I

At the beginning of that week at Sandybay, Mr. Oakroyd was a happy man. Never in all his dreams of being an independent craftsman had he been so independent or so much the craftsman as he was now. He put in as many hours working as he had done at Higden’s mill, and sometimes he put in a great deal more, achieving a day’s labour that would have horrified every Trade Union secretary in the country. But you could hardly call it work; it was like a kind of hobby; it was nothing but a pleasant dream of work; and it made old Sam Oglethorpe, with his “Joinery and Jobbing Work Promptly Attended to,” his hen-run, and his cottage, look like “two-pennorth o’ copper.” When Mr. Oakroyd remembered that only a week or two before, he had envied old Sam, he was amazed at his good fortune, which indeed had still something unreal about it. True, he had a lot to learn about this business; all this messing about with curtains and bits of scenery and electric lights was new to him; but then he was learning fast and liking it. So long as they did not want him to appear on the stage⁠—he drew the line at that, even if it was only choosing a card out of a pack for Mr. Mitcham⁠—he was ready to do anything they asked him to do. And if he made any bit of a thing for these people, they were pleased and thankful and went on about it until he hardly knew where to look. This attitude towards work seemed to him astonishingly novel. At Higden’s, if you didn’t put all your back into a job, they asked you what you thought you were there for; but when you did put your back into it, finishing the job in fine style, then they said “Ay, that’ll do.” And he could not help thinking that these strange theatrical people⁠—indeed, all these Southerners he was meeting now⁠—did overdo this patting you on the back and making a fuss when you did some little bit of a thing: it made you feel soft. But he was also compelled to admit that it did oil the wheels and put heart into you when you had to tackle something new. Oh, the job was a gift! Then there was the travelling. Talk about being on t’road! Talk about being down South! Why, at this rate, there would hardly be anywhere in England where they hadn’t been, after six months. The places these theatre folk had seen! Even Susie, only a bit of a lass, could talk by the hour, like Joby Jackson himself, about the towns she had been to, dozens and dozens of them. As for Mr. Mitcham, if you only believed half he said, he must have played that banjo of his and done his conjuring in nearly every place under the sun, in places too where you would not think they would want to hear a banjo or see any conjuring. Such folk, who could afford to be particular, might well think nothing of Rawsley and Dotworth, but Mr. Oakroyd had enjoyed himself in both these towns. They seemed to him delightfully foreign. At Rawsley the woman at his lodgings had given him for supper one night some little dry dumplings with bits of bacon in them, something that Bruddersford had never set eyes on; and in a pub there he had met a man who thought Bruddersford United was a rugby team. Dotworth was equally outlandish. There they had put nothing but Swiss milk in tea, called buns “cakes,” did not know that wool had to be washed and combed before it was spun, and got terribly mixed up between Yorkshire and Lancashire all the time. It was in a pub at Dotworth that he had been able to set a chap right very nicely. This was a scene he had often wistfully amused himself by imagining back at Bruddersford, when he dreamed of being a travelled man. He had imagined himself taking his pipe out of his mouth and saying quietly, “Half a minute, mate! You’re wrong there. I’ve been and I knaw.” And it had actually happened like that. This chap, who drove a cart and seemed to fancy himself, was laying down the law a bit and got on to talking about the Great North Road. He said it went through Lincoln and York, and all the Dotworth innocents, gaping at him over their half-pints, said that he was quite right. Then it happened. Mr. Oakroyd took his pipe out of his mouth and said quietly: “Half a minute, mate! You’re wrong there.” Ho. ’e was, was ’e? Yes, he was, and had he ever been down the Great North Road? No, he hadn’t, but he had pals who had and knew it well. “Well, yer pals is wrong too, mate,” Mr. Oakroyd had told him and the company. “Great North Road nivver sees Lincoln and York. I’ve been and I knaw. Only come down it t’other night, on a lorry.” And for the next quarter of an hour he had told them a thing or two, and the landlord himself had stayed in the taproom to listen.

Neither of these places, however, could compare with Sandybay. He was ready to put Sandybay in front of the other seaside towns he had visited, Morecambe, Blackpool, and Scarborough, not because there was more “going off” there (most people say “going on” but in Bruddersford they say “going off”⁠—a subtle and significant difference), for in that respect it was inferior to the other three, especially Blackpool, where there were more amusements than in any other town in the world. No, he preferred Sandybay because it had more of the sea about it. There were the boats drawn up on the beach, the nets and all the other paraphernalia, the lifeboat, and the fishermen themselves, with their blue jerseys, brown faces, and white whiskers, just like the fishermen in pictures. One old man down there was the very image of the man he had seen so often on the packets and advertisements of his favourite tobacco, Old Salt. Mr. Oakroyd had actually spoken to him. He had a word or two with a good many of these fishermen, down at the beach or over a glass at one of the funny little pubs near the harbour. He found it hard to understand what they said, and they seemed to find it hard to understand him, but that only made it all the more interesting, like being among foreigners, except that they seemed to like a drop of beer and a pipe of tobacco and were not above cadging one or the other. Joe liked to talk to these chaps too, and sometimes went round with them. All the pierrots were friendly enough⁠—“they got on champion,” as Mr. Oakroyd admitted⁠—but Joe was really the only one he could go about with a bit. Joe might be a singer⁠—and a rare old noise he could make too⁠—but he was a solid and sensible chap, with arms on him like two, who liked his pipe and glass of bitter and was a good talker when you once got him going. By the time they had reached Sandybay, the two of them were quite confidential. Joe talked to Mr. Oakroyd about their George, and Mr. Oakroyd talked to Joe about their Lily.

Then again, Mr. Oakroyd was happy because so far he liked being in lodgings. He discussed this subject with Joe when the two of them were working at that little set in the Pavilion. Joe had been grumbling, saying he was sick of being in lodgings. He wanted a home of his own.

“Well, I can fancy that, Joe,” replied Mr. Oakroyd, “ ’cos you’ve been at it a long while. But being i’ lodgings is a change for me, and I’m not pining for any home of me awn or wanting to go back to t’one I’ve got. It’s a bit of a treeat to me being a lodger, Joe.”

“How d’you make that out?” asked Joe. “It’s not your own place. You can’t do what you like. You’ve got to put up with anything they give you.”

“Nay, I find you’re a deal better off. When I were at home, place didn’t belong to me but to t’wife. She may ha’ done what she liked but I knaw I didn’t. And if I didn’t put up wi’ owt she gave me, I nivver heard last on it for days. If you tell t’woman at your lodgings you don’t want rice pudding all t’week, she might bang t’door a bit as she goes out, but she won’t stand there calling you ivvery name she can lay tongue to and then start afresh next morning or look at you as if you’d been trying to set fire to t’place.”

“Now, Oakroyd,” Joe protested, “you’re not going to tell me you were henpecked like that.”

“No more ner t’next man,” said Mr. Oakroyd grimly. “But I nivver even heard tell of a henpecked lodger.”

“Maybe. But you’ve heard tell of many a one that’s been swindled and diddled and robbed. And if you haven’t, there’s one here, talking to you. Some of ’em would take the milk out of your tea and the laces out of your boots. They’d charge you for the stairs going up to bed if they could. I could tell you some tales.”

“No doubt you could, Joe,” said Mr. Oakroyd earnestly, “and I’m not denying that gurt fat woman I lodged wi’ i’ Dotworth were a bit on t’skinny side when it come to laying table. For all that, I’m doing better ner I’ve done for some time. Nah, as you knaw yersen, three pound i’ t’week isn’t a big wage. I’ve had more ner that afore today and thowt I were badly off. But when you’ve nobbut yersen to keep and you’re i’ lodgings it seems to me you get more out on it than you do at home. You pay your two pound or whativver it is to t’landlady and she treats you like a good customer, as if you wor somebody. At home you pay all you can but you’re nobody. ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ they say when you come home. ‘Well, you’ll have to wait for your tea ’cos I haven’t finished what I’m doing. And how many times have I to tell you to tak’ them big boots off when you come in! Look at mess you’re making!’ That’s what you get at home, Joe. But when I walk into my lodgings, it’s a bit different. ‘You’re just in time, Mr. Oakroyd,’ they say. ‘Your tea’ll be ready in one minute. I shan’t keep you waiting. Nice afternoon it’s been, Mr. Oakroyd.’ D’you see, Joe?”

Joe did see but was not convinced. “And when you’ve lived a year or two on landlady’s cooking, old man,” he said, “you’ll change your mind. There’s Jimmy Nunn there always grumbling because he can’t eat anything, but I sometimes think he’s lucky. He knows he can’t get it, but I think I’m going to get something and I don’t.”

“Pass me up them inch nails, Joe,” said Mr. Oakroyd. Then he reflected a minute or two. “Well, I must say I’ve seen better cooking i’ my time than you get round these parts. That’s because you’re out o’ Yorkshire. Down South here t’women doesn’t bake and you can’t get a curran’ teacake or a flat cake or a fatty cake or owt like that. Eh, I’d a right good laugh yesterda’. Woman where I am⁠—Mrs. Cullin her name is⁠—she’s a widow woman⁠—her husband were at gasworks here and had a good job too, she tells me⁠—she’s a decent clean little body, and friendly like⁠—she tells me all sorts⁠—well, Mrs. Cullin, she says to me yesterda’, she says, ‘Now, Mr. Oakroyd, I’m going to give you a treat,’ she says. ‘I’ve a joint o’ beef for your dinner and you’re a Yorkshireman, so I’m going to give you some Yorkshire pudding with it,’ she says. In comes my dinner⁠—bit o’ beef, cabbage, potaters. I looks at it and says, ‘Here, Mrs. Cullin, what about that Yorkshire pudding?’ I says. ‘Let’s have that first.’ She stares. ‘It’s here,’ she says, pointing to t’plate. “What!” I says. ‘You don’t mean this bit o’ custard, soft batter stuff, under t’cabbage?’ ‘Yes, I do,’ she says. ‘If that isn’t Yorkshire pudding, what is it?’ ‘Nay,’ I says, ‘you mun’t ask me, Missis, what it is. All I knaw is, it’s no more Yorkshire pudding ner I am. It’s a bit o’ custard or pancake, likely enough.’ And then I tells her about Yorkshire pudding. And tak’ notice o’ this Joe, ’cos it’ll happen come in handy some time.” Mr. Oakroyd paused to relight his pipe, blew out a cloud or two of Old Salt, then continued.

“ ‘To begin wi’,’ I says, ‘a Yorkshire pudding is eaten by itsen and not mixed up wi’ meat and potaters, all in a mush. And it comes straight out o’ tooven,’ I says, ‘straight on to t’plate. No waiting,’ I says, ‘or you’ll spoil it. If you don’t put it straight on to t’plate you might as well go and sole your boots with it. And another thing,’ I says, ‘you’ve got to have your oven hot, I do knaw that. Then if you’ve mixed right and your oven’s hot, pudding’ll come out as light as a feather, crisp and brarn, just a top and a bottom, you might say, wi’ none o’ this custardy stuff in t’middle. Nan d’you see, Missis?’ I says. ‘Nay,’ she says, ‘I can’t learn all that at my time o’ life, and you’re letting your dinner get cold wi’ talking about your hot ovens,’ she says. And then we’d a right good laugh together, and I heard her telling her daughter⁠—she’s in a draper’s⁠—all about it last night. She has this lass at home and a lad, and another lad away i’ t’Navy, and they’re all courting⁠—even t’sailor’s young woman is allus coming in⁠—so we see a bit o’ company. And they’re all coming o’ Saturday night to see us.”

“That’s the idea,” said Joe. “You go on working the town a bit. That’s what I do. Some of the boys and girls laugh at me, but I say it all helps.”

“It does an’ all,” cried Mr. Oakroyd. “They tak’ a right interest in t’pierrots at Mrs. Cullin’s. ‘Is it a good show?’ they asks me. ‘Good show!’ I says. ‘It’s t’best show as ivver you’ve seen i’ Sandybay,’ I says. ‘We’re nobbut here just to pass an odd week, then we’re off to t’big theaters⁠—coining brass,’ I says. ‘Coining what?’ they says. ‘Brass,’ I says, ‘and that’s Yorkshire for money. You come and see Good Companions. You’ll nivver get another chance, and when you read about ’em i’ t’papers⁠—and you’ll be doing that afore so long⁠—you’ll be fair mad if you’ve nivver seen ’em. Best show on t’road,’ I says.”

And indeed this was Mr. Oakroyd’s opinion. He was fully convinced that there was no better concert party than the Good Companions in existence. It is true he did not know much about the others, had never even seen them; but then he could not imagine any one of them being better, could not imagine any other being as good, so that he was quite honest in his opinion. Nor was his enthusiasm merely part and parcel of his loyalty to his new friends and to his employer, Miss Trant. He had never been a constant theatregoer or music-hall patron, though he still liked seven-pennorth of pit at the second house of the Bruddersford Imperial, but nevertheless he considered himself to be a man who knew a good turn when he saw it. Your Bruddersfordian is a hanging judge of anything that costs money. And Mr. Oakroyd, after having seen the show from almost every possible angle, was convinced that the Good Companions were good turns. He thought least of Elsie, whose rather mechanical little frivolities he dismissed as “summat and nowt.” On the other hand, the dancing of Mr. Jerry Jerningham had no more staunch admirer in this island, and Mr. Oakroyd did not hesitate to give out that he was something of an authority and no ordinary onlooker, for in his youth he had been considered one of the best clog-dancers in the Woolgate and Lane End districts of Bruddersford and had once taken third prize at the Pit Park Gala. For Mr. Jerningham himself he had a contempt. “Yond,” he would say, “is war ner a big lass. Starves his belly to clothe his back, I’ll be bound”; and, becoming more mysteriously West Riding in his turn of phrase with every added insult, would conclude by muttering that Mr. Jerningham “wer war ner a pike sheep head,” which final and awful judgement was not the less devastating because nobody understood what it meant. But Mr. Oakroyd made a clear distinction between Jerningham the man and Jerningham the dancer, and for the latter he had a genuine admiration. And Susie was a favourite with him, on and off the stage. She was obviously a good turn, though he could not always make out what she was getting at, and she was a lively, bonny, and friendly lass, reminding him so much of their Lily that he found her company nearly as delightful and yet disturbing as did Inigo himself. Inigo too he admired as a piano-player and liked as a friendly young chap with not a bit of swelled head about him. (In Bruddersford you are always on the lookout for swelled heads, and if a man does anything at all out of the ordinary there, his head has to be measured at once.) There was too a special bond between him and Inigo, because, as he explained to Joe: “We’re both i’ t’same boat, both amachoors, as you say, who comes at t’same time and is trying to show you what we can do.” And it was clear from Mr. Oakroyd’s tone, as he said this, that he thought the two of them were not only trying but succeeding.

For Miss Trant he had a tremendous respect, though he took pains not to show it. There was something about her⁠—he knew it was there but did not care to discover exactly what it was⁠—that commanded this respect, and it was something he had never found in Sir Joseph Higden, Bart, and other men of wealth and standing for whom he had worked in Bruddersford. None of the Good Companions (who had talked it over more than once) knew how much money Miss Trant had, whether she was really rich or merely in possession of a decent income with a few hundreds to spare for this whim of hers; but it was Mr. Oakroyd’s opinion that she had plenty of money and had it so long that she never thought about it. “Brass might graw on trees so far as she knaws, or cares,” he said of her; and this opinion, which would have enraged a democrat of an earlier generation, only tended to increase his wondering respect for her. Bruddersford had its rich and its poor, but he never remembered meeting anyone there like Miss Trant. The two of them were like beings from two different planets who had yet discovered points of contact and sympathy. If Miss Trant had been a man, perhaps his attitude would have been different, but not only was she a woman but, in his eyes, a very personable young woman. He had talked about her to Susie, one afternoon, when the two of them walked the length of the pier. Susie was very fond of Miss Trant and thought her⁠—as she said⁠—“really swish and a dear,” but of course practically middle-aged, with nothing but a deadly spinsterish sort of life in front of her once she had left the Good Companions. Mr. Oakroyd had immediately protested against this view of his employer.

“Nay, Soos,” he said, “you’re off your horse there, lass. I wouldn’t be so capped if Miss Trant didn’t marry afore so long. She may have a chap, nah, nobbut waiting for her to say t’word. She’s young eniff for onnybody; you’ve nobbut to look at her to see she’s one o’ the classy sort that happens to ha’ got plenty o’ gumption; and she’s right nice-looking into t’bargain. And if I were a chap, coming courting here, Miss Trant ’ud be t’first I should go for, so nah you knaw.”

“So that’s it, is it?” Susie pretended to be very disgusted indeed. “Well, you are a fraud, Mr. Jess Oakroyd. And after I’ve been so nice to you! What about me, yer gurt nowt?”

“I wouldn’t be paid to wed thee, Soos,” he declared, delightedly. “A chap ’ud nivver have five minutes’ peace and quiet to hissen wi’ thee, for tha’d be kissin’ him one minute and tormenting him t’next minute and then thrawing pots and pans at him minute after. If tha wasn’t telling him he mun nivver leave thee for half an hour, then tha’d be telling him tha were leaving him ivver, till t’poor lad wouldn’t know whether he wor on his head or his heels.”

“And very nice for him too,” she replied. “He’d like it. Though you’re simply talking rot, of course. You don’t know anything about me really, not the least thing, and it’s simply cheek to say I should go on like that. But do you really think I would?”

“I’m saying nowt,” he began.

“And about time, too!”

“But I do knaw this. There’s a lad i’ this company I’ve got my eye on, and I’m feeling right sorry for him already.”

“Now what⁠—just exactly what⁠—do you mean by that, Mr. Oakroyd?”

“He may be a good pianner-player. I don’t say he isn’t. They tell me he might easy mak’ a lot o’ money out o’ t’songs he’s doing. I don’t doubt it. But I’ve had my eye on him, and I say I’m right sorry for him. If he goes on t’way he’s shaping, he’ll land hissen in a mess, choose how it works out. If this lass he’s getting so sweet on won’t have him, then he’ll nivver knaw no peace. But if she does have him he’ll nivver knaw no peace neither.”

“I never heard such stuff in all my life,” cried Susie. “As if I⁠—he⁠—anybody⁠—oh, don’t be silly! And if he was getting like that⁠—and of course he isn’t; he hasn’t known me five minutes, not that that makes much difference, I admit⁠—well, it wouldn’t be my fault, would it?”

“Not so much your fault as his misfortin,” said Mr. Oakroyd, with a grin.

“Nah, lad, nah, lad!” Susie snapped her fingers at him. “And if somebody had told me that a carpenter from Shuddersford could be beastly nosey, just like an old woman, I wouldn’t have believed them. Now just run away and do some work instead of talking scandal that you’ve made up yourself and”⁠—here her voice sank and took on a bloodcurdling vibration⁠—“poisoning the mind and betraying the heart of A Young Girl, hardly more than a Chee‑ild and a Norphan. Go, Sir Jess.”

And that wicked baronet, pulling his little brown cap further down, did go, giving her a wink as he went. He entered the Pavilion through the stage door. If anybody had told him a fortnight ago he would be marching in through stage doors! Inside there was a nice little job waiting for him. When he had done that, had a chat with Joe and one or two of the others perhaps, smoked a pipe or two of Old Salt, there was the grand walk back to his lodgings and tea at the end of it. “Good afternoon, Mr. Oakroyd; your tea’s just ready and I’ve done one of our special fat kippers you like so much.”

“Nah that’s a bit of all right, Mrs. Cullin,” he would reply; and then have his tea and a look at the paper, then a walk round and perhaps half a pint somewhere, then back to the Pier, taking his time; his own man, a chap that was knocking about a bit, and one of the Good Companions. Eh, but it was grand!

“Nay, lad,” he warned himself, “steady on, steady on a bit. Tha’s not asleep and dreaming. There’s bahnd to be a catch in it somewhere.”

And the second half of that week at Sandybay brought the catch.

II

It was a letter that destroyed his peace of mind. He had soon seen that he could not cut himself off entirely from the folk at home. They must know where to find him, for though they might think they were better off without him, be glad to see the last of him, still there they were, his wife and his son, and if anything happened to them, they would want to let him know and he would want to know. There was also the question of Lily’s letters. It took over a fortnight for a letter to find its way to her out there in Canada, and more than another fortnight for a reply to come back; in fact, you could reckon it six weeks, there and back, even if she replied almost at once. He had⁠—as he said⁠—“studied this” when first he joined the troupe. He could write to her as usual, and indeed he intended to write more often now that he had so much to tell her. But how was she going to reply? He could not give her his address six or seven or eight weeks ahead, for he would not always know where they would be then. He saw that she would have to write to him at 51 Ogden Street, Bruddersford, as before, and the letters would have to be sent on to him by his wife or (and that was more likely) by Leonard. All he had to do was to let them know at home where he would be the next week, and he could always find that out. He asked Joe about this, and discovered from him that all that was necessary was to give the name of the troupe, the hall, and the town: Mr. J. Oakroyd, the Good Companions, Pier Pavilion, Sandybay⁠—that is how you did it, and that is what he sent home, the week before at Dotworth, together with a short letter saying that he had got a job with some pierrots and telling them to send on Lily’s letters. And he had written again, giving them his Winstead address, before a reply came.

It was on Thursday afternoon that he found a letter waiting for him at the Pavilion. He hurried away with it to a quiet corner and was delighted to discover that it contained a letter from Lily. But she did not say much. It was still very hot out there; she was all right but taking it easy because of the baby that was coming, which she was sure was a boy; and her husband, Jack Clough, was working very hard and looked like getting a rise very soon; and they sent their love to all. When he had read this letter through a second time, Mr. Oakroyd began to feel miserable. It brought Lily back so sharply to his mind, which could not hold a clear image of her face nor hear her voice distinctly yet was most vividly, poignantly conscious of her. The letter did this, yet at the same time it made painfully plain the distance between them. There she was, but this was all she could say. Tomorrow he would sit down, sucking away at his moustache, pressing so hard on his pen that it spluttered ink on the paper, in an agony of endeavour to tell her something of what he felt and thought, and he would say little more. If only she was here, listening to him, or he was there, looking at her! Not a word yet about him going out there. He folded the letter with mournful care and put it in his inside pocket.

Something had been sent with it. He glanced down at the name at the bottom of the scrawl. It was a short letter from Leonard. He cast a rather negligent eye over it. He was not very interested in what Leonard had to say. But when he had gone through it once, he drew in his breath sharply, pushed his cap to the very back of his head, and began all over again, this time attending carefully to every single word. And this is what he read:

Dear Father,

We got your letter and I am sending you a letter which came from our Lily. I am having to write because Ma says she will not write because she is too ashamed for you and will not trust herself she says to say a word to you. What have you done, you must have done something because after you had gone a few days a bobby called one night and asked about you and where you were. We could not say we said. And that is not the end of it, Mrs. Sugden told Ma the police had been watching the house and Joe Flather told me they had been to Higdens and asking at the club. So you had best keep away from here and keep out of the way or try a disguise or they will get you. Albert Tuggridge says it is too risky writing, they can open all letters and track you down that way but I am risking it though we are not telling anybody where you are. Ma is disgusted but I must say it is a bit of excitement and agree with Albert that if you have done anything you must have been the tool of others and been used by a gang of crooks. We were surprised you had got a job with some pierots and think you ought to watch out there. United lost again, what a team. I have been moved up to fourth chair at Gregsons allready.

After he had read it a third time, he tore it up and, still clutching the fragments, crept quietly out of his corner, a hunted man.

For the rest of that day, he thought about that letter⁠—a policeman calling at 51 Ogden Street; police watching the house; police inquiring at Higden’s; police going along to the Club⁠—and the more he thought about it, the more uneasy he became. “Nay, but I’ve done nowt,” he kept telling himself; but that had no effect. He had been so busy and happy in his new job that he had almost forgotten the astonishing series of events that had taken him to Rawsley, or at least he only remembered them as episodes in a tale he had to tell. But now they returned to arrange themselves in a sinister sequence. There was the money that drunken sportsman, George, had said he had had stolen from him. The police had announced that they had a clue, a valuable clue. That very day he had quarrelled with his firm and quarrelled with his union, had torn up his insurance card (the act of a desperate man), and had run away. And that was not all. There was that lorry, loaded with stolen pieces, that he had travelled down on: the police had been after that. And those two fellows, Nobby and Fred, and that horrible fat woman, Big Annie, all of them ready, no doubt, to swear his life away. Even then he had not finished. There was that row at Ribsden Fair, the policeman who had wanted to see his licence, the flight and all the rest of it; he had been in that, and the policeman had had a good look at him. Why, everywhere he had been, he had been mixed up in something that was against the law, at every single step on the road! That fellow who kept the dining-room where he had had to leave a chisel. Poppleby his name was, that fellow would remember him and would give information as fast as it was wanted⁠—taking the “yuman line” as usual, the big, pasty-faced mess! Looking back, Mr. Oakroyd saw these hostile witnesses springing up all along the line of his travels. “I’ve done nowt,” he concluded mournfully, “but I haven’t a leg to stand on.”

Mr. Oakroyd was a respectable workingman, not a member of the criminal classes, and therefore he did not regard the police as his natural enemies. On the other hand, his social level was not that of those comfortable and well-dressed persons who think of the police purely and simply as their protectors, who see them as so many stalwart, kindly, humorous, obliging fellows, all with big hearts of gold beneath their blue tunics. He and his friends in Bruddersford had no quarrel with the police but neither had they any tenderness for them. Their attitude was one of wary neutrality. A bobby was all right in his place, though he had a nasty trick of not keeping in his place. Mr. Oakroyd in his time had known several policemen, had exchanged half-pints of ale and remarks about football with them, and had found them good, bad, and indifferent, like other people. Of their superiors⁠—sergeants and inspectors and that lot⁠—he was rather suspicious, believing that they were rather too fond of having “cases” to be entirely just men or desirable companions. And of the Law itself, with all its mysterious routine and artful tricks, he had a real horror. “You keep out, mate,” he had heard many a time, had repeated himself more than once. Neither he nor any of his friends was one of your born lawyers, a type known to every ship, every regiment, every factory, and not popular, the kind of men who always have their “rights” off by heart, know exactly what you can’t be made to do, and positively welcome the chance of standing up in a court of law. Mr. Oakroyd knew very well that he was innocent, except in that matter of the insurance card, but he was ready to go to considerable lengths in order not to be compelled to prove his innocence. The idea of establishing his innocence and putting himself right with the authorities never once occurred to him; if the police were looking for him, then it was his business to keep out of their way; and if there are any persons to whom this attitude seems incomprehensible, then they simply do not understand Mr. Oakroyd or anybody else in Ogden Street, Bruddersford.

The only satisfaction Mr. Oakroyd had was the gloomy one of knowing now exactly where the catch was. By the next day, after much troubled reflection, he felt a hunted and haunted man. He had never noticed any policeman before in Sandybay, but now they seemed to spring up round every corner. He walked past them with his heart pounding away, and their suspicious eyes seemed to be digging in his back. And something was always turning up to remind him of his horrible position. Thus, in the afternoon, the Pavilion attendant, Curtis, the man with one eye and the long melancholy face, had to begin chattering.

“I see in the paper,” said Curtis, “where they’ve got that feller that did the big jewel robbery in the West End.”

Mr. Oakroyd grunted.

“Made no mistake, got him fair and square,” he continued with enthusiasm. “They only wanted a bit of time, that’s all. Now, he’ll get a bit of time.” And Curtis, who seemed to have found a subject that released him from his usual melancholy, laughed at his own pleasant wit. “Fellers say to me, ‘Oh, they’ll never get him,’ but I’ve said all along, ‘You wait and see, chum. Give ’em time.’ What d’you say, Mr. Oakroyd?”

Mr. Oakroyd only grunted again. He looked at his companion with shrinking distaste. One eye was lighted up and seemed to rove all over him maliciously, while the other, the glass one, was fixed on his face in a cold dead stare. The effect was most sinister.

“People can say what they like about the police,” Curtis went on, “but I know a bit about ’em and I like to foiler these cases, and the conkerlusion I’ve come to is just this, Mr. Oakroyd: Give the police time and they never miss their man.”

Mr. Oakroyd merely made a clicking sound with his tongue and stared about him.

“Never miss their man,” the other repeated emphatically, at the same time tapping his listener on the arm.

Mr. Oakroyd drew back sharply. “Ar d’yer mean ‘Never miss their man’?” he said irritably.

“The feller they want they find,” said Curtis. “It may not be this week. It may not be next week. But sooner or later”⁠—and here he held out a large and dirty hand, then suddenly closed it⁠—“got him!” After this dramatic conclusion, he looked at Mr. Oakroyd triumphantly out of his one eye.

“Nowt o’ t’sort!” cried Mr. Oakroyd angrily. “If you ask me, they miss as monny as they catch.”

Curtis shook his head and smiled pityingly. “That’s what a lot o’ people think, but they don’t know. It’s organization that does it. Organization, that’s it.”

“It’s all me eye,” said Mr. Oakroyd.

“No, chum, it’s all their eye.” And Curtis laughed again, and was so irritating that Mr. Oakroyd told himself he would like to give him “a bat on t’lug.”

“Friend of mine’s got a brother-in-law in the Metrotropilitan⁠—you know, up in London, proper Scotland Yard man. You ought to hear the tales he tells. Not a dog’s chance, they haven’t got, these fellers that’s wanted.”

“All me eye and Betty Martin!” muttered Mr. Oakroyd.

“What with photographs and fingerprints and telegraphs and wireless and flying squads!” cried Curtis ecstatically. “Not a dog’s chance! They give ’em a bit of rope and then⁠—got him!”

“Ay, you did that afore!” Mr. Oakroyd sneered. He was now thoroughly exasperated. “What do you want to keep doing that for? It looks so daft. Got him, got him! You look as if you’re trying to catch bluebottles.”

“I was just illustrating, so to speak, the way they can do it,” said Curtis meekly.

“Well, what’s it got to do wi’ you?” demanded Mr. Oakroyd. “Onnybody ’ud think to hear you talk they were makking you t’chief constable o’ town⁠—”

“All right, all right, chum. What’s the matter with you?”

“Nowt’s matter wi’ me,” replied Mr. Oakroyd, “only don’t keep on about it like that. You’ve told me. Well, let it drop, mate. I don’t like to hear a man going on i’ that fashion. Like a dam’ bloodhound! They’ve done nowt to you.”

“Ar, you’re too softhearted, that’s it, Mr. Oakroyd,” said Curtis, looking rather relieved. “It does you credit in a way, but believe me, you can’t afford it, not in these times. These fellers is best out of the way. I like to see ’em getting under lock and key.”

“I think yond’s Mr. Porson,” said Mr. Oakroyd and so put an end to this unpleasant conversation. He took care to have no more little chats with Curtis after that. But now, any out-of-the-way incident began to look sinister. Things that would normally have excited his curiosity and given him the chance of indulging in the most delightful speculations, now made him all the more uneasy and secretive. There was, for example, that little talk he had with the chauffeur outside the Pavilion on Saturday afternoon, when he was helping with the extra chairs. Between two loads, when there was nothing to do, this chauffeur strolled up to him. He was a soldierly-looking chap in a fine blue uniform.

“Hope you don’t mind me asking,” he said, “but haven’t you something to do with this troupe, the Good Companions?”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Oakroyd, with a touch of pride. “If you want to knaw, I’m t’stage carpenter and property man for ’em.” He looked at the man. “And I’ve seen you about t’place somewhere, I’m thinking.”

“Big blue Daimler,” said the chauffeur. “You’ll have seen it in the town. We’re staying at the Great Eastern Hotel, on the front there. We’ve seen this show twice, and when I say ‘we,’ I mean the missis⁠—not the wife, you know; she’s at home⁠—the Daimler’s missis. I’ve seen it once too. We’re coming again tonight. It’s a good show.”

“You won’t find a better, mate.”

“That is so. And it’s not being patronized as it oughter be. Have a fag?”

“Nay, I nivver touch fags. I’m a pipe man missen.”

The chauffeur lit his cigarette and gave Mr. Oakroyd a companionable nod or two. “Well, you’re like me, I expect. One place today and another tomorrow.”

“That’s it,” said Mr. Oakroyd, who liked this sort of talk. “We’re allus on t’road. Packing up again tomorn.”

“And where is it this time?” asked the chauffeur, with a casual air that seemed a bit overdone.

“Place called Winstead next week,” Mr. Oakroyd replied, with all the nonchalance of a man who is ready to go anywhere at a moment’s notice.

“Winstead, eh? Lemme see, that’s a smallish town, sort of market town, in Northampton or Bedfordshire, isn’t it?”

“Nay, I don’t fairly knaw,” Mr. Oakroyd admitted, still quite at ease. “To tell truth, I’ve nivver set eyes on t’place.”

“And where after that?” the other pursued.

“Nah then, I’ll ha’ to think a bit. Is there a place called Haxby?”

“There is. It’s Coventry way. Is that it?”

“It might be. I’ve heard ’em say summat about Haxby.”

The chauffeur examined his cigarette. “And then where?” he asked.

“Well, there wor some talk about Middleford,” Mr. Oakroyd admitted, “but that might be t’week after or it might be monny a week after for all I knaw.”

“You couldn’t get to know, I suppose, and give me a sort of a list?”

Mr. Oakroyd stared. Then his easy friendly manner suddenly disappeared. “Here, what’s the idear?” he demanded. “What’s it matter to you where we’re going?”

“I just wondered, that’s all,” said the chauffeur, looking rather surprised. “No harm in asking, is there?”

“There might not be and then again there might,” said Mr. Oakroyd, eyeing him suspiciously. “But I can’t see what it’s got to do wi’ you, Mister. It’s not all plain sailing i’ this business. Yer nivver knaw who you’re talking to,” he observed severely.

“That is so,” said the chauffeur.

“A chap i’ my position has to be careful. I can’t say what I like to onnybody as comes up and asks. There’s wheels within wheels,” he added mysteriously.

“Well, if you want to know why I’m asking,” said the chauffeur, suddenly confidential, “I’ll tell you, though I’m not supposed to. It’s the missis that wants to know.”

“The missis!” cried Mr. Oakroyd, staring.

“Lady I’m working for,” explained the other, with a grin. “If you ask me, she’s taken a fancy to this troupe of yours. She’s always taking a fancy to something. Too much money and not enough to do, that’s her trouble. Widow, y’know, and rolling in money. And this morning she asked me to come and find out where you people was going to. Wants to come and have another look at you, though she didn’t say so. So there you have it.”

“Ay,” said Mr. Oakroyd reflectively.

“And you can’t tell me any more?”

“That I can’t.”

“All right. No harm done, is there?” The chauffeur gave him a nod, rather a contemptuous nod. “So long!” And off he went.

Mr. Oakroyd rubbed his chin and watched the retreating figure. “Nay, lad,” he told it, “tha’s coming it a bit too thick. Missis wants to knaw! Missis nowt!” He did not believe this fantastic story, and still felt uneasy and suspicious, and therefore took care not to mention this encounter to any of the party. Perhaps if he had mentioned it, some of them might not have been so puzzled by the arrival of that bouquet for Mr. Jerry Jerningham and by several other incidents that occurred later.

That last performance at Sandybay, as we know already, was a Night, and Mr. Oakroyd enjoyed it as much as any of the others. Their triumph was his triumph. His broad face beamed in the wings throughout the show, and was so ruddy and shining that it looked⁠—as somebody said⁠—like an extra spotlight. But when it was over, when the last applauder had gone and all the props were put away, he saw the shadow creeping over him again. And was there ever such luck! There he was, as snugly suited as any man in England⁠—and yet, Wanted. At any minute they might say “Got him!”⁠—and then where was he? Worse off than he was before. It made him sweat to think of it. “Done nowt,” he said again, very bitterly this time, “but not a leg to stand on!”

“Now, Mr. Oakroyd,” cried Miss Trant gaily when they were all standing at the Pier entrance, “you must decide. Will you go in the car again, or would you rather go by train this time? Which do you think is the more romantic? I know you’re a romantic person⁠—like me.”

And then he had to think quickly, desperately. Which was the safer? That was the point. He saw himself being collared in a station. He saw himself being hauled out of the car. “Nay, I don’t fairly knaw,” he stammered. “I mun think a minute, Miss Trant.”

“He’s spoilt, that’s what he is,” said Susie. “But that’s because he’s our little mascot, aren’t ta, lad?”

“Owd thi tongue, lass,” cried Mr. Oakroyd. “I’ll go i’ t’car, thank yer, Miss Trant.” Yes, the car would be safer. And he was not going to leave it at that. He would show them.

When he met Miss Trant the next morning he was very self-conscious, but she was too busy to notice that or anything else about him. “Good morning, Mr. Oakroyd,” she said. “You’re in good time.”

His face fell. A casual glance, and she had recognized him. But then, of course, she was expecting him. Then Susie joined them. There was usually a second person taken in the car, but never more than two because they carried as much luggage as possible. He greeted Susie with a sheepish grin.

“Hello, hello!” she cried. “What’s this? Look, Miss Trant. Do you see what he’s done?”

Miss Trant smilingly examined him. “You do look a little different,” she said.

“He’s shaved his moustache off,” cried Susie.

“So he has,” said Miss Trant.

“He’s tired of being behind the scenes. Is that it, Jess? Or did you leave it with your landlady as a little souvenir?”

“Don’t be disgusting, Susie,” cried Miss Trant.

“I’ll bet it makes me look different,” said Mr. Oakroyd fingering his upper lip. “Allus does, shaving off a moustache.”

“It doesn’t much, you know,” Miss Trant told him.

“It’s just the same sweet face from Shuddersford,” Susie assured him.

His heart sank. It looked as if he had given himself a stiff and raw upper lip for nothing. “But don’t you see owt else different?” he inquired, rather wistfully.

They both looked again. This time Miss Trant was first. “I know,” she cried. “You’ve got a new cap, Mr. Oakroyd.”

“It looks the same to me, about two sizes too small,” said Susie.

“No, the other one was brown,” said Miss Trant.

“I believe it was,” cried Susie. “And this is grey. I remember now. The old one was what they’d call in Yorkshire a mucky brown, in fact it was a mucky old cap. You can see he wants to be an actor now⁠—what with being clean-shaven and going in for being dressy like that.”

Mr. Oakroyd grinned nervously, and pushed the cap back a little, for being the same size as the other, that is, too small, it went sliding back equally well. But though he grinned, he was at heart very disappointed indeed. For one wild moment, after he had shaved that morning, he had had a vision of Miss Trant and Susie looking at him as he came up and wondering who it was. “And half a crown gone on a cap an’ all,” he told himself, “and I liked t’owd un. Seems to me I’ll ha’ to grow a beard and wear a big trilby if I’m to disguise mysen. This is a hopeless case.” And he had already written to Ogden Street to say he would be in Winstead this coming week. If the police had got hold of that letter, it might be all up with him. He did not look forward at all to Winstead.

III

There is no pleasanter market town in all the East Midlands than Winstead, with its cobbled square and broad High Street, its fine fifteenth-century Parish Church, Elizabethan Market Hall, and old gabled houses. It is not a market town and nothing else, for it manufactures gloves, hosiery, and lace in a discreet gentlemanly fashion; there is plenty of money in the town; the shops in the High Street have quite a metropolitan air; Munsey’s Café has an orchestra (piano, violin, and cello) and gives a thé dansant twice a week; and every ten minutes or so a bus comes into the market square from one or other of the numerous villages that regard Winstead as the centre of all things. It has one picture palace, and one small theatre, the Playhouse, which occasionally sandwiches a concert party in between two seasons of stock companies.

The Good Companions were at the Playhouse, and were doing better business there than they had done at Sandybay. The audiences were not wildly enthusiastic but they were fairly large and responsive every night, especially in the more expensive seats. Winstead⁠—as they all told one another⁠—was proving a good “date.” All the players liked the town, with the exception of Jerry Jerningham, who hated the thought of playing in any place smaller than his native Birmingham and said that he was “eating his hawt out in these little tawns.” Their lodgings were better than usual, they agreed; cleaner, more comfortable. They were fortunate in the weather, which was the best golden October brew, its sunshine as mellow as the old redbrick walls. Miss Trant, at home in such a place, enjoyed every hour there. Elsie discovered in the younger Mr. Long, of Long and Passbury, estate agents and auctioneers in the High Street, a gentleman friend of her residential season at Cromer, two years before, and a friend ready to combine business with pleasure by taking her out in his two-seater. Susie pottered about, contentedly enough, though in secret she too sighed for cities and crowded streets; and if she was ever alone in her excursions, that was not the fault of her colleague, Inigo Jollifant. Mrs. Joe, who was beginning to feel prosperous again, planned and began executing some vast knitting work, told her landlady all about George, and occasionally made a stately entrance into Munsey’s Café. Joe himself strolled about in the sunshine with his pipe, listened to Mr. Morton Mitcham’s reminiscences, and played snooker with Jimmy Nunn. Jimmy, in his search for a digestion, had discovered a little chemist, just at the back of the High Street, who was a very droll card and might be worked up into a new number and act.

These people, however, were not wanted by the police. Mr. Oakroyd, who was convinced that he was, did not enjoy himself at Winstead. Everything conspired to rob him of his peace of mind. The very sunlight only lit up his face before the eyes of every passing policeman. On the very second day there he had had an alarming experience. He had decided that it was no use skulking in his lodgings, though he was very comfortable and quite at home there, and so went boldly out, in the full light of the afternoon, to explore the town.

At the corner, turning into the square, he ran into a police sergeant, a large, unpleasant-looking chap, went right into him, with a bump. “ ’Ello, ’ello!” the sergeant growled. Mr. Oakroyd gave him one startled glance, muttered something, and hurried away as fast as he could go without actually breaking into a run. He walked across the square, dodging between the buses, and then, slackening his pace, went down the High Street. There he met Jimmy Nunn, who was carrying a tiny parcel that only a chemist could have wrapped so neatly. Jimmy stopped him. “Did you ever hear of this stuff, Oakroyd?” he said, holding up his packet. “Pepsinate, they call it.” And he kept Mr. Oakroyd there for five minutes listening to a description of Pepsinate, which had, it appeared, arrived at its final test, namely, a fight to a finish with Jimmy’s stomach. At the end of these five minutes, Mr. Oakroyd chanced to glance across the road. There, standing on the pavement and looking directly at him, was the large sergeant.

He hurriedly said goodbye to Jimmy, but this time took care not to appear as if he was running away, and merely sauntered along, stopping now and again to examine a shop window. The first time he ventured another glance across the road, the sergeant was still there and apparently still keeping an eye on him. The second time he glanced across, however, the sergeant was not to be seen. Mr. Oakroyd pushed back his cap in sheer relief and admitted that he was a fool to frighten himself in this fashion. He stood staring idly at the side window of a boot shop. After a moment or two, he was still staring but no longer idly. There was something blue moving above that pair of gent’s box calf. It was a reflection in the mirror at the back, and it was a reflection of a policeman’s uniform. The sergeant was just behind him. He stooped down, pretending to tie a lace, and cocked an eye at the pavement, waiting to see a pair of regulation blue trousers move past. They did not come. Suddenly, he lunged forward and hurried off, without a glance behind him. As he went, he thought he heard a deep voice saying “ ’Ere, half a minute!” A few yards farther on, he slipped across the road, between two cars, and was just about to break into a run when he caught sight of another policeman eyeing him severely. The place was full of policemen.

“A nice little place like this an’ all! What do they want so monny for?” He asked himself angrily. “Gurt idle nowts! Waste o’ fowk’s brass, I calls it.” By this time, however, he had taken the first turning out of the High Street down a narrow side-street, and had come to another road full of shops. Here there were no policemen to be seen. Immensely relieved, he lit a pipe of Old Salt, and walked slowly along. A picture of a large steamer pulled him up. There was also a picture of a man standing in a cornfield, holding out his hands, and saying “Come to Canada.” He spent several minutes looking at these and other pictures and thinking about Lily and Canada. The shop was a Tourist and Shipping Agency, and Mr. Oakroyd, peeping in, could see a number of booklets spread out on the counter. He had examined some of those little books before, and they had a kindly trick of bringing Lily a bit nearer. Some of them might have a map that would show him just where she was. He went in and began turning over the booklets. Nobody bothered about him, and when he had looked them all over, he slipped two of the largest into his pocket and walked out. And there, looking straight at him, blocking up the whole pavement, was the sergeant.

“Well?” said the sergeant.

“What’s up?” Mr. Oakroyd stammered, his heart thumping away.

“What do you want to run away for?” The sergeant sounded very fierce indeed.

“Nay, I weren’t running away,” replied Mr. Oakroyd.

“And what’s the idear ’aving this brogue?” the sergeant went on. There was a suggestion of good humour now beneath his fierceness. “What d’you think you are now⁠—Lancashire comedian?”

“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Oakroyd desperately. “Sorry, Sergeant, but I don’t foiler yer,” he added, more politely.

The sergeant stepped forward and looked at him so intently that his heart turned to water. It must, he thought be all up now. But the sergeant was beginning to look puzzled. “You’re either Jimmy Pearson,” he said finally, “or his twin brother.”

“Nay, I’m not. I knaw nowt about onny Parsons. I’m a⁠—I’m a⁠—stranger here, Sergeant.”

“What’s your name?”

“Oa⁠—” he began, then recollected himself. “Oglethorpe,” he announced boldly. “Sam Oglethorpe. And I come from Wabley i’ Yorkshire.”

“And you sound as if you do, Mister,” said the sergeant. “Well, you’re the very spit of a feller called Pearson that used to live here. When you give me that bump in the square, I said to myself. ‘That’s Jimmy Pearson come back. I’ll ’ave a word with him.’ Not too fond of us, Jimmy wasn’t⁠—used to make a book now and again⁠—but we didn’t mind him. And the way you was dodging round was Jimmy all over.”

Mr. Oakroyd saw that it would not do to pretend he had never seen the sergeant before. “After I’d gi’en you such a bump at t’corner there, I thowt I’d better keep out o’ t’road,” he said, with an appearance of great candour.

That was all right then. They were friendly enough when they parted, but the encounter had given Mr. Oakroyd such a shock that its surprisingly happy ending did nothing to quieten his fears. If anything, he was more uneasy than before. He had given the sergeant a wrong name, and trouble might come of that. He had another shock the following night during the performance, when he was at the top of the little ladder working the light. Jerry Jerningham had just kicked both legs in the air when Mr. Oakroyd noticed a policeman’s helmet bobbing about in the wings. He nearly fell off the ladder. They had found him. He was free to descend now but he stopped where he was, in the hope that the policeman might overlook him. The next moment, however, he was looking down on the policeman’s upturned face.

“Finished up there?”

“Ay,” said Mr. Oakroyd reluctantly.

“Just come down a minute then,” said the policeman. At every step he expected to find the policeman grasping his collar. It was horrible.

“They said you’d be the feller to tell me,” said the policeman amiably, indeed quite apologetically. “ ’Ave to ’ave a look around yer know. Council here’s very particular. Fire and all that. Won’t take a minute, but I’ve to ask a question or two.” And he pulled out a notebook and immediately looked grave and important.

Mr. Oakroyd breathed again. “Owt I can tell you, I will, mate,” he said earnestly, with the air of a man who was ready to put out a fire with his own hands.

The worst of it was that you never knew when you were safe even for an hour. The most innocent things suddenly became sinister, menacing. Thus, on Saturday morning, his landlady, Mrs. Mason, whose husband was a porter at Long and Passbury’s, the auctioneers, told Mr. Oakroyd at breakfast-time that he must make sure of being in to tea. “It’s Milly’s birthday today,” she announced, “and we’re having a bit of a spread and we want you to join us, if it’s not asking too much. And Milly’s young chap’s coming too. You’ll like ’im, a bit of good company he is. Six o’clock we’re ’aving it becos that’s as soon as he can get here.”

Mr. Oakroyd liked nothing better than such festive occasions. Not only did he promise to be there but he arranged to get two tickets for the show that night for Milly and her young man, of whom he had heard vaguely but had never seen, as a birthday present. At half past five he was in the parlour, listening, with a show of interest for once, to the ponderous talk of Mr. Mason, a very slow and solemn man, not too fond of work. Mr. Mason seemed to think this was a suitable moment to discuss his attitude towards religion. “Give me a bit of ritchool,” he was saying, “I likes a bit of ritchool, Mr. Oakroyd,” when his daughter Milly, a big bouncing girl, who earned good money at the glove factory and had no respect for her father, blew in like a coloured and scented gale and told him to “dry up about his old ritchool.” Mr. Oakroyd wished her many happy returns and handed over the tickets. For this he was soundly kissed, for he was in favour with Milly, who liked to think she was in touch with theatrical life and had retailed Mr. Oakroyd’s gossip to some profit during the week to the other girls at the glove factory. Then Mrs. Mason, crimson, shining, and unfamiliar in her best, bustled in and said that tea was ready when they were.

“Tom’s not ’ere yet,” said Milly. “We’ll wait. If he keeps us much longer, he’ll ’ear from me when ’e does come.”

“Don’t let ’im ’ear too much from you, Miss,” said her mother, delighted at such a spirit but not above giving a warning.

“She’ll get ’er master yet in Tom,” Mr. Mason observed ponderously. “Or if she don’t, then I’m surprised. ’E’s big enough.”

Tom was big enough. He was nearly six foot, very straight, very broad in the shoulders. He had a red face, a small clipped moustache, a twinkling eye, and any amount of jaw. In his new grey suit, he looked both stalwart and trim, and he was the kind of young fellow that Mr. Oakroyd at any other time would have taken to at once, but now somehow he did not like the look of him. There was something unpleasant about the way in which he marched in, heavy on his feet.

“Comes in as if he’s going to lock us all up,” cried Milly, asking them all with her eyes to admire him.

“Well, you be careful then, my girl,” said Tom with mock gruffness. And then he and Milly laughed, and Mr. Mason and Mrs. Mason laughed. Mr. Oakroyd did not laugh; he only smiled vaguely; he was feeling rather uneasy. Tom had heard about him and the troupe, and was very pleased to meet him. Mr. Oakroyd said he was very pleased too, and tried to look pleased, especially after he had had his hand almost pulped. They went in to tea.

Mr. Oakroyd brightened up at the sight of the tea. There was boiled ham; there was tinned salmon, with vinegar; there was even jam pasty; it was a proper knife-and-fork, company tea that Bruddersford itself would not have despised. It reminded him of old times at home. And then no sooner had they got sat down than Mr. Mason spoilt it all.

“Well, Tom,” said Mr. Mason, “arrested anybody lately? ’E’s in the Force, Tom is,” he added, turning to Mr. Oakroyd.

Mr. Oakroyd nodded, and felt himself turning all colours. This was a nice mess he had landed himself into, having to eat all this tea right under a bobby’s nose. “Best thing tha can do, lad,” he told himself desperately, “is to car quiet, say nowt.” And this was easy enough for a time, while Milly and her Tom were busy chaffing one another, but after that there was no escape for him. Grateful for the tickets and anxious to be polite, Tom insisted upon talking to him, asking him questions.

“Where did you say you came from?” said Tom.

“Leeds,” said Mr. Oakroyd.

“I thought you said it was Bruddersford the other day, Mr. Oakroyd,” cried Mrs. Mason.

“It’s all t’same,” replied Mr. Oakroyd. “You can’t tell where one ends and t’other begins.” Nothing could be further from the truth, he knew, than this, but it might pass among these strangers. Indeed, strangers who actually visited the West Riding were inclined to take such views, seeing one endless town where natives could see half a dozen entirely different and warring communities.

“We don’t often get ’em from your part down here,” said Tom reflectively. “Funny thing, though, there’s another chap just come here who’s from your part, judging by your talk. Our sergeant was telling us about him. He was the very spit image of a little bookie that used to be here called Jimmy Pearson⁠—”

“I’ve ’eard of him,” said Mr. Mason with great solemnity.

“So the sarge follered him round to have a word with him, and then it turns out it wasn’t the same feller.”

“Case o’ mistaken identity you’d call that in the Force, wouldn’t you?” said Mr. Mason with even greater solemnity. “Ar, I thought so. Mistaken identity, that’s what they’d call it, Ma.”

“Fancy!” cried Mrs. Mason. “Let me give you another cup of tea, Tom. Pass the stewed pears to Mr. Oakroyd, Pa.”

“And this little feller came from Yorkshire the same as yourself,” said Tom, who was not the man to leave a tale half finished. “Same sort of name too. The sarge did say what it was. Og⁠—something or other.”

“It ’ud be Ogden,” announced Mr. Mason complacently. “Know the name well. I’ve sold at least two up in my time.”

“No, it wasn’t Ogden,” said Tom. Then he looked at Mr. Oakroyd. “It was longer than Ogden. A real Yorkshire sort of name, it was. I thought you might know the name. You might know the man. Our sergeant said it was a bit fishy the way this feller kept getting out of his way at first, but he thinks everything’s fishy, he does. That’s the way they get to be sergeants.”

“I don’t like a suspicious nature,” cried Milly. “Don’t you ever ’ave a suspicious nature, Tom, whatever you do.”

This seemed to Mr. Oakroyd a very sensible remark. He himself tried to convey the impression that he could not be bothered with anything at that moment but stewed pears and custard and brown bread and butter. But he was not to be left alone.

“I was wondering if you might know this Og⁠—something chap,” Tom said to him.

He shook his head. “I’ve not heard tell of another Yorkshire chap here, but there may be onny number of ’em for all I knaw.”

Mr. Mason had been ruminating and now he pronounced judgement. “Tom won’t ’ave a suspicious nature. Tom’ll be too easygoing, that’ll be his trouble.”

“No, it won’t,” cried Milly. “Will it, Tom?”

“He’ll be there when he’s wanted,” said Mrs. Mason. “Pass your cups up while it’s nice and hot.”

“I’ve got eyes in my head,” said Tom, and as he said this his gaze wandered round the table and seemed to come to rest significantly on Mr. Oakroyd, who was so disturbed by it that the pear he was cutting with his spoon suddenly shot off his plate and landed among the lemon-cheese tarts.

“Eh, dear!” cried Mr. Oakroyd. “Look what I’m doing.”

“You’ll ’ave to be given in charge, Mr. Oakroyd,” said Mr. Mason waggishly. “Here’s a case for you, Tom. Damaging tarts with a pear.”

They laughed at this, and Mr. Mason, thus encouraged, immediately took charge of the conversation. “And joking apart, quite apart,” he began, just as if there were all manner of humorous diversions going forward elsewhere in the house, “mentioning no names and intending no offence, I say it’s time there were a few more cases in this town. Yes, and in other towns, a lot of other towns. And I know what I’m talking about⁠—”

“No you don’t, Pa,” said his daughter. “Shut up.”

“And mind your elbow,” said his wife. “Here, move that custard or he’ll have it over in a minute.”

“There’s people walking about the streets today,” Mr. Mason continued, “that ought to be serving their time in gaol. Hundreds of ’em. We don’t know when we’re rubbing up against ’em. Isn’t that so, Mr. Oakroyd? You know that.”

“Ar d’you mean?” cried Mr. Oakroyd, startled.

“Take no notice of ’im, Mr. Oakroyd,” said his hostess. “And make a good tea. You’re not eating anything.”

“No offence and only in a manner of speaking,” said Mr. Mason grandiosely. “My meaning is that you’re a man who sees the world, you’re knocking about like meself, and you know it as well as I do. Wanted men, that’s wot they are, and walking about the streets today as free as me and you, Mr. Oakroyd. If I’d my way⁠—”

“If you’d your way,” cried Milly, “we’d all be in a mess next minute. Running down the police like that! Now you tell him something, Tom.”

“That’s right,” said her mother. “Give Tom a chance. And give Mr. Oakroyd a piece of sandwich cake. He’s eating nothing.”

“Well, I don’t say we can work miracles,” said Tom, though he said it with an air of a man who might manage one or two if he tried. “We can’t and it isn’t to be expected. But we know more than you people think we know. We can’t pick a needle out of a haystack. And we can’t afford to make mistakes.”

“Course you can’t, Tom,” said Mrs. Mason, who apparently had given this matter a great deal of thought. “Pass your father’s cup, Milly.”

“I’ve done nicely,” said Mr. Mason. “I want to listen.”

“Put it this way, then,” Tom continued. “Supposing you’re wanted for something, Mr. Mason⁠—”

“Don’t take me, Tom. I’m too easy. Anybody knows where to find me in this town. I’m there at Long and Passbury’s, have been for twenty years. It’s money for nothing if it’s me you’re after. Take Mr. Oakroyd ’ere. He’s on the move. Nobody knows anything about ’im.”

“There’s plenty knaws all about me,” Mr. Oakroyd protested indignantly. What did this fool of a chap want to drag him in for! And why couldn’t they change the subject! Surely they had been at it long enough!

“All right,” said Tom, “we’ll take Mr. Oakroyd here. He’s wanted. D’you see?” He looked very fierce and suddenly pointed a finger at the unhappy Mr. Oakroyd. “You’re wanted. We’re after you.” The Mason family laughed heartily at this byplay.

Mr. Oakroyd had had enough of this. It might have been to his advantage to learn what happened when men were wanted, but he simply could not sit there any longer. “Half a minute,” he cried, getting to his feet. “What’s time?”

“Only ten to,” Mrs. Mason told him. “You’ve ample time, Mr. Oakroyd. You said this morning you wouldn’t have to set off until quarter past seven.”

“Ay, I didn’t knaw then,” he muttered. “I’ve a right lot to do early on i’ the‑ater. I mun be off, Mrs. Mason.” He departed to wash himself, leaving the others to rise from the table at their leisure.

Just as he was opening the front door, a heavy hand fell on the shoulder. He jumped. “Eh!” he gasped, and turned round. It was Tom, looking a policeman every inch of him.

“Look out for us tonight, Mr. Oakroyd,” said Tom heartily. “You’ll hear us clapping. And thanks for the tickets.”

“By gow! you made me jump,” cried Mr. Oakroyd, and hurried away. He was determined that this Tom should not clap eyes on him again that night or any other night. He felt miserable. What with the salmon and the pears and the sandwich cake and all the shocks he had had, he felt queer inside.

“Good house tonight,” said Jimmy Nunn. “Winstead’s been a good date. I’m sorry to leave it.”

“Well, you can have it for me,” Mr. Oakroyd told him. “I reckon nowt o’ t’place.”

“Why, what’s wrong with it?”

“Iv’rything,” he replied bitterly, and went about his business.

IV

Mr. Oakroyd felt that he could not go on much longer: his secret was weighing him down. “I mun tell somebody,” he admitted to himself, “or I’ll be going right clean off me dot.” Some of the others were beginning to ask what was the matter with him. Jimmy Nunn thought he had the look of a man on the fringe⁠—just on the mere fringe⁠—of stomach trouble: one who “would know about it later on.” Susie said he was homesick, pining for a sight of Bruddersford. Joe simply shook his head. It was a bad business. Mr. Oakroyd felt ashamed of himself. He would have to tell somebody but he could not bring himself to do it, and felt worse every day.

They were now at Haxby, playing at The Kursaal, a horribly draughty building that had once been a small roller-skating rink. The audiences were not bad, though apt to be restive and noisy at the back. The town itself, they all agreed, was hateful; a dark and dirty place, full of empty butchers’ shops and men without collars who stood about waiting for the racing specials; and they complained of their lodgings, which were all smelly and uncomfortable, haunted by long-lost cabbages and prickly with old horsehair furniture. It was one of those places in which there is nothing to do during the day. They all hung about or went for listless walks or did some mending or tried to find cheerful company over a bottle of Guinness, and were glad when it was time to walk round to the stage door.

Haxby did not give Mr. Oakroyd any of the shocks that Winstead had provided, but it seemed to depress him even more. There was something so dark and slinking about it. And his landlady, an elderly woman with a long yellow face, was not at all friendly but appeared to watch his every movement with suspicion. Nobody was better pleased than he was when Haxby was shut out, the lights turned up on the stage, and Inigo was rattling away on the piano, but even at the theatre they noticed he was out of spirits.

On Thursday night, however, he was a changed man. It was Inigo who remarked it first. “Only another three nights in this hole, thank God!” he said, as they were standing together in the wings before the show began. “Every time I come here I pass fifteen little butchers’ shops and every one has nothing but an old, old leg of mutton in the window. I can’t see them again, I really can’t. They turn me up, absolutely, especially as I’m still finishing their elder brother at my digs. Gosh! what a town!”

“Nay,” Mr. Oakroyd protested, “it’s noan so bad as all that. It’s not t’place I’d like to come to for my holidays, but I’ve seen waar places ner this i’ me time.” His voice had quite a new ring in it.

“Hello, hello!” cried Inigo, staring at him. “What’s happened to you, Master Oakroyd? Why are you now our little ray of sunshine? There’s mystery here.”

Mr. Oakroyd seemed rather confused. “Nay, nowt’s happened⁠—much.”

“Come, come, this won’t do,” said Inigo. “You have a hidden life. There must be fairies at the bottom of your garden, as Mrs. Joe points out sometimes in the key of E flat. What’s happened?”

“Nowt⁠—only I met a chap from Bruddersford today.”

“Ah⁠—so that’s it,” said Inigo. “Do you hear that, Joe? Master Oakroyd’s himself again because he’s met a fellow-Bruddersfordian on this desert trail. Let the word go round, and song and cheer be all our what’s its name.” And the word did go round, with the result that Mr. Oakroyd was thoroughly chaffed all the rest of the night. Undoubtedly, they said, the little man had been homesick.

Mr. Oakroyd did not care what they said. He had a welcoming grin for them all. He was happy again, haunted and hunted no longer. A chance meeting that afternoon had wakened him out of his bad dream.

After dinner (a bad one), he had gone for a stroll round the main streets of the town, smoking his Old Salt and wondering whether it would be worth while having a glass of ale before the pubs closed for the afternoon. Outside the White Hart, the largest pub in the place, he had noticed a little car and there had seemed something familiar about it even at a distance. As soon as he was close enough to see that the back seat of this car had been converted into a kind of large box, Mr. Oakroyd recognized it at once. He knew that car well for he had spent a whole day working on it. That box arrangement (to hold samples) was nothing less than his own handiwork. And there were the Bruddersford registration letters. That car was the one used by Mr. Ashworth, one of Higden’s travellers. Mr. Ashworth was probably inside the White Hart, where he would be giving a good account of himself, at that very moment.

(And let it be said here and now that this encounter with Mr. Ashworth does not involve any undue stretching of the arm of coincidence. Those who imagine it does are simply living in ignorance, not being acquainted with the West Riding trade. Every week, travellers, local men with broad shoulders and broader vowels, leave Bruddersford to visit all the towns in this island, to cross the seas to Gothenburg, Amsterdam, Antwerp, Lille, and Milan, to sail round the globe itself and pop up in Sydney or Buenos Aires. Higden’s is one of the largest firms in Bruddersford, and you might meet a man from Higden’s anywhere and at any moment.)

Then Mr. Oakroyd had an inspiration. He would tell his tale to Mr. Ashworth, who had always had a word for him and was undoubtedly a chap with a head on his shoulders. He entered the White Hart. Mr. Ashworth was not in the bar and not in the Smoke Room, which meant that he was not downstairs at all, for he was not one of your taproom men. While Mr. Oakroyd was hesitating, he was asked what he wanted, and was then told that one gent was still having his lunch in the coffee-room upstairs. That was Mr. Ashworth. Mr. Oakroyd found him in a corner of the deserted room, eating cheese and biscuits and looking idly at a newspaper.

Mr. Ashworth, a big man with a vast expanse of red cheeks, several chins, and prominent light blue eyes, glanced towards the approaching figure of Mr. Oakroyd, then stared at him. “Here,” he called out, “I know you, don’t I.”

“That’s right, Mr. Ashworth,” said the other, walking up. “How are you getting on?”

“Why, it’s Oakroyd! What are you doing here? I heard you got stopped at Higden’s. Dam’ shame too, the time you’d been there! Here, sit you down.”

But Mr. Oakroyd first explained how he came to be in Haxby at all, and then said, in conclusion: “And I’d like to tell you about summat that’s been right bothering me, Mr. Ashworth, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Mr. Ashworth, who had probably been rather bored, did not mind at all. “But we’re not stopping here, lad,” he said. “We’ll find a corner downstairs and have one. Then we can talk in comfort.” And they went downstairs, had a double whisky and a pint put before them, and then Mr. Oakroyd plunged into his tale, beginning with his adventures with George, the night before he left Bruddersford, and ending with Leonard’s letter. “And, as you see for yersen, Mr. Ashworth,” he concluded, “I’ve done nowt⁠—nobbut tearing up me card, that is⁠—but what wi’ one thing and t’other it looked to me as if I hadn’t got a leg to stand on.”

“But how did they come to be looking for you in Bruddersford?” the other inquired.

“All through that big daft George business,” replied Mr. Oakroyd. “That’s t’only thing that could ha’ started ’em. This bobby, you see, Mr. Ashworth, tells me not to foiler this George, and he sees me face and he knaws where I live, Ogden Street, ’cos I told him. Nah then, when this chap, George, says after that he’s been robbed, this bobby remembers me and begins making a few inquiries like, and they find out I’ve taken me hook all of a sudden and that starts ’em off.”

Mr. Ashworth looked at his downcast face for a minute then burst into a sudden and startling roar of laughter. “Well, I’ll be damned! Nay, Oakroyd, lad! That was George Jobley, wasn’t it?”

“Ay, that’s t’name. Do yer knaw him?”

“Know him! T‑t‑t⁠—” Mr. Ashworth went on making this t‑t‑t noise for about two minutes. “I’d be a sight better off if I didn’t know him. He’s had many a quid of mine for something that didn’t run or couldn’t run. But I remember that business. It was all nowt. He was in the rats. He’s never lost any hundred and twenty pound, not he, and he admitted it after. That’s the bit they never put in the paper, of course.”

“D’you mean to say,” demanded Mr. Oakroyd, “t’police hasn’t tak’n t’case up?”

“I should think I do mean to say it. Case! There isn’t enough case to make a pigeon egg. If you’ve been fancying yourself as one of these chaps they’re all looking for and can’t catch, you can stop this minute. I don’t care what your lad wrote, it’s all nowt. He’s been reading penny bloods.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Ashworth?”

“Certain. You can go and walk up and down Woolgate all day tomorrow, and I’ll give you five bob for every time the police look twice at you. Nay,” he concluded in his broadest accent, “they’ve summat better to do than bother wi’ thee, lad.”

“Well, by gow! you’ve tak’n a load off my mind, Mr. Ashworth,” cried Mr. Oakroyd fervently, “you have an’ all! It’s been spoiling t’best job I ivver had. Eh, I don’t knaw I’m born nar.” He rubbed his hands, finished his pint, then relit his pipe. When he saw that his companion had also finished his drink, he said earnestly: “Nah you’ll ha’ one wi’ me, Mr. Ashworth. You’ve right set me up.”

Five minutes later, deep in his second pint, he observed happily: “You knaw, Mr. Ashworth, when I tinkered up that car o’ yours, I nivver thowt I’d soon be a bit i’ t’same line mesen. But we’re both on t’road, aren’t we?” He smoked luxuriously for a minute, and then added: “And nah there’s summat I’ve been meaning to ask you all along and I mun do it afore I forget.” He took a pull at his beer and looked speculatively at his companion over the top of his glass.

“How’s that new centre forrard doing for t’United?”

Mr. Oakroyd was himself again.