Unless something is done for Higgins without delay the nation must
prepare to face a tremendous rise in the rate of mortality among
house-agents.
Soon after he came back from the War he began to adopt a threatening
attitude (as the police-court witnesses say) towards these gentlemen.
Recently he has gone beyond the threatening stage. If rumour can be
trusted, he has thrown at least six of them through their office
windows. He has taken a dislike to the whole tribe. They are, in his
opinion, a gang of criminals for whom no punishment could be too
severe, because they impose upon the public in general and Higgins in
particular, by continuing in business as if they were in a position to
let houses when, as a matter of fact, there are no houses for them to
let.
Higgins wants a house. Yes, incredible though it may sound, this man,
who for years has been content to dwell in a dug-out or consort with
creeping things in the confines of a canvas tent, and even on occasion
make his bed beneath the starry dome of heaven, with nothing in
between, has now developed a craving for a residence built of bricks
and mortar.
What is more, he expects the house-agents to find it for him, and,
since he considers the whole thing from the purely personal point of
view, their excuses for failing to do so are of no avail. The fact
that half a million other people want houses is nothing to him. He
ignores it. He believes that the house-agentry of the country has
hatched a gigantic conspiracy to keep him, Higgins, out of a home.
I have done _my_ best to put him out of his misery. After seeing the
poor wretch wear himself (and his boots) out in useless journeying to
and from the places where house-agents pretend to work I thought of a
scheme--not strictly original--for obtaining a house and presented it
to him without hope of reward.
"You are committing and error," I said.
"I shall commit a murder in a minute," he growled but, knowing what he
had suffered, I took no notice of the threat.
"Listen," I said; "all the habitable houses in England are occupied
and it will be years before the new ones are built. The painting of
"TO LET" boards has become a lost art. You are wasting your time in
looking for an _empty_ dwelling. Take my advice. Choose one that is
occupied, any one you fancy, and empty it."
At this point he interpolated an offensive expression with which I was
not familiar before I joined the army, but I overlooked that also.
"You think it is impossible, but you are wrong," I told him. "This
scheme is bound to succeed. All you have to do is to haunt the house.
You do not eject the tenant yourself. You conjure up a ghost to do it
for you."
"The devil!"
"No--not necessarily. An ordinary ghost will do."
"But, my dear good fool, how in Hades or out of it can I produce a
ghost?"
"Easily. By _suggestion_. That is the secret. This is an age of
suggestion. Doctors are curing patients by suggestion. Politicians
hypnotise the public by suggestion. And you can frighten the present
occupants out of your chosen home by suggestion. No real ghost
is required. Having selected the house you pay a call and lay
ground-bait, so to speak. You tell the tenant you are interested in
the place because you happen to know that at one time it was haunted.
You relate a gruesome tale of some mysterious tragedy that you say has
occurred there, and generally make your victim's flesh creep.
"He or she, a woman for choice, will probably laugh at first. Never
mind. Allow a few days for the idea to sink in, and then call again.
It is a hundred to one that you will hear that strange manifestations
have been observed. After that it will be plain sailing. You will
continue to call, always supplying fresh suggestion, until at last,
thoroughly unnerved, the tenant will bolt, probably taking refuge in
a hotel. That will be your chance. Snatch the place up at once, and
there you are."
For the first time since he was demobilised, Higgins smiled.
"By Heavens!" he said, "I'll try it. There's a little place at Croydon
which would be a perfect billet. I will pay my first visit at once."
He sauntered away, proclaiming in song the satisfactory condition of
rose-culture in Picardy.
Yesterday he came back.
His face was grim. There was a light in his eye which I did not like.
He made no mention of roses blooming in Picardy or anywhere else.
"How is the scheme working?" I asked. "Have you called on the Croydon
gentleman?"
"I have," he answered; "and when I had laid the blessed ground-bait,
as you call it, he told me he always did think there was a ghost about
the place, and he was delighted to have his theory confirmed. He wants
more details now. He invites me to furnish evidence. What for, you
ask? Well, you see, he happens to be an active member of the Society
for Psychical Research."
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Polite Stranger (during the busy hour on the
Underground_). "WON'T YOU SHARE MY HANDLE, MADAM?"]
* * * * *