The sight of a figure staggering up a snow drift to a bedroom window
in Keppel Street aroused no astonishment in the breast of a stolid
policeman. It was the only way of entry into some of the houses in that
locality. Yet a little further on the pavements were clear and hard.
[Illustration: The sight of a figure staggering up a snowdrift to a
bedroom window in Keppel Street aroused no astonishment in the breast
of a stolid policeman.]
Besides, the figure was pounding on the window, and burglars don't
generally do that. Presently the sleeper within awoke. From the glow of
his oil-stove he could see that it was past twelve.
"Something gone wrong at the office?" Fisher muttered. "Hang the paper!
Why bother about publishing _Chat_ this weather?"
He rolled out of bed, and opened the window, draught of icy air caught
his heart in a grip like death for the moment. Gough scrambled into the
room, and made haste to shut out the murderous air.
"Nearly five below zero," he said. "You must come down to the office,
Mr. Fisher."
Fisher lit the gas. Just for the moment he was lost in admiration of
Gough's figure. His head was muffled in a rag torn from an old sealskin
jacket. He was wrapped from head to foot in a sheepskin recently
stripped from the carcase of an animal.
"Got the dodge from an old Arctic traveller," Gough explained. "It's
pretty greasy inside, but it keeps that perishing cold out."
"I said I shouldn't come down to the office to-night," Fisher muttered.
"This is the only place where I can keep decently warm. A good paper is
no good to us--we shan't sell five thousand copies to-morrow."
"Oh, yes, we shall," Gough put in eagerly; "Hampden, the member for
East Battersea, is waiting for you. One of the smart city gangs has
cornered the coal supply. There is about half a million tons in London,
but there is no prospect of more for days to come. The whole lot was
bought up yesterday by a small syndicate, and the price to-morrow is
fixed at three pounds per ton--to begin with. Hampden is furious."
Fisher shovelled his clothes on hastily. The journalistic instinct was
aroused.
At his door Fisher staggered back as the cold struck him. With two
overcoats, and a scarf round his head, the cold seemed to drag the life
out of him. A brilliant moon was shining in a sky like steel, the air
was filled with the fine frosty needles, a heavy hoar coated Gough's
fleecy breast. The gardens in Russell Square were one huge mound,
Southampton Row was one white pipe. It seemed to Gough and Fisher that
they had London to themselves.
They did not speak, speech was next to impossible. Fisher staggered
into his office and at length gasped for brandy. He declared that he
had no feeling whatever. His moustache hung painfully, as if two heavy
diamonds were dragging at the ends of it. The fine athletic figure of
John Hampden, M.P., raged up and down the office. Physical weakness or
suffering seemed to be strangers to him.
"I want you to rub it in thick," he shouted. "Make a picture of it
in to-morrow's _Chat_. It's exclusive information I am giving you.
Properly handled, there's enough coal in London to get over this
crisis. If it isn't properly handled, then some hundreds of families
are going to perish of cold and starvation. The State ought to have
power to commandeer these things in a crisis like this, and sell them
at a fair price--give them away if necessary. And now we have a handful
of rich men who mean to profit by a great public calamity. I mean Hayes
and Rhys-Smith and that lot. You've fallen foul of them before. I
want you to call upon the poorer classes not to stand this abominable
outrage. I want to go down to the House of Commons to-morrow afternoon
with some thousands of honest working-men behind me to demand that this
crime shall be stopped. No rioting, no violence, mind. The workman who
buys his coals by the hundredweight will be the worst off. If I have my
way, he won't suffer at all--he will just take what he wants."
Fisher's eyes gleamed with the light of battle. He was warm now and
the liberal dose of brandy had done its work. Here was a good special
and a popular one to his hand. The calamity of the blizzard and the
snow and the frost was bad enough, but the calamity of a failing coal
supply would be hideous. Legally, there was no way of preventing those
City bandits from making the most of their booty. But if a few thousand
working-men in London made up their minds to have coal, nothing could
prevent them.
"I'll do my best," Fisher exclaimed. "I'll take my coat off to the
job--figuratively, of course. There ought to be an exciting afternoon
sitting of the House to-morrow. On the whole I'm glad that Gough
dragged me out."
The _Chat_ was a little late to press, but seeing that anything like a
country edition was impossible, that made little difference. Fisher and
Gough had made the most of their opportunity. The ears of Messrs. Hayes
& Co. were likely to tingle over the _Chat_ in the morning.
Fisher finished at length with a sigh of satisfaction. Huddled up in
his overcoat and scarf he descended to the street. The cold struck more
piercingly than ever. A belated policeman so starved as to be almost
bereft of his senses asked for brandy--anything to keep frozen body and
soul together. Gough, secure in his grotesque sheepskin, had already
disappeared down the street.
"Come in," Fisher gasped. "It's dreadful. I was going home, but upon my
word I dare not face it. I shall sleep by the side of my office fire
to-night."
The man in blue slowly thawed out. His teeth chattered, his face was
ghastly blue.
"An' I'll beg a shelter too, sir," he said. "I shall get kicked out of
the force. I shall lose my pension. But what's the good of a pension to
an officer what's picked up frozen in the Strand?"
"That's logic," Fisher said sleepily. "And as to burglars----"
"Burglars! A night like this! I wish that the streets of London were
always as safe. If I might be allowed to make up the fire, sir----"
But Fisher was already asleep ranged up close alongside the fender.