At this point the surviving manuscript comes to an abrupt end.
But Boon read or extemporized far beyond this point.
He made a figure that was at once absurd and pitiful of his little
Author making this raid upon the world, resolved to detect and
exorcise these suspected Wild Asses, and he told us at great length of
how steadily and inevitably the poor enthusiast entangled himself in
feuds and false accusations, libels and denunciations, free fights,
burglaries, and so to universal execration in a perpetually tightening
coil. "I'll stick to it," he squeaks, with every fresh blow of Fate.
Behind him, with a developing incurable bronchitis that could never be
fatal, toiled the devil, more and more despondent, more and more
draggle-tailed, voiceless and unhelpful.
After a time he was perpetually trying to give his Author the slip.
But continually it is clearer that there _were_ diabolical Wild Asses
loose and active in the affairs of the world....
One day the Author had an inspiration. "Was your lot the only lot that
ever escaped?"
"Oh no!" said the devil. "Ages before--there were some. It led to an
awful row. Just before the Flood. They had to be drowned out. That's
why they've been so stiff with me.... I'm not quite sure whether they
didn't interbreed. They say in hell that the world has never been
quite the same place since."...
You see the scope this story gave Boon's disposition to derision.
There were endless things that Boon hated, movements that seemed to
him wanton and mischievous, outbreaks of disastrous violence, evil
ideas. I should get myself into as much hot water as his Author did if
I were to tell all this poor man's adventures. He went to Ulster, he
pursued prominent Tariff Reformers, he started off to Mexico and came
back to investigate Pan-Germanism. I seem to remember his hanging for
days about the entrance to Printing House Square.... And there was a
scene in the House of Commons. The Author and the devil had been
tracking a prominent politician--never mind whom--with the growing
belief that here at last they had one of them. And Walpurgis Night
grew near. Walpurgis Night came.
"We must not lose sight of him," said the Author, very alert and
ruthless. "If necessary we must smash the windows, blow open doors."
But the great man went down to the House as though nothing could
possibly happen. They followed him.
"He will certainly rush home," said the Author, as the clock crept
round to half-past eleven. "But anyhow let us get into the Strangers'
Gallery and keep our eyes on him to the last."
They managed it with difficulty.
I remember how vividly Boon drew the picture for us: the rather bored
House, a coming and going of a few inattentive Members, the nodding
Speaker and the clerks, the silent watchers in the gallery, a little
flicker of white behind the grille. And then at five minutes to twelve
the honourable Member arose....
"We were wrong," said the Author.
"The draught here is fearful," said the devil. "Hadn't we better go?"
The honourable Member went on speaking showy, memorable, mischievous
things. The seconds ticked away. And then--then it happened.
The Author made a faint rattling sound in his throat and clung to the
rail before him. The devil broke into a cold sweat. There, visible to
all men, was a large black Wild Ass, kicking up its heels upon the
floor of the House. And braying.
And nobody was minding!
The Speaker listened patiently, one long finger against his cheek. The
clerks bowed over the papers. The honourable Member's two colleagues
listened like men under an anaesthetic, each sideways, each with his
arm over the back of the seat. Across the House one Member was
furtively writing a letter and three others were whispering together.
The Author felt for the salt, then he gripped the devil's wrist.
"Say those words!" he shouted quite loudly--"say those words! Say them
now. Then--we shall have him."
But you know those House of Commons ushers. And at that time their
usual alertness had been much quickened by several Suffragette
outrages. Before the devil had got through his second sentence or the
Author could get his salt out of his pocket both devil and Author were
travelling violently, scruff and pant-seat irresistibly gripped, down
Saint Stephen's Hall....