking noise with his lips, perhaps to suggest that he was thinking deeply. “It’s no good, Mister,” he said at length, “I can see it’s no good trying to deceive you. You’re too smart for that. Well, it’s like this.” And now he whispered with a most engaging conspiratorial air. “A 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’t get his, they won’t part. It’s his but they won’t part till they’re forced. He comes to me and asks me to get it away for him. Once it’s gone, all right, no trouble. It’ll save a law job. They can’t get at him ’cos it’s 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’re sportsmen, we are, and we’ll take a bit of a risk obliging a friend, we will.”

“Ay,” said Mr. Oakroyd, who did not believe a word of all this. “So you’re keeping it quiet like. And who did you think I was?”

“Well, you see, Mister, there was a feller in the warehouse we’d got to know,” began Nobby hopefully.

“Ay,” said Mr. Oakroyd, 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. “If they’re looking for WR 7684, they’ll be looking a bloody long time,” he announced. “Now what’s on? Is this where ’e gets off or does ’e work ’is passage a bit farther?” And he glanced from Nobby to Mr. Oakroyd.

The latter regarded him without enthusiasm. “T’other’s bigger rogue, I’ll be bound,” he told himself, “but he is a bit friendly wi’ it. This chap ’ud knock you on t’head wi’ a big spanner as soon as look at you.” He thought it wiser to let Nobby answer for him.

“He’s all right,” said Nobby. “We can take him a bit farther. He’s a sportsman, he is. Best thing we can do is to lay up a bit. Can’t get through to London, now,” he added, lowering his voice and addressing himself to Fred; “that’s finished. We’ll have to wire him tomorrow and make the other way.”

“All right, mate,” said Fred. “I could do with a bit of shuteye and a drink and a bite of something.”

“So could I,” said Nobby, who seemed to be thinking deeply.

And Mr. Oakroyd realized that he could, too. He felt cold and hungry, heavy for lack of sleep.

“Not a bleedin’ chance round ’ere,” said Fred disgustedly. “We’re right off the rotten map.”

“Half a minute, half a minute,” cried Nobby. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere between Rotherham and Nottingham. There’s a signpost there. See wot it says. But ’urry up, for God’s sake. Let’s get moving.”

“Good enough!” cried Nobby, after he had inspected the signpost. “I’ve been round here before all right. You can’t lose me, chum.”

“Wot’s the idea?”

“I’ll show you,” said Nobby, with enthusiasm. “You 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’ll show you. Get up at the back, Mister, if you’re coming with us.”

“I’m coming all right,” said Mr. Oakroyd, who had been shivering for the last ten minutes. He moved off, to climb up again.

“Big Annie. Keeps the Kirkworth Inn,” he heard Nobby say, in reply to some further question from Fred. “You must have been there, or heard of her. She’s all right, Annie is.”

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. Oakroyd 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. Oakroyd 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.

“Sure it’ll be all right?” asked Fred uneasily. “We’ve made a ’ell of a bad break if we tell ’er oo we are and then there’s nothing doin’. Got us taped then.”

But Nobby was still confident. “Leave it to me. She knows me and I know her. It’ll be all right.” 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: “Wot is it? Wot yer making that noise for? Wot d’yer want?”

Nobby called up: “Is that you, Annie? It’s me, Nobby Clarke. You remember me?”

“Who is it?” she screeched.

“Nobby Clarke. You remember me. Been here before, pal of Chuffy and Steve and that lot. Remember the Yarmouth do, Annie?”

“Oh, it’s you, is it? Well, wot yer want coming at this time for, knocking me up?”

“You slip down and I’ll tell you all about it, Annie. Me teeth’s chattering here so much I can’t talk.”

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

“Nobby’s pullin’ it off,” the relieved Fred confided to Mr. Oakroyd. “Soon as I see ’er come down, I knew it was all right. They’ve only got to listen an’ Nobby’ll talk ’em into anything. Gor, ’e can talk.” And Fred spat out very noisily to show his appreciation, then lit about half an inch of cigarette.

Nobby came bustling out in triumph. “All right, chums,” he cried. “It’s 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’ll let you both in there.”

Mr. Oakroyd 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.

“This is Annie, Mrs. Croucher,” said Nobby, putting down the bellows to wave a hand. “And this is Fred⁠—Fred⁠—”

“Smith,” 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.

“Fred Smith,” continued Nobby blandly. “And he’s on the job with me, he is. And this other’s a chap who’s been travelling with us owing to a bit of a mistake.” And he looked questioningly at Mr. Oakroyd.

“Oakroyd’s my name.”

“Oakroyd’s his name, and he’s a sportsman else he wouldn’t be with us.” And Nobby fell to blowing the fire again and soon had it blazing.

“Well, lads, wot’s it yer want?” demanded their hostess. “ ’Cos if it’s steaks and chips and feather beds, you’ve got a bloody hope.”

“Anything, Annie, anything,” replied Nobby. “A bit of bread and meat, if you’ve got it. And a drink. What’s it to be, chum? Beer’s too cold. I’ll tell you what. I’d like a drop o’ tea with some rum in it, good old sergeant-major’s.”

“That’s the stuff, mate,” said Fred.

“It’ll do me a treat,” said Mr. Oakroyd, who was just beginning to feel warm again but still suffered from a gnawing hollow inside him. He looked hopefully at the formidable Annie.

“Anything to oblige,” said Annie, “and I’ll take a drop wi’ yer. ’Ere, Nobby, put this kettle on.” 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. Oakroyd, 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. “That’s putting some ’eart into yer, I can see,” she observed complacently. “And wot’s the next move, lads?”

“Shuteye,” announced Fred, from the depths of his enormous sandwich.

“That’s right,” said Nobby. “Just pass the little old brown jug, will you, Mister? This’ll stand a bit more rum. Yes, we’ll have to kip down for an hour or two, Annie.”

“It’ll ’ave to be down ’ere,” said Annie. “But put a bit o’ wood on the fire an’ you’ll be all right.”

“Leave it to us, Annie. And here’s the best.” Nobby raised his mug and emptied it in her honour. “You’ve done us proud, you have. We’re all right. Leave it to us.”

“Going to,” said Annie. “Gettin’ back to bed now. I’ll ’ear ’ow the game’s goin’ and all the news in the morning. And for God’s sake don’t show a light in front. And ’ere, I’ll take the damages now. It’ll be six shillings the lot, which is cheap enough, seein’ yer’ve ’ad a noggin o’ rum between yer.”

“Good enough,” said Nobby, fumbling in his pockets.

Then Mr. Oakroyd, full of tea and rum and beef and bread, feeling cosy, companionable, and sleepy, did a foolish thing. “Here,” he cried, “I’m a chap as likes to stand me corner. I’ll pay for this. Six shillin’, is it?” He searched his pockets but could only discover a solitary sixpence. He must have put all the loose money he had with his week’s 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. “Half a minute,” he said, and in his anxiety to foot the bill promptly, he was clumsy and brought out all four banknotes.

“Gor!” cried Fred, bending forward. “Oo’s this we ’ave with us?⁠—Mr. bloody Rockiefeller. Been touchin’ up a bank, mate?”

Mr. Oakroyd 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. “Can you change this, Missis?”

“No, I can’t,” she replied very emphatically. “An’ if I could, I wouldn’t. Yer don’t land me with one of ’em, oh no! Yer’ve been doin’ well, ’aven’t yer?” she added significantly.

“All right, Mister. All right, Annie,” Nobby put in smoothly. “I’ll settle this. Six shillings.”

“Be good then, an’ turn that light out as soon as you get down to it.” 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: “Boots off’s half a bed,” they took off their boots. In the survey of the room and discussion that immediately followed, Mr. Oakroyd, to his gratified surprise, was awarded the old sofa in the corner.

“You’re best off there, Mister,” said Nobby earnestly, “and you’re entitled to it, as a sportsman. Isn’t he, Fred?”

“ ’E can ’ave it for me,” muttered Fred, spreading himself across two chairs.

Mr. Oakroyd 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 “Yarmouth do,” 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. Oakroyd 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. Oakroyd 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.

“Hello!” he said to the girl. He was standing up now, stretching himself.

She stared at him dully. “ ’Ello!” she said. “Time you woke too.”

“What time is it?” he asked. He did not possess a watch. Bruddersford has an elaborate system of factory buzzers⁠—usually known as “whews”⁠—that keeps its humbler citizens informed of the time.

“ ’Alf-pass-teight. Missus told me to wake yer.” Mr. Oakroyd looked about him. “ ’Ere,” he cried, “where’s t’other two?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?” He looked at her, bewildered.

“Missus said so. I never seed ’em. They must ha’ gone before I come in.”

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.

“That’s right,” she cried shrilly, “they’ve gone an’ long since. Time you went too. I can’t do with yer ’ere.”

“All right, all right, Missis,” he replied, trying to smile at her and not succeeding. “I don’t want to be in t’way. But I’ve no but just now wakened up. Give us a chance. I suppose I can have a bit of a wash like an’ summat to eat, a bit o’ breakfast?”

“No, that yer can’t.” She was quite passionate in her refusal.

“Why, what’s up, Missis? I can pay for owt I have.”

“No, yer can’t pay for it, not ’ere. I don’t want your sort ’ere.”

“Ar d’you mean ‘my sort’?” he demanded, his pugnacity aroused. “What’s wrong wi’ my sort? If you said them sort as brought me here last night, yer friend Nobby an’ t’other chap, I’d know what you was talking about. I know that sort, let me tell you⁠—”

“ ’Ere,” she cried in a fury, “I don’t want any bloody argy-bargying. They’ve gone, and that’s all about it. You go now, sharp as yer can. I’ve told yer I don’t want yer ’ere.” She turned and went padding away. At the door, however, she wheeled round. “An’ don’t try comin’ ’ere again either, ’cos yer won’t get in, let me tell yer. Huh. My sort!” She gave him another elephantine snort and then turned her back on him again.

Mr. Oakroyd pulled his little brown cap firmly over his head, fastened his mackintosh to the basket trunk again, and took up his bag of tools. “I’m off then,” he said to the girl. “I suppose there’s other places where I can get a wash and a bite. I don’t seem to be what you might call in favour here. What’s matter with her?”

“I dunno. Old bitch!” the girl said vindictively.

“Well, you know her better ner I do,” observed Mr. Oakroyd. “And I must say this going out mucky an’ empty’s nowt i’ my line. Nar where do I get to from here? Where’s t’nearest place where I can get a bit of a wash and suchlike, summat to eat?”

The girl came out into the yard with him. “Yer best way’s to yer right, straight on then,” she said. “Capbridge is first, but that’s no good, only a little place. Yer want to foller the road on to Everwell. Yer’ll be all right there. There’s tearooms and all sorts in Everwell.”

“I should think so with a name like that,” said Mr. Oakroyd. “And how far’s this Everwell then?”

“Five or six miles. Turn to yer right and straight on then, through Capbridge, and straight on again. Yer can’t miss it.”

“Any trams or buses or owt?”

“There’s a bus comes past ’ere at two,” she replied.

“Two! I’ll ’a’ pined to death afore two,” he cried. “I mun walk, that’s all. And tell your missis from me not to kill hersen wi’ doin’ ower many good works an’ kind actions, tell her she owt to look after hersen a bit more, she’s wearing hersen away to t’bone.” 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. Oakroyd 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.

“Hey!” he cried, when the cart was almost upon him. “You going to Everwell, mate?”

“No, I’m not,” said the driver, and passed him without another word or glance.

“That’s another o’ Big Annie’s tribe, I’m thinking, lad,” muttered Mr. Oakroyd 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. Oakroyd halted again, to rest his arms and to look about him in disgust. Somehow the sight of the place annoyed him. “Daft little hole,” he told himself. “I wouldn’t ha’ a bit o’ food given here, I wouldn’t.” There was an ancient signpost near the bridge that said: “Everwell 4 mls.,” and after casting a somewhat melancholy glance at this, he moved on again. “They don’t know a mile when they see one round here,” he concluded angrily. “I’ve come three now if I’ve come a yard, and I’ll bet this next fower mile’s more like ten.”

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.

“Y’oughter go to Poppleby’s,” quavered the ancient driver. “Poppleby’s eatin’ place. It’s rare and good there, it is.”

“Right you are,” roared Mr. Oakroyd. “I’ll go there. Where is it?”

“Yes, it’s the best there is. I goes every Saturday night and has meat-and-’tater pie, every Saturday. I ’as a pint over at Old Crown, then goes for me meat-and-’tater pie.”

“I said ‘Where is it?’ ”

“Ay, cheap enough for them as can afford it,” said the old man. Then, when they turned the next corner, he pointed with his whip. “Yon’s Poppleby’s. Yer can get down ’ere.” He pulled up.

Mr. Oakroyd descended and collected his luggage. “That’ll do me nicely,” he cried loudly. “And thanks for the lift.”

“Eh?” The old man leaned forward.

“Thanks for the lift.” By this time Mr. Oakroyd was hoarse. “I say, thanks for the lift.”

“O’ course you can, any time,” replied the old man mysteriously. He looked at Mr. Oakroyd reproachfully. “I call that a silly question,” he said at length, and he drove away, grumbling.

The notice, in large if faded letters, ran: Good Pull Up. Poppleby’s Dining-Rooms. Cyclists Catered For. Mr. Oakroyd 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’s Best, some little cakes covered with what had once been bright pink icing, and innumerable generations of flies. Mr. Oakroyd 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. Oakroyd’s 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’s in the atmosphere of cooking and eating⁠—the 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—that 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. Oakroyd could only walk in to discover that he was even hungrier than he imagined, to wait for Mr. Poppleby with a watering mouth.

This is exactly what Mr. Oakroyd 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.

“Morning.” The man shot up from behind the counter as if he were part of a conjuring trick. It could only be Mr. Poppleby 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—whitish and faintly greasy. Even his eyes were a pale grey, had a jellied look.

“Morning,” said Mr. Oakroyd, still staring. “Er⁠—lemme⁠—see⁠—er⁠—”

“Tea-coffee-cocoa-bacon-and-egg-bacon-and-sausage-kipper-boiled-egg-plate-of-cold-meat-bread-and-butter,” said Mr. Poppleby, keeping his prominent eyes fixed on Mr. Oakroyd’s with never a blink.

Mr. Oakroyd gazed at him with admiration, then removed his little brown cap, possibly as a tribute. “That sounds a bit of all right. I’ll ha’ a pot o’ tea and you can do me two rashers and two eggs. And plenty o’ bread, Mister,” he added.

“Pot⁠—of⁠—tea⁠—two⁠—rashers⁠—two⁠—eggs⁠—four⁠—slices⁠—bread.” Mr. Poppleby turned away.

“ ’Ere, I say,” cried Mr. Oakroyd. “Can I have a bit of a wash afore I start? Been on t’road most o’ t’night⁠—wi’ a lorry,” and he added this not without a certain touch of pride.

“Certainly you can ’ave a wash, my friend, certainly,” replied Mr. Poppleby with impressive gravity. “You just come this way and I’ll find you a wash. I’m not saying it’s usual⁠—it isn’t usual⁠—but it’s no worse for that, is it? You don’t want to sit down to your food all dirty, an’ I don’t want to see you sitting down to it all dirty, and we’re two feller men, aren’t we? That’s right, isn’t it? Well, you come this way then.” And off he went, with Mr. Oakroyd in attendance. They arrived at a tiny scullery, and Mr. Poppleby 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. “ ’Ere you are, my friend,” he continued. “You can wash ’ere to your ’eart’s content. And while you’re ’aving your wash, we’ll be dishing up your bacon and your eggs. That’s fair dealing between man and man, isn’t it? Give a man what he asks for⁠—in reason, y’know, for there’s reason in everything⁠—but anyhow, try to give a man what ’e asks for⁠—that’s my motto.” And thus concluding a trifle unctuously, Mr. Poppleby withdrew.

“Who does he think he is⁠—Lloyd George?” muttered Mr. Oakroyd as he took off his coat. He saw that the envelope was still safely stowed away in the breast pocket. “To hear him talk, you’d think he was offering me a steam bath wi’ shampoos an’ fingernail cutting to foiler.” 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. Poppleby, 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.

“Your bacon and your eggs’ll be ready in one minute,” said Mr. Poppleby, returning to his counter.

“Good enough,” cried Mr. Oakroyd, rubbing his hands. “I’m fair pining, I can tell you.”

“We’ll soon put that right.” And no consulting surgeon could have said this more impressively. “So you’ve been on the road, eh?”

“I have an’ all,” said Mr. Oakroyd. “Come down t’Great North Road last night.” But, somewhat to his surprise, this did not appear to impress his host.

“Well, what I say is this,” Mr. Poppleby began even more weightily than before. “It’s all right if you take it all in the right way. What I mean is, if it makes you more yuman, it’s all right. If it doesn’t it’s all wrong. If I’ve said it once to customers ’ere, I’ve said it a thousand times, just standing ’ere like I am now, talking to somebody like yourself. ‘Does it,’ I said, ‘make you more yuman? ’Cos if it doesn’t, keep it.’ I take a broad view, and when I say yuman, I mean yuman. I believe⁠—” and here he fixed his prominent eyes unwinkingly upon Mr. Oakroyd⁠—“in yumanity.”

“That’s right, Mister,” replied Mr. Oakroyd heartily but with a certain philosophical sternness. “I see your point and I’m with yer.” 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.

“What I say is, ask yourself all the time ‘Is it yuman?’ If it isn’t, don’t touch it. Let it alone. Pass it by. That’s my motto⁠—yumanity first⁠—and that’s the rule ’ere, as you saw right off when you asked for a wash. Take the yuman line, I say, and it’ll pay you every time.” He now condescended to hear the knocking, and brought out the bacon and eggs. “There you are, my friend,” 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. Oakroyd, 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. Poppleby, 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. Oakroyd was ready to open the conversation again. He felt friendly, expansive.

“What allus beats me,” he announced, “is this here ‘Cyclists Catered For.’ What’s difference between cyclists and t’other folk as comes?”

“ ’Am chiefly,” replied Mr. Poppleby thoughtfully. “Cyclists is great on ’am. I’ve seen the day when one of these cycling clubs would run me right out of ’am by six o’clock Saturday. Mind you, I’m not talking about last week, nor the week before, nor last year, nor the year before that, I’m talking about before the War. Properly speaking, there’s no cyclists now, not to call cyclists. You might get one now and again, coming on a bike, but there’s no real cycling, couples off together, and clubs, and suchlike. That’s gone, that’ll never come back. When I started ’ere, it was all traps and carts and whatnot on weekday, and then cyclists⁠—with a few regular locals coming in, of course⁠—at weekends. Now, it’s all cars and lorries. And what ’appens? They don’t stop at a place like this but goes on to big towns and stops there. That’s what’s hit this business so ’ard, my friend. It isn’t what it was, I can tell you.”

“Nowt’s what it wor,” said Mr. Oakroyd with a kind of cheerful melancholy. “I’ve seen some changes i’ my time. You take textile trade nar⁠—”

But Mr. Poppleby was not taking it. “That is so. And what’s it amount to, what’s the real difference between them times and these? That’s the question I always ask.”

“And you’re quite right, mate, to ask it,” Mr. Oakroyd put in warmly.

“And what’s the answer? What’s the answer?” And Mr. Poppleby hurried on so that he could supply it himself. “It’s less yuman, that’s the difference.” And he paused, triumphantly, gazing at Mr. Oakroyd, 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. Oakroyd slowly sent a few of its kindly blue clouds rolling through the air, and waited for Mr. Poppleby to continue.

“I’ve no need to tell a man like you what I mean by ‘yuman,’ ” Mr. Poppleby went on. “I mean there’s less of the good old man-to-man spirit. It’s take what you can get and run, nowadays. Money and grab and rush, that’s what it is. When you’re running a business like this, you see life, you know what’s ’appening in the world, you talk to all sorts. Of course there’s some men in the catering that’s as ignorant as you like⁠—and why?⁠—’cos they don’t make use of the hopportunities of the business; they see a customer come in, gets ’is 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’s ’ow I go on. I’m learning from you.”

“Ay,” said Mr. Oakroyd, who could not help wondering, however, what it was that the other was learning from him. “He doesn’t gi’ me a chance to tell him nowt,” he told himself, and, feeling that he had had enough of Mr. Poppleby’s conversation, he said: “Well, what’s t’damage?”

“Lemme see,” replied Mr. Poppleby. “Pot-of-tea-two-rashers-two-eggs-four-slices-bread. That’ll be one and eight. And a fair price if you ask me.”

“Ay, I dare say,” said Mr. Oakroyd, who thought it stiffish. He felt in his pockets and once again produced the solitary sixpence. “I shall ha’ to ask you to do a bit o’ changing for me,” he remarked, producing the envelope from his breast pocket.

“We’ll try to manage that.” Mr. Poppleby made a noise that faintly suggested he was laughing. “You want the change and I want you to ’ave it, and we’re both satisfied and nobody’s the worse. That’s the yuman line, isn’t it?”

But Mr. Oakroyd 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 “Wishing you a Merry Xmas & a Happy New Year. XXX.” 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.

“ ’Ere,” he cried, “I’ve been robbed. Look at this. I’d twenty pound i’ there last night, fower five-pound notes, and sitha, there’s nowt there but a bit o’ paper. I’ve been robbed and I know who did it.” But when he looked at Mr. Poppleby, he saw that that gentleman was regarding him coldly, with raised eyebrows.

“It’ll be one and eight,” repeated Mr. Poppleby.

This made Mr. Oakroyd very angry. “I tell you I’ve been robbed o’ twenty pound. I haven’t one and eight. I’ve got sixpence, and there it is, and that’s all I have got. And I know who did it and where it happened too. It were two fellers wi’ a lorry at t’Kirkworth Inn last night.”

“Are you trying to tell me you lost twenty pound, four five-pound notes, at the Kirkworth Inn last night?” demanded Mr. Poppleby. “Because if you are, I’m 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’s no business of mine; you go your way and I’ll go mine⁠—though 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’s what I want from you⁠—one and eight.”

“And that’s what you can’t get from me, Mister,” cried Mr. Oakroyd, exasperated. “Aren’t I telling you that I’ve nobbut sixpence in t’world? ’Ere, look ’ere.” And rising to his feet, he turned out his trousers pockets. “Twenty pounds I’ve lost, all I’d got but this here sixpence. Eh, but I was a gert blunder-heead!”

“You’re not the first that’s tried it on,” said Mr. Poppleby, steadily.

“Ar d’you mean?” cried Mr. Oakroyd. “I’m not trying anything on. When I come in here, I thought I’d twenty pound i’ my pocket. I didn’t know I’d been robbed.”

“And I didn’t know, neither,” observed the other, eyeing him suspiciously. “This has happened before ’ere, I’ll tell you. And I go on trusting people. You come in ’ere and you ’ave my eggs and my bacon and my tea⁠—”

“Ay, and your bread and your lump o’ washing soap and your mucky towel and your drop o’ water,” Mr. Oakroyd added with great bitterness. “Go on, go on. You’ve lost one and eight and I’ve lost twenty pound, and it’s bad luck for both on us, but it’s a dam’ sight war for me. ’Ere, there’s sixpence, and that knocks it down to one and two. Well, I’ll settle wi’ thee, lad.” And Mr. Oakroyd, in a frenzy of irritation, rushed to his bag of tools and took out a chisel. “You see that chisel? It’s worth more ner any one and two, is that, and you can ha’ that for your one and two. And when I can pay your fowerteen pence, I will, for I’d rather ha’ that chisel than all t’shop you’ve got. Ay, even if you cleaned it up,” he added vindictively.

Mr. Poppleby came forward, picked up the sixpence, and examined the chisel. “A chisel’s no good to me,” he said slowly, “but I suppose I’d better let you go. I like to take a yuman line⁠—”

“Yuman line! T‑t‑t‑t. Yuman nothing!” Mr. Oakroyd was very scornful as he gathered his things together.

“That’ll do, that’ll do,” Mr. Poppleby’s philosophical vanity was hurt now. “But let me tell you, my friend, you can’t do these sort o’ things ’ere. Don’t try it again. I tell you, you can’t do it.”

“And let me tell you summat, Mister,” said Mr. Oakroyd, moving to the door. “There’s summat you can’t do, neither.”

“Ho, indeed! And what’s that?”

“You can’t fry eggs.” And Mr. Oakroyd, 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.

“I had him nicely about them eggs.” 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. Oakroyd saw the curious motor-van. Since leaving Poppleby’s 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. Oakroyd 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’s eye, Mr. Oakroyd 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.

“Yond chap can’t handle a saw,” 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. Oakroyd 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. Oakroyd or any of Mr. Oakroyd’s friends. Nevertheless, his appearance did not clash at all with that of the van. There was about him an air of vagabondage that Mr. Oakroyd 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. Oakroyd had been standing there a minute or two. “Nice day, George,” he remarked with a wink.

“Ay,” said Mr. Oakroyd; and then, not to be outdone in this matter of handing out names, he added, dryly: “Nice enough, Herbert.”

“ ’Ere,” said the man, straightening himself, “now I ask you. Do I look like Herbert?”

“Nay, I don’t know.” Mr. Oakroyd paused a moment. “But I’ll tell you what you don’t look like, if you ask me.”

“Go on, George. I’ll buy it.”

“You don’t look like a chap as knows how to use a saw,” replied Mr. Oakroyd, softening the severity of this criticism with a companionable grin.

“Oh! Now we’re ’earing something, aren’t we?” He dove into his waistcoat pocket, fished out a packet of Woodbines and a box of matches, and lit up. “Do you know all about saws, George?” he inquired amiably.

Mr. Oakroyd’s reply to this was to fetch his bag of tools and dump it down at the other’s feet. “You tell me what you’re trying to do, mate,” he said earnestly, “and I’ll soon show you what I know about saws.”

“ ’Ello, ’ello!” the man cried in mock astonishment. “What’s the ruddy idea? You a tradesman, George?”

“I am an’ all,” replied Mr. Oakroyd, not without pride. “I’m a joiner and carpenter by trade.”

“Well, I’ll tell you something now. My turn, see. You don’t come from round ’ere. You come from Leeds.”

“Nay, I don’t. I come from Bruddersford.” And this seemed to Mr. Oakroyd a different thing altogether from coming from Leeds, and so he was triumphant.

“Near enough,” said the other complacently. “Knew you came from that way. Tell it in a minute. Bruddersford, eh? Know Lane End Fair?”

“Tide, you mean.”

“That’s right. Lane End Tide. All ‘tides’ round there, aren’t they? Don’t call ’em fairs.”

“Course I know it,” said Mr. Oakroyd.

“So do I,” exclaimed the man in triumph. “Been there many a time. I gave it a miss this year but was there last year. What are you doing round ’ere? Looking for a job?”

“Ay, I’m looking for a job, nar,” said Mr. Oakroyd bitterly. “I’ll ha’ to get one right sharp, too. I’ve been landed properly, I have.” 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.

“Where did you get the fivers from?” asked the other, at the end of the story. “Back a winner?”

“Nay, I never put owt on horses. But another chap had backed a lot o’ winners seemingly.” 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.

“Easy come, easy go, that,” he observed. Then he reflected. “What did you say the name of that feller was, the one with the lorry? Nobby Clarke? I’ve known a few Nobby Clarkes in my time. One or two’ud 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?”

“Nay, this chap was a big fat feller wi’ a big round bilberry face on him the size o’ two,” said Mr. Oakroyd. “A smoothtalking chap, he wore, though I thought he were a bit of a rogue as soon as I clapped eyes on him.”

“I believe I know that feller. Nobby Clarke. Nobby Clarke? A feller like that used to go round with Mason’s Magic and Mysteries, and ’e might have called ’imself Nobby Clarke. I shall remember ’im. If I saw ’im myself I should know in a minute. Never forget a dial. I meet a feller and say ‘ ’Ello, saw you at so-and-so five years ago, six years, seven years, ten years ago,’ whatever it is; and ’e says ‘That’s right. I was there. Don’t remember you’; and I says ‘No, but I remember you.’ I’m right every time. Marvellous, isn’t it?”

“And so you’re one o’ these as goes wi’ t’tides⁠—fairs⁠—like?”

“That’s me! My name’s Jackson. What’s yours?”

“Oakroyd. Jess Oakroyd.”

“Oakroyd. Good enough! Well, mine’s Jackson⁠—Joby they call me⁠—Joby Jackson. Everybody in this line o’ 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—you ask anybody⁠—Joby Jackson. Boxing shows, circus, try-your-luck games, everything. I’ve run shows of me own⁠—Human Spider and Wild Man o’ the Amazon. You can’t name a place where they ’ave a fair or a race-meeting I ’aven’t been to, you can’t do it. I know ’em all. England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Isle o’ Man, Isle o’ Wight, you can’t lose me. Marvellous!” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the van. “On a steady line now. I’m selling ’em something. Got ter do it⁠—isn’t enough money about for the old games⁠—you’ve got to sell ’em something now. Rubber toys is my line, rubber dolls, rubber animals⁠—you blow ’em up”⁠—and here he blew away, for he was a man who illustrated his talk with innumerable rapid and vivid gestures⁠—“and there y’are. Seen ’em? Good line⁠—plenty o’ profit⁠—easy to carry⁠—all flat, you see, light as a feather. Get a good day and they sell like beer in barracks. Some days you can’t sell anything⁠—you wouldn’t get buyers if you were offering bottles o’ Scotch at ninepence a time. But get a good day⁠—” 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—“marvellous. Only thing is, too much competition! They’re all tumbling to it, all coming in now. When a few more gets in, I shall get out, see? I’ll try something else, sell ’em something new. That’s the idear, isn’t it, George?”

“And you go round i’ this?” Mr. Oakroyd looked at the van.

“That’s it,” replied Joby, with enthusiasm. “Take a dekko at ’er. Not exactly a ruddy Rolls-Royce, but she moves, George, she moves. You can’t get more than twenty miles an hour out of ’er, ’cept down steep ’ills, but that’s enough, what d’you say? Got ’er for fifteen quid⁠—a gift; then ’ad a winder put in, then a bunk, then a couple o’ bunks. If I don’t want to sleep anywhere else, I sleep in there, see? I’m sleeping in there tonight. Got a little stove in there, carry all my stock in it, stall and all. ’Ere, I was trying to patch up the old stall when you come ’ere. It got a nasty knock yesterday. Like to see what you could do with it? I’m no good with my ’ands. Funny thing isn’t it? I can sell anything, do the patter, but can’t use my ’ands; must ’ave been born a ruddy gentleman. Like to ’ave a do at the old stall, George? I’ll see you’re all right.”

“Leave it to me, mate,” cried Mr. Oakroyd, delighted. “Let’s have a look at t’rest of it. Got any nuts and bolts and three-inch nails?” 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. “Nar then,” said Mr. Oakroyd, “you tell me what you want and I’ll set you up i’ no time.” And in another minute he had his bag of tools open and his coat off and was happily at work.

“ ’Ow about a drop o’ Rosie Lee?” said Mr. Joby 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. Oakroyd, 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. Oakroyd at work.

“Fond o’ tarts, George?” he inquired.

“Nay, I’ve had all t’tarts I want,” Mr. Oakroyd grunted in reply, still bending over his saw. He quite understood that the question did not refer to things to eat.

“Tarts or booze⁠—or both,” said Joby reflectively, “that’s where the bother begins. You wouldn’t be ’aving to mend that stall now if it ’adn’t been for a tart. I’ve ’ad a pal with me lately⁠—Tommy Muss they call ’im. Silly name, isn’t it? Clever little feller, though, Tommy. I’ve known ’im years. ’E used to go round with Oxley’s Circus, one time, then ’e ran a little ball-on-a-string game⁠—one o’ them where you gets a watch, that is if you’re lucky and the, feller that’s running the game don’t ’appen to lean on the board when you’re ’aving your go, see⁠—but ’e wasn’t good at it, wasn’t Tommy. So ’e come round with me. You can manage by yourself at this, but it’s better with two. Booze isn’t Tommy’s trouble, though he can shift it as well as the next. It’s tarts. Can’t keep away from the women, and they can’t keep away from ’im. Good-lookin’ little feller, Tommy, an’ got a bit o’ ruddy swank, yer know⁠—and they like it, George, they like it. And ’e’s the best mouth-organ player you ever ’eard in all your natural, easy the best⁠—never ’eard anybody to touch Tommy with a mouth-organ⁠—play anything⁠—marvellous! There was a piece about ’im once in The World’s Fair. ’E oughter ’ave gone on the stage as a mouth-organ turn. I’ve told ’im so many a time. ’E’s a mug. ’E could ’ave been getting twenty quid a week. ’E wouldn’t bother, though, too busy square-pushing, taking the girls out, see. Well, anyhow, there’s a tart ’e’s ’ad ’is eye on some time⁠—black flashing sort o’ bit she is⁠—and ’er and another woman runs one of these palmistry Gipsy Queen stunts, see. We kept coming across ’em working the same fairs⁠—and I saw Tommy was working ’is points. ’Alf a minute, we’ll ’ave the Rosie now, George.”

Joby mashed the tea in a mess-tin, stirred some sweet condensed milk into it, then poured his companion’s share of the rich brew into a large thick cup, across which was written Moseley’s 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.

“ ’Ow’s this, George?”

“Grand!” replied Mr. Oakroyd, 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. “I’ll make a right job o’ this stall,” he told himself, turning a grateful glance upon his host. And after a few puffs of Old Salt, he announced: “I’ll get on wi’ t’job nar,” and returned happily to work.

“You were saying summat about yer pal and this here Gipsy Queen lass,” he said, when Joby had cleared away the things and was sitting down again on the steps.

“Lemme see,” reflected Joby. “Oh yes⁠—about that bit o’ bother we ’ad yesterday. Well, you see, yesterday we’re at a little place called Brodley, thirty or forty mile away, where there’s a bit of a fair. This tart’s there and Tommy’s square-pushing ’er as ’ard as ’e can go, see. ’E’s the sheek of Araby there all right. But this tart ’ad been going round with a feller called Jim Summers. This feller’s tried all sorts and just now ’e’s running one o’ these try-your-strength things⁠—yer know what I mean⁠—down with the ’ammer and up she goes and rings the bell⁠—no good now, played out. ’E’s a big feller⁠—fourteen stone easy⁠—and used to be a bit of a fighting-man⁠—a slogger, you know, trained on booze. Well, this tart ’ad been going round with this feller, Jim Summers, and then she’d given ’im the go-by, see. You know what they are, and I expect ’e’d taken too many loads on and knocked ’er about a bit. But if ’e couldn’t ’ave ’er, nobody else would, neither⁠—that was ’is line, and ’e’s 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 ’ears about it, comes lookin’ for ’em. This tart and the other Gipsy Queen⁠—a fattish woman, comes from Burnley⁠—’ad packed up ’cos there wasn’t much doin’ anyhow. Tommy comes round the back of the stall. ‘ ’Ere,’ ’e says, ‘I’m off with this tart for a day or two, and I’m off now. I don’t want any bother with a mad-drunk ’eavyweight like Summers. Join yer later on, Joby’ ’e say. ‘Right you are, Tommy,’ I says. I knew ’e knew what the programme was, see. Nottingham Goose Fair starts a week this Thursday. Ever been? Marvellous! It’s one of my best pitches, and I’m getting a fresh lot of stock in for it, pickin’ it up at Nottingham before the fair starts. So I’m just working a lot of little places, filling time in, like, not too far away. We ’ad it all worked out⁠—me and Tommy, always do, yer know⁠—so that ’e knew the programme, and I knew ’e’d join me soon as ’e could, might be tomorrow, might be next week. This tart might be working the same places, and if she wasn’t, ’e’d see ’er at the Goose Fair. So off ’e went, and where they went to I don’t know, so I can’t tell you. It didn’t bother me. I didn’t want to foller ’em in their Abode of Love. But I knew what was coming to me⁠—Jim Summers. Up he comes, just after Tommy’d gone. ’E’d been in the boozer at dinnertime and ’e was nasty, very nasty. ‘ ’Ere,’ ’e says, giving the old stall a bang or two, ‘where’s that um-pum-pum-bloody-um-pum-pum little pal o’ yours?’ ’Strewth, you ought to ’ave ’eard ’im. Top of ’is voice, too. ‘Don’t ask me,’ I says⁠—and I don’t mind telling you, George, I was wishing I was a long way off, though I can use ’em a bit. ‘You know,’ ’e says, ‘and you’re going to bloody well tell me or this something-something stall o’ yours goes up in the air.’ And ’e begins kicking about a bit, see. ‘ ’Ere,’ I says, ‘you leave that alone.’ But ’ow’s the repairs going, George?” He stood up and began to inspect the other’s handiwork.

“You tak’ hold o’ that end,” said Mr. Oakroyd, now in command. “We’d better fix her up and see how she stands. Steady, mate, steady! Nar then, drop it in.”

They spent the next half-hour rigging up the stall, Mr. Oakroyd making certain improvements at the owner’s suggestion. When no more could be done⁠—Joby declaring that it was now better than ever⁠—they took it down and packed it away in the van, well content.

“I passed a boozer about two miles down this road,” said Joby. “What about ’aving a can or two?”

This brought Mr. Oakroyd out of his pleasant dream of craftsmanship, and he was troubled. “I could do wi’ one,” he said dubiously, “but I have nowt. I’d better be thinking what to do wi’ mysen.”

“That’s all right, George. You’re with me, see. ’Ere, you’re not doing anything, are yer? Well, you stay with me till Tommy comes rolling ’ome again⁠—might be a day, might be two days, might be a week. You’ll ’ave somewhere to sleep, your grub, and I’ll see you’ve something to be going on with when ’e does come back. I’m going to a little place called Ribsden tomorrer⁠—got a weekly market and there’s a bit of a fair on⁠—and you can give me a ’and, see? What say?”

“You’re not doing this because I have nowt, are yer?” demanded Mr. Oakroyd severely, his independence up in arms. “I don’t want⁠—what’s it?⁠—charity, you know.”

“Charity nothing!” cried Joby. “Oo d’yer think I am? Lord Lonsdale? I want yer to give me a ’and, see. Besides, you’ve done me one good turn already. Can’t I do you one?”

“You can an’ all,” said Mr. Oakroyd. “I’ll be right glad to stop till your mate comes back.”

“Put it there if it weighs a ton,” cried Joby. And they shook hands. “Is everything in? ’Ere, 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. ’Strewth, I ’aven’t seen one o’ them things for years. Get in. We’ll run ’er down to the boozer⁠—too far to walk. Now then, Liz, let’s give a turn to the old ’andle. She’s startin’, she’s startin’. No, she’s not. Now then, Liz, what about it? There she goes. J’ever ’ear such an engine? Sounds like one o’ them electric planners startin’. She ’asn’t ’ad any oil in ’er since I left Doncaster. Now then, ’old tight, George, we’re off.”

“What happened wi’ this chap you were talking about, this chap Summers?” shouted Mr. Oakroyd as they went rattling down the road.

“A bobby come round just when the bother began,” replied Joby. “And Summers slung ’is ’ook. I packed up just after that and come down ’ere. Where ’e went to I don’t know. I’m wondering what ’is programme is. Sure to see ’im at Nottingham, but ’e’ll ’ave got over it by then.”

“Ay, let’s hope so,” said Mr. Oakroyd, 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: “I suppose you chaps is allus coming across each other, aren’t you?”

“You bet yer life!” replied Joby heartily. “Can’t go anywhere without seeing some o’ the boys. Same old crowd, same old round, year after year. Marvellous!”

“Ay, I suppose so,” said Mr. Oakroyd 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—“best welterweight we ever ’ad⁠—but a mug, see⁠—fight anybody⁠—do it for nothing”⁠—had two years of glory, laying ’em all out, going through the lot “like a dose o’ salts”; 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 ’tecs; and the later it grew the more often his “Marvellous!” rang through the admiring taproom. Even the landlord was impressed and insisted upon standing him a farewell pint. As for Mr. Oakroyd, 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. Oakroyd said “t’United” 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. Oakroyd listened to the strange rustling and scratching for several minutes, and was then startled by a sudden melancholy screech. “Eh, that’s a funny noise, isn’t it? It gives you the creeps.”

“Owl,” explained Joby. “I don’t mind it⁠—used to it. Tell you what I can’t stand. Trams. ’Orrible sound at night, trams. If I’m in a place where there’s trams, I never go to bed till they’ve stopped. Can’t get to sleep for ’em⁠—gives me the ’eart-ache or the stomachache. Ah, well,” he added drowsily, “not a bad life this, not while yer can stand up and chew your grub. Keep going and see a bit o’ life, I say, we’ll all be dead soon enough. What say, George?”

“There’s summat i’ that,” replied Mr. Oakroyd, with true Bruddersfordian caution. But in truth he was really still a little dazed by the wonder of it all. “I maun tell our Lily about this chap,” he reflected. “She’ll be right amused.” 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. “Take us an hour to get there,” Joby explained. “And I want a good pitch.” 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.

“Bit colder than it wor,” said Mr. Oakroyd.

Joby gave the morning an expert glance. “Weather’s breaking. Won’t be so warm today, you’ll see. Might rain. If it doesn’t today, it will tomorrer. Rain’s no good to us. A couple o’ weeks of it and yer see me going to the nearest three brass balls, selling the little ’ome up. Talk about sailors! We’re the blokes that ’ave to watch the weather.”

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—as he pointed out at once⁠—“dead opposite a boozer”⁠—The 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. Oakroyd 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—as he admitted to himself more than once⁠—“a champion do.”

Joby completed his preparations for the day by tacking a number of little placards to the posts of the stall: “Don’t forget the Little Ones,” they screamed at the passerby. “Shops Can’t Compete”; “We lead. Others follow”; “British Workmanship Can’t Be Beat”⁠—which was probably true enough and worth saying, even though all Mr. Jackson’s 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 “Joby Jackson is Here Again. The Old Firm.” 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.

“Morning, Perfesser,” said Joby to this personage.

“Good morning,” said the Professor, who had a hollow booming voice. “Ah, it’s Mr. Jackson. Good morning. Neighbours again, eh? I think I saw you at Doncaster.”

“You did. Got a good stand ’ere.” And Joby jerked a thumb at The Helping Hand.

“Ah yes. I’d never noticed that. Well, it might be useful, Mr. Jackson. I’ve known the time when⁠—” 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. “Nothing much for me here to day, Mr. Jackson. A mere stopgap, nothing more.”

“Same ’ere,” said Joby. “Where you been since Doncaster, Perfesser?”

“Places without a name, you might say,” the Professor boomed mournfully. “Little markets, miserable affairs, pounds of cheese and yards of muslin and ducks and hens. Rural solitudes, Mr. Jackson. And I was carrying the wrong line too. If I’d been running the rheumatic cure or the digestive tonic, all might have been well, but at the present time I’m doing the Character and Destiny business and it’s a town business, absolutely a town business. I thought of changing over, but there wasn’t time to get the bottles. And you must have bottles nowadays, must have bottles. They won’t swallow the pills, Mr. Jackson. That’s not bad, eh? Just keep an eye on that box will you? I’ll be back in about ten minutes.” And the Professor strode away.

“Yon’d chap’ud make a good loud speaker,” said Mr. Oakroyd, who had been listening with delight to this dialogue.

“That’s what ’e is, if you ask me,” replied Joby. “Clever feller, though, the Perfesser. Known ’im off and on years. All patter, y’know. Marvellous! ’E’d sell ’em anything. No expenses, all profit, in ’is line. Clever feller. Edjucated, y’know⁠—that’s what does it. They wouldn’t believe you and me if we tried it on the same as ’e does. ’E’d make ’em believe anything, sell ’em the boots off their feet.”

“Ay, I dare say,” Mr. Oakroyd observed thoughtfully. “But he hasn’t got fat on it.”

“Too much booze⁠—lives on it⁠—telegraphic address: Blotting Paper. ’Sides, the game’s not what it was, and that’s a fact. Too much edjucation about for fellers like ’im. They’re beginning to rumble ’im.” Then he changed his tone, so suddenly that he startled Mr. Oakroyd. “Nar 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’re all the best.” 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’s trade had begun. Mr. Oakroyd, 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. Oakroyd, trying to be helpful but not finding much to do, regarded his new friend with admiration.

“Got the idear, George?” 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. “Take note o’ the patter and prices, see. Might want yer to take on a bit soon.”

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’s 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. “Now I’ll tell yer whattam going ter do, people,” he would yell. “Just to make a start, I’m not going ter sell yer linoleum, I’m going ter give it ter yer. Here y’are.” And he would unroll a length and bang away at it in a passion. “Now that’s not oilcloth, it’s the very best lino-carpet pattern, rubber-backed⁠—and there’s four yards if there’s an inch an yer couldn’t buy it under fifteen shillings in any shop in this town or any other town.” Here he would draw a deep agonized breath, then give the roll another bang. “Five shillings. Four and six. Four shillings. Well, I’ll tell yer what I’ll do. Three and six. Three and six, and I’m giving it away. All right, then. Here! Pass me up that other piece, Charlie. Now then,” he would burst out afresh, beating the new piece unmercifully, “there’s three yards here⁠—yer could cover a landing with it and it ’ud last yer a lifetime⁠—and I’ll put the two together. Six shillings the two.” He would glare at the crowd, mop his brow, and run a finger round his sopping rag of a collar. “It’s not oilcloth I’m trying to sell yer,” 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’t 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’s 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’s 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. “When Mis‑ter Wal‑ters of Bris‑tol,” he roared in the manner of one discussing his friend the Prime Minister, “gave 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. Walters knew and I knew that there was no money to be made out of this. It’s a good advertisement. And when Mis‑ter Wal‑ters guaranteed that there was a banknote in every one of these envelopes, that was good enough for me. I knew that Mis‑ter Wal‑ters of Bris‑tol would not send me on a fool’s errand, I can assure you, people.” 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. “I was wondering, Mr. Jackson,” he began, in a confidential whisper, “if you had a spare shilling about you. Just until tonight, you know.”

Joby nodded towards The Helping Hand. “Going in?”

“Yes, I thought that perhaps a little⁠—er⁠—”

Joby cut him short. “You come with me, Perfesser. ’Ere, George, you can take over a bit, eh? Shan’t be long.”

So Mr. Oakroyd 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. “Yer can’t stir in there now,” he explained, “so I got yer these, see. Knock off and get outside these, then ’ave a walk round. Wotcher done?”

Mr. Oakroyd, attacking the first of the meat pies, reported his sales. “A bird, a bobby, an’ a bairn, for fower bob.”

“Yer a ruddy poet, George, if yer ask me,” said Joby in great good-humour. “The Perfesser’s still in there. We shan’t see ’im now till closing time. ’E’s found the ’elping ’and all right. ’E’d lowered about five when I left, and all buckshee. ’E could talk a feller into givin’ ’im a bucketful. Clever feller, the Perfesser, but I wouldn’t like to see the coloured menagerie ’e sees some o’ these nights.”

By the time Mr. Oakroyd 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. “Not much doing now till about six,” Joby told him. “Yer can take on a bit, see. I’ll ’ave a dekko at the old van, a drop o’ Rosie, and a word wi’ some o’ the boys. Don’t forget them monkeys is two bob apiece⁠—they’re extra special, they are⁠—they cost me ninepence.”

The linoleum merchant and the friend of Mr. Walters 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. Oakroyd found himself answering referred to Joby himself and not to his stock-in-trade.

“ ’Ello! This is Joby Jackson, isn’t it! Where’s old Joby today?”

“Knocking about,” Mr. Oakroyd would reply, and the inquirer would saunter off again.

This happened several times, and Mr. Oakroyd 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. Oakroyd, 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’ 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. Oakroyd, however, who broke the silence at last. He could not stand this scrutiny any longer. “Like a doll, mate?” he asked, with dubious good-fellowship in his tone and glance.

“Like a doll!” the large man spat out in contempt. “Do I look as if I wanted a bloody doll, do I now, do I?” Then, suddenly appallingly, he became as angry as a goaded bull. “Where’s that⁠—” and he proceeded to apply a number of words to the absent Joby that shocked Mr. Oakroyd, accustomed as he was to most of them. “Where is ’e? d’y’ear?” 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. Oakroyd’s.

“Well,” he roared, “wot d’yer say, yer silly-looking⁠—?”

Mr. Oakroyd kept perfectly still and quiet. This, he knew, was Jim Summers. It couldn’t be anyone else but Jim Summers. He remembered everything he had heard about Jim Summers. And he tried to think, and it was difficult. “Now I’ll tell yer whattam going ter do, people,” came the voice on the right. “And it isn’t oilcloth I’m selling yer.” Joby might be back any minute. Meanwhile, he wasn’t here, and Jim Summers undoubtedly was. “When Mis‑ter Wal‑ters of Bris‑tol,” the left boomed steadily, “came to me and gave me these envelopes⁠—” Mr. Oakroyd looked Jim Summers in the eye.

“He’s not here,” he muttered.

“Can’t I see ’e’s not here! I’m asking where ’e is. Yer not a bloody stuck pig, are yer? Yer can talk, can’t yer? This is ’is stall, isn’t it?”

Still Mr. Oakroyd made no reply.

“I’d like ter give yer something uttud make yer open yer mouth,” said the angry Summers, looking very ugly. “Well, I can wait ’ere a bit.”

Mr. Oakroyd found his voice now. “It’s not a bit o’ good your doing that, mate. Joby Jackson’s not here.”

“Ar d’yer mean ’e’s not ’ere,” cried the other contemptuously. “This is ’is stall, isn’t it? Think I don’t know it!”

“Ay, but”⁠—Mr. Oakroyd fumbled, then hurried on⁠—“you see, I’ve bowt it off on him.”

“Oh, since when?”

“Yesterda’,” replied Mr. Oakroyd. “I took it on mesen, so you won’t find him here, mate.”

Mr. Summers 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: “ ’E’s been seen ’ere this morning. You bought this? You’ve ’ell as like, yer rotten little liar.”

“Here, here, here, here! Less of it, less of it. What’s it all about, eh?” This was the policeman with the ginger moustache, the one who apparently did not like markets and fairs. Now he looked very severe indeed.

“I come ’ere asking for a feller,” growled Summers, “and this feller ’ere says ’e don’t know where the feller is and says that this stall ’ere is ’is and I was telling im it wasn’t ’cos I knew it belonged to this other feller, d’yer see?”

“Well, I don’t see what you’ve got to make such a lot of noise about,” said the policeman. “Either it’s his or it isn’t, and one way or the other, it don’t seem to me to be much o’ your business.”

“I was only telling ’im I knew it wasn’t, d’yer see?”

“All right, all right, I know what you was doing,” cried the policeman angrily. “And I say it don’t seem to me to be much o’ your business.”

“That’s right,” Mr. Oakroyd 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. Oakroyd himself, who did not find it easy to meet it.

“Well, it may be none of his business,” said the policeman, still staring, “but it’s my business all right. If you ask me, there’s something a bit queer here. Now you say this here outfit belongs to you and not to this other feller he’s talking so much about?”

“Ay,” replied Mr. Oakroyd, hesitating. “In a manner o’ speaking, you might say⁠—”

“What d’you mean ‘in a manner o’ speaking’?” the policeman demanded. “ ’Ere, let’s have a look at your licence.”

Mr. Oakroyd 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’t one.

“ ’E’s got no licence,” said Summers triumphantly.

“Who’s talking to you?” the policeman demanded angrily. Then he turned to Mr. Oakroyd again and repeated, with maddening deliberation: “Let’s have a look at your licence.”

Fortunately for Mr. Oakroyd, the policeman’s 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: “I said ‘ ’E’s got no licence.’ ”

“And I say ‘Who’s talking to you?’ ” cried the policeman, giving him a push. “You get back a bit.”

“And ’oo the bloody ’ell d’you think you are?” shouted Summers, raising a huge fist. “Touch me again, yer ginger pig, and I’ll flatten yer.”

“Another word and you’ll come along with me,” retorted the policeman, stepping back.

“ ’Ello, ’ello! What’s the row?” It was Joby, and with him was a short, thickset, smiling man.

At the sight of Joby’s companion, Summers gave a roar. “Muss, yer⁠—” 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. Oakroyd, 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. Oakroyd 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 “to mind t’stall”⁠—as he told himself⁠—and 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. Oakroyd 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.

“ ’Ere, didn’t take any names, did ’e?” asked Joby, still panting for breath.

“He didn’t take mine,” said Mr. Oakroyd.

“We’re off then. What d’yer say, Tommy? If they wants us for the witness-box, they must find us, see. ’Ere, get this stuff away, sharp as yer can. Come on, Tommy. That’s right, George. Sharp’s the word, or we’ll never do it. But they’ve got ter get ’im ter the station, see.” He turned to look at those members of the crowd that were still lingering about. “Nar then,” he cried, “it’s all over this time. No more performances today, people. Out o’ the way, you lads.” And the linoleum merchant and the friend of Mr. Walters 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.

“I’ll get the van, see,” said Joby, “and run it as near as I can, just round the Johnny Horner. Soon as yer ’ear me toot, run with as much o’ the stuff as yer can carry. Get the stall down, George, and anything that’s broken bad, leave it.” And he hurried off.

“A troublesome business, Mr. Muss,” boomed a voice above them as they packed the things.

“ ’Lo Professor!” said Tommy, looking up. “ ’Ow goes it? We’re sliding out.”

“Quite right, quite right, Mr. Muss,” replied the Professor. “I 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’t deserve whatever he gets⁠—a hooligan, a tough, Mr. Muss⁠—these low types are a disgrace to the road. They can’t carry their beer, that’s the trouble.”

“There goes the old van,” cried Tommy. “Now then, Professor, you don’t know us, do you?”

“I’ve never seen you in my life before,” the Professor replied gravely. “And I’ll drop a word to the boys. Summers won’t give names, of course, because you’d be hostile witnesses, though I doubt if he’s the sense to see that. I’ll keep an eye on these things for you.”

Two hurried journeys each were enough. Mr. Oakroyd 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. Oakroyd 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.

“The wife in, Joe?” cried Tommy.

“Yuss, she is. ’Ad ’er tea some time back though,” replied the landlord.

“Tell ’er I’m ’ere. ’Alf a minute, though, I’m coming in.” And Tommy, giving a wink to the other two, went inside.

Joby passed the wink on to Mr. Oakroyd with the undamaged eye “Tommy’s got the tart in there,” he remarked. “Been there two days, see. ’E came into Ribsden on chance of finding me there, but didn’t think ’e’d find Jim Summers there. What ’appened, George?”

Mr. Oakroyd related his adventures with Mr. Summers 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.

“What-how, Jowby!” she cried, waving a hand. “All the best! I wish I’d bin there to see. ’E’s got what ’e wanted, ’asn’t ’e, the swine? Gor!⁠—but you got an eye. You want a bit o’ stike on thet eye, down’t ’e, Tommy? Come in and ’ave one while I getcher a bit o’ stike.”

“What about it, Joby?” added Tommy. “Coming in now? The old box of tricks be all right there.”

“No, I’ll pull ’er out, Tommy, and find a place for ’er. Going to kip in ’er tonight, see. ’Sides, me and George’ll ’ave to see what the damage is and try to straighten up if we’re working that place tomorrer. See yer later, Tommy.”

“I’ll be ’ere,” said Tommy.

“Get in front, George,” said Joby, climbing in again. And off they went down the long street. “Tommy’s joining up again tomorrer, see, and the tart’s follering on, doing the palm business. She’s all right, but a ’ole night with the two of them together⁠—with ’er sitting on ’is knee and slapping ’im and drinking ’is beer⁠—’ud get on my ruddy nerves.”

“I dare say. She looks nowt i’ my line,” Mr. Oakroyd 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. Oakroyd, 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’s pal had come back, and now, he knew, he was not really wanted. Tomorrow he would have to go on alone. “Nay, I’ll get to bed, Joby lad,” he said, and watched him walk down the road back to the village, but neither saw nor heard anything of Joby’s return, two hours later, so deep was this, his second⁠—and probably his last⁠—night of sleep in a caravan, with only a three-ply breadth between him and the stars.

V

“Well, George,” said Joby, the next morning, “yer done me a good turn or two, see. I’d like to keep yer on the job a bit longer, but yer see ’ow it is. And this oughter straighten us up a bit.” And he handed over an extremely dirty bit of paper that turned out, much to Mr. Oakroyd’s surprise, to be a pound note.

“Nay, I don’t know as how I can tak’ this,” he said doubtfully. “You’ve given me summat to eat and sup and a bed like, and I’ve done nowt to earn this.”

“Yer the first West Riding feller I ever knew to look sideways at⁠—what do you Tykes call it?⁠—a bit o’ brass. Nar then, George, put that in yer pocket.”

And Mr. Oakroyd 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. Oakroyd himself had always regarded with suspicion any person⁠—not counting affected southrons and the like⁠—who showed a readiness to say “Please” and “Thank you,” and was genuinely troubled afterwards by the thought that perhaps his travels were already sapping his manly independence and might lead him to indulge⁠—as he said himself⁠—“in all sorts o’ daft tricks.”

“And I’ll tell yer what, George,” Joby continued, “if yer’ve found nothing, get a lift to Nottingham next week⁠—Thursday, Friday, Saturday⁠—Goose Fair, and take a look round for me and Tommy, see. All the boys’ll be there, and I might be able to find something for yer. Good tradesman, eh, George? ’Andle a saw, every time, eh? That’s the stuff. Don’t ferget, Nottingham.”

“Ay, if I’ve nowt on, I will.”

“Good enough! What’s the ruddy move now then, George? We can give yer a lift on the way, can’t we? What say?”

Mr. Oakroyd shook his head decisively. “Nay, you go one way and I’ll go t’other. You’ve had enough bother wi’ me. Where do this here road go to?”

“ ’Alf a minute, ’alf a minute.” Joby scratched his head, looked at the road, frowned at it, then scratched his head again. “Tommy fetched me ’ere⁠—ter call at ’is boozer⁠—but I been ’ere before. I’ve been everywhere, I ’ave. Yer can’t lose me. I know, George, I know. ’Ere, go down this road, keep round to the left⁠—’bout six miles⁠—and yer’ll come to a place called Rawsley. Biggish place⁠—twenty or thirty boozers there⁠—good ’uns some of ’em. A feller called Thompson⁠—Jimmy Thompson⁠—used to keep one⁠—knew ’im well, used to be a welterweight, and tidy with ’em, too. That’s the place⁠—Rawsley. They ’ave a fair third week in July⁠—not so bad, neither⁠—best round ’ere. Yer might easy pick something up there, see. ’Ave a look at Rawsley, George.”

Mr. Oakroyd 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. “A poor do,” thought Mr. Oakroyd, waiting to say goodbye.

When Joby did come out he brought with him a little package loosely wrapped in brown paper. “Yer’ll want these, George,” he said. “Yer don’t pass nothing on the way to Rawsley, see.” He handed over the package. “Sandwiches⁠—our own ruddy make,” he explained, looking almost apologetic. “If yer don’t want ’em, give ’em to the poor, George, give ’em to the poor, but for God’s sake don’t start arguing the toss about ’em.”

“All right, Joby lad, I won’t,” said Mr. Oakroyd, putting on his old mackintosh and stuffing the sandwiches into the pocket. “And I hope I see thee agen afore so long.” He held out his hand, feeling that he might go to any lengths now after such a desperately emotional speech.

Joby shook it enthusiastically. “Well, George, I’ll tell yer something. Yer the best Yorkshire lad I’ve met for a long time. I’m not fond of ’em as a rule, see. I don’t get on with ’em.”

“Ay,” replied Mr. Oakroyd gravely, “we tak’ a bit o’ knowing.”

“But you’re all right, George, you are,” Joby continued, persisting with this imaginary Christian name to the very end. “And any time yer want to find me, just drop me a line to The World’s Fair⁠—that’s our paper, see⁠—Joby Jackson, care of The World’s Fair. That’ll find me all right every time. So long, George, and all the best!”

Half a mile down the road a spatter of rain overtook Mr. Oakroyd, 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. “I must save ’em till I’ve had summat to eat,” 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. Oakroyd 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’t 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’t 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’t seem to mind their not being together. There wasn’t a chap in Bruddersford who would care twopence where Jess Oakroyd was and what had happened to him. Even Sam Oglethorpe wouldn’t 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. “There’s nowt wrong wi’ me,” he declared sturdily. “I’ll ha’ summat to eat.”

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. Poppleby 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.

“Eh,” he cried, “but I’ve seen summat this week. I’ve had a bit o’ fun on me travels if I never see nowt no more.”

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.