I
Arthur Cotterill awoke. It was not exactly with a start that he awoke,
but rather with a swift premonition of woe and disaster. The strong,
bright glare from the patent incandescent street lamp outside, which the
lavish Corporation of Bursley kept burning at the full till long after
dawn in winter, illuminated the room (through the green blind) almost as
well as it illuminated Trafalgar Road. He clearly distinguished every
line of the form of his brother Simeon, fast and double-locked in sleep
in the next bed. He saw also the open trunk by the dressing-table in
front of the window. Then he looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, the
silent witness of the hours. And a pair of pincers seemed to clutch his
heart, and an anvil to drop on his stomach and rest heavily there,
producing an awful nausea. Why had he not looked at the clock before?
Was it possible that he had been awake even five seconds without looking
at the clock--the clock upon which it seemed that his very life, more
than his life, depended? The clock showed ten minutes to seven, and the
train went at ten minutes past. And it was quite ten minutes' walk to
the station, and he had to dress, and button those new boots, and finish
packing--and the porter from the station was late in coming for the
trunk! But perhaps the porter had already been; perhaps he had rung and
rung, and gone away in despair of making himself heard (for Mrs Hopkins
slept at the back of the house).
Something had to be done. Yet what could he do with those hard pincers
pinching his soft, yielding heart, and that terrible anvil pressing on
his stomach? He might even now, by omitting all but the stern
necessities of his toilet, and by abandoning the trunk and his brother,
just catch the train, the indispensable train. But somehow he could not
move. Yet he was indubitably awake.
"Simeon!" he cried at length, and sat up.
The younger Cotterill did not stir.
"Sim!" he cried again, and, leaning over, shook the bed.
"What's up?" Simeon demanded, broad awake in a second, and, as usual,
calm, imperturbable.
"We've missed the train! It's ten--eight--minutes to seven," said
Arthur, in a voice which combined reproach and terror. And he sprang out
of bed and began with hysteric fury to sort out his garments.
Simeon turned slowly on his side and drew a watch from under his pillow.
Putting it close to his face, Simeon could just read the dial.
"It's all right," he said. "Still, you'd better get up. It's eight
minutes to six. We've got an hour and eighteen minutes."
"What do you mean? That clock was right last night."
"Yes. But I altered it."
"When?"
"After you got into bed."
"I never saw you."
"No. But I altered it."
"Why?"
"To be on the safe side."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"If I'd told you, I might just as well have not altered it. The man who
puts a clock on and then goes gabbling all over the house about what he
has done is an ass; in fact, to call him an ass is to flatter him."
Arthur tried to be angry.
"That's all very well--" he began to grumble.
But he could not be angry. The pincers and the anvil had suddenly ceased
their torment. He was free. He was not a disgraced man. He would catch
the train easily. All would be well. All would be as the practical
Simeon had arranged that it should be. And in advancing the clock Simeon
had acted for the best. Of course, it _was_ safer to be on the safe
side! In an affair such as that in which he was engaged, he felt, and he
honestly admitted to himself, that he would have been nowhere without
Simeon.
"Light the stove first, man," Simeon enjoined him. "There's been a
change in the weather, I bet. It's as cold as the very deuce."
Yes, it was very cold. Arthur now noticed the cold. Strange--or rather
not strange--that he had not noticed it before! He lit the gas stove,
which exploded with its usual disconcerting _plop_, and a marvellously
agreeable warmth began to charm his senses. He continued his dressing as
near as possible to the source of this exquisite warmth. Then Simeon, in
his leisurely manner, arose out of bed without a word, put his feet into
slippers and lit the gas.
"I never thought of that," said Arthur, laughing nervously.
"Shows what a state you're in," said Simeon.
Simeon went to the window and peeped out into the silence of Trafalgar
Road.
"Slight mist," he observed.
Arthur felt a faint return of the pincers and anvil.
"But it will clear off," Simeon added.
Then Simeon put on a dressing-gown and padded out of the room, and
Arthur heard him knock at another door and call:
"Mrs Hopkins, Mrs Hopkins!" And then the sound of a door opening.
"She was dressed and just going downstairs," said Simeon when he
returned to their bedroom. "Breakfast ready in ten minutes. She set the
table last night. I told her to."
"Good!" Arthur murmured.
At sixteen minutes past six they were both dressed, and Simeon was
showing Arthur that Simeon alone knew how to pack a trunk. At twenty
minutes past six the trunk was packed, locked and strapped.
"What about getting the confounded thing downstairs?" Arthur asked.
"When the porter comes," said Simeon, "he and I will do that. It's too
heavy for you to handle."
At six twenty-one they were having breakfast in the little dining-room,
by the heat of another gas-stove. And Arthur felt that all was well, and
that in postponing their departure till that morning in order not to
upset the immemorial Christmas dinner of their Aunt Sarah, they had done
rightly. At half-past six they had, between them, drunk five cups of tea
and eaten four eggs, four slices of bacon, and about a pound and a half
of bread. Simeon, with what was surely an exaggeration of
imperturbability, charged his pipe, and began to smoke. They had forty
minutes in which to catch the Loop-Line train, even if it was prompt.
There would then be forty minutes to wait at Knype for the London
express, which arrived at Euston considerably before noon. After which
there would be a clear ninety minutes before the business itself--and
less than a quarter of a mile to walk! Yes, there was a rich and
generous margin for all conceivable delays and accidents.
"The porter ought to be coming," said Simeon. It was twenty minutes to
seven, and he was brushing his hat.
Now such a remark from that personification of calm, that living denial
of worry, Simeon, was decidedly unsettling to Arthur. By chance, Mrs
Hopkins came into the room just then to assure herself that the young
men whose house she kept desired nothing.
"Mrs Hopkins," Simeon asked, "you didn't forget to call at the station
last night?"
"Oh no, Mr Simeon," said she; "I saw the second porter, Merrith. He
knows me. At least, I know his mother--known her forty year--and he
promised me he wouldn't forget. Besides, he never has forgot, has he? I
told him particular to bring his barrow."
It was true the porter never had forgotten! And many times had he
transported Simeon's luggage to Bleakridge Station. Simeon did a good
deal of commercial travelling for the firm of A. & S. Cotterill, teapot
makers, Bursley. In many commercial hotels he was familiarly known as
Teapot Cotterill.
The brothers were reassured by Mrs Hopkins. There was half an hour to
the time of the train--and the station only ten minutes off. Then the
chiming clock in the hall struck the third quarter.
"That clock right?" Arthur nervously inquired, assuming his overcoat.
"It's a minute late," said Simeon, assuming _his_ overcoat.
And at that word "late," the pincers and the anvil revisited Arthur.
Even the confidence of Mrs Hopkins in the porter was shaken. Arthur
looked at Simeon, depending on him. It was imperative that they should
catch the train, and it was imperative that the trunk should catch the
train. Everything depended on a porter. Arthur felt that all his future
career, his happiness, his honour, his life depended on a porter. And,
after all, even porters at a pound a week are human. Therefore, Arthur
looked at Simeon.
Simeon walked through the kitchen into the backyard. In a shed there an
old barrow was lying. He drew out the barrow, and ticklishly wheeled it
into the house, as far as the foot of the stairs.
"Mrs Hopkins," he called. "And you too!" he glanced at Arthur.
"What are you going to do?" Arthur demanded.
"Wheel the trunk to the station myself, of course," Simeon replied. "If
we meet the porter on the way, so much the better for us ... and so much
the worse for him!" he added.