Old Hobbs, the gardener, has been in our family longer than I have.
Although we live within twenty miles of London only once has he made the
journey to the great city, for that one memorable day so nearly ended in
disaster that he always speaks of it with a shudder. Indeed, but for the
arrival of Mrs. Hobbs, belated, flustered and inquiring everywhere for her
man, he must assuredly have spent the night in a police-station.
This is how it all happened. Mrs. Hobbs was returning from a visit to
relations in Sussex, and her husband was to meet her in London, convoy her
across the city and bring her home. In order to avail himself of a cheap
fare Hobbs left by the 7.30 train, though his wife would not arrive till
four o'clock in the afternoon.
He managed to get across London somehow. After locating the station at
which Mrs. Hobbs was to arrive his intention was to spend the day "looking
round London a bit;" but the crowds and the traffic were too much for the
old countryman, so he sought safety by staying where he was.
Time hung heavily after a while. He lingered round the bookstall looking at
the books and papers till a pert girl behind the counter asked him if he
wouldn't like a chair; but when Hobbs, who was never rude and consequently
never suspected rudeness in other people, raised his hat and said, "No,
thank'ee, Miss, I be all right standing," even the pert girl was disarmed.
Next he amused himself counting the milk-churns on the platform. Then he
killed time by interesting himself in the stacks of unattended luggage and
examining the labels; and at three o'clock a railway policeman laid a hand
on his shoulder and asked him what his game was.
Hobbs, a little startled but clear in conscience, told his tale.
"That don't do for me," announced the constable. "I been keeping
observation on you since nine, and your wife don't arrive till four, so you
say. I seen you hanging round the luggage and fingering parcels, and you'll
just come with me to the police-office as a suspected person loitering. An
old luggage-thief, I should say, to put it quite plain."
"Me a thief!" gasped Hobbs, roused to realities; "why, I've worked ever
since I was twelve, and me sixty-three now; I was never a thief, Sir. Look
at me hands."
The constable inspected them critically. "They're a bit horny certainly;
but then that may be only your dam artfulness. Come on and talk to the
Sergeant."
The Railway Police-Sergeant briskly inquired his name, address, occupation
and all the rest of it. Hobbs gave a good account of himself and mentioned
that he had worked in our family for forty-two years.
"Any visiting-cards, correspondence or other papers to identify you?" asked
the Sergeant mechanically. He had said it so often to the people who cry
"Season! Season!" when there is no Season.
Hobbs confessed to having none of these things; and no, he knew no one in
London.
"Then you'll stay here till four," pronounced the Sergeant, "and we'll see
if this good lady of yours comes along."
But, alas! no Mrs. Hobbs appeared. "Must have missed the train," suggested
Hobbs despairingly. "P'r'aps the trap broke down or something."
There was only one more train, it seemed, and that was not due until nine.
"Oh, I don't think my missus 'ud like to be so late as that," said the
suspect. "She'd wait till the morning. I don't reckon she'll come
to-night."
"No more don't I." The constable was beginning to enjoy himself. "If I was
you I should drop the bluff and own I was fair caught. If you was to ask
me, I should say you didn't look like a married man at all. We'll see what
the Sergeant says now."
The Sergeant was accordingly consulted. He too was rather sceptical.
"If there's any truth in what you say you'd better wire to this gentleman
at Monk's Langford that you say you work for, and try if we can identify
you somehow," he advised. And to the constable, "Take him to the Telegraph
Office and let him send his wire. Then bring him back here. Mind he don't
give you the slip."
So Hobbs, sighing deeply and perspiring freely, wrote his message: "Sir,
they have got me in the police-station here and say I am a suspected
person, which you know I never was, having worked for you, Sir, and your
father for forty-two years. But the Sargeant here says he wants proofs, and
you, Sir, must vouch for me as being respectable, which you know I am, and
none of us was ever thieves. So will you please do so, Sir, and oblige, as
this leaves me at present, George Hobbs."
The clerk glanced at it. "It's a long message," he said; "it'll cost four
or five shillings."
Hobbs hadn't got that--no, really he hadn't.
The constable standing on guard, rather bored, interposed, "We ain't asking
you to write a book about it."
"No, Sir, I couldn't do that," replied Hobbs anxiously. "What would you
say, Sir, if you was me?"
"Don't ask me," answered the policeman. "It's your wire, not mine. Send
something you can pay for. We only wants to find out if you're the person
you say you are. Daresay you'd like me to write it for you, and you 'op it
while I done it. I seen your kind before. Try again, mate."
So Hobbs tried again. And that is how it came about that at tea-time a
telegraph-boy brought me the bewildering message: "Mr. Lockwood, The Nook,
Monk's Langford. Sir, am I Hobbs? Hobbs."
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[Illustration: LOVERS' QUARRELS.
JOHN BULL (_to France_). "WONDERFUL HOW A LITTLE STORM IN A TEA-POT BRINGS
OUT THE FLAVOUR!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUTSIDE THE RADIUS.
_Strong Man._ "NOW THEN, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, KIND APPRECIATION, IF YOU
PLEASE. YOU SHORLY DON'T EXPECT A GENUINE WEST-END PERFORMER TO 'ALF KILL
'ISSELF IN THE SUBUBS FOR FOURPENCE?"]
* * * * *