I
Through the uncurtained window the yellow light of the bar parlour
streamed out into the darkness of the November night. Standing in
the road, his hand fingering the two odd coppers in his trousers
pocket, Mr. William Bates gazed irresolutely at the inviting gleam.
He was weighing the relative merits of a fire and a glass of beer at
the present moment against those of a crude but satisfying breakfast
of bread and cheese on the following morning. A clink of glasses,
followed by a sudden burst of laughter, seemed to decide the matter,
for, casting forethought aside, he advanced up the cobbled pathway
and pushed open the door of the little country inn.
He found himself in a small, low-ceilinged room, lit by a hanging
lamp. A wood fire was smouldering away on the open hearth, and round
its fragrant glow two or three men were seated in various attitudes
of convivial comfort. They all looked up as he entered.
Mr. Bates, being an unobtrusive person by nature, seated himself
quietly on an oak settle against the wall. An enormously stout man,
who had discarded his coat and was smoking a much-coloured
churchwarden, rose slowly from his chair.
"Even," he remarked in a genial rumble. "Nasty night, ain't it?"
Mr. Bates nodded and shivered.
"Come a bit closer to the fire, mate," went on the landlord, for such
was evidently the stout gentleman's calling. "You look fair
perished."
Two of the men moved back their chairs, and Mr. Bates, accepting the
invitation, shifted into a vacant seat at the corner of the hearth.
"Glass of beer, please," he said, as the landlord, with an
interrogative glance, threw up a small wooden partition that
communicated with the bar.
The refreshment having arrived, and Mr. Bates having parted with
three of his four last half-pennies, the general conversation
interrupted by his entrance was resumed.
"Seems to be something funny about it," observed the landlord,
looking across at the thin man with gaiters who was sitting on the
edge of the table.
"Blooming funny!" emphasized the local postman.
"Well, that were his message, any'ow. 'E says: 'Tell 'Orniman that
I'll be along with my box by 'alf-past nine, and that I'll be wanting
to sleep the night,' 'E's 'ad a proper row with the old man and
chucked 'is job--that's what 'e's done."
"Got the sack, more like," observed the postman, spitting ironically
into the fire.
"That's as it may be; anyway, I've gived the message."
"What's the Professor going to do?" inquired the landlord.
"Ah," said the man with gaiters. "Advertise for summon else, I
suppose. 'E won't 'ave no women about the place, that's certain."
"Job worth 'aving," put in a red-whiskered man who had not previously
spoken--"at least, judgin' by the amount o' drink Andrew got through."
"No one can say as Andrew weren't free with 'is money," observed the
gaitered man.
"If it _were_ 'is money," put in the postman unkindly.
There was a sound of steps outside, and the sudden thud of a heavy
weight on the ground.
"Here 'i is," said the landlord.
The door swung open, and Mr. Bates, looking up, saw a man enter. He
was a pale-faced, sandy-haired individual, with a sharp nose, watery
eyes, and a general air of somewhat dissipated insolence.
"Good 'evenin', gentlemen all," he remarked. "Hallo, Potter! Give
me message to Horniman?"
"That's all right, Mr. Andrew," answered the landlord. "There's a
room upstairs if you want one. I'll send George along to get your
box in."
"Wot's the meanin' of all this 'ere bust up?" inquired the
red-whiskered man, as the new-comer settled himself down with a large
glass of Hollands in front of him.
Mr. Andrew laughed with a fine assumption of independence. "Jest got
sick of the old swine, and told 'im so," he replied. "Nearly 'ad a
fit when I gave 'im notice."
"Must 'a' bin a blow to 'im," said the postman. "Did you get your
last week's wages?"
Mr. Andrew looked across coldly. "He offered me a cheque," he said,
"but I told 'im to keep it and get 'is 'air cut."
"And then you woke up, I s'pose," added the postman.
"What'll the Professor do without you, Mr. Andrew?" inquired the
landlord, anxious to relieve the somewhat strained situation.
"Have to look after 'imself for a day or two, I 'ope, and I've left
some work for 'im, I'll warrant you. There's all yesterday's things
unwashed, 'is rotten old boots dirty, the stores mixed up, and every
window and door in the place unfastened. I only 'ope," he added
viciously, "as some tramp'll come along and clean out the whole place
before 'e finds out! I'd 'alf a mind to chalk up a notice on the
gate opposite, sayin' that the kitchen windows at The Firs was
unlatched, and that there was plenty of grub and drink for any one
who chose to walk in and 'elp themselves."
In the laughter that followed this spirited harangue, Mr. Bates
turned to his next-door neighbour, a quiet man who had not spoken
yet, and inquired in a subdued voice:
"The Firs? Ain't that the house I passed coming along--a little
white place standing back on the left?"
"That's it, mate," answered the other. "Professor Stenson's. Andrew
'ere was 'is servant."
"Seems to me," observed the gentleman with gaiters, addressing the
hero of the evening, "as you've got your own back out of him."
Mr. Andrew grinned complacently. "I don't believe in bein' put on,"
he admitted. "One man's as good as another, I say, and I like to be
treated with proper respect."
"And not kicked out of the 'ouse, like a thief, at a minute's
notice," added the postman.
There was a moment of unpleasant silence.
"If you're trying to insinooate--" began Mr. Andrew hotly.
"I ain't trying to insinooate nothing," said the postman. "It's my
opinion as the Professor's a gentleman--a proper gentleman 'e is, and
'e always treated you a sight too well. If I'd been in 's shoes,
you'd 'ave been out of it long ago. That's my opinion, Mister
Andrew, and if you don't like it, you can shove it in your pipe and
dam well smoke it."
So saying, the postman emptied his pot of beer, and, buttoning his
uniform, rose defiantly to his feet. Before the heated atmosphere
had a chance to burst, however, the landlord again intervened, this
time with the full majesty of law behind him.
"One minute past ten!" he cried, snapping a huge watch which he had
extracted from the depths of his waistcoat. "I'll be losin' my
licence, standin' 'ere listenin' to your jokin'. Come along,
George--get up the shutters."
George, an aged, lop-sided gentleman, shuffled out from the bar, and
the whole company, with the exception of the indignant and heavily
breathing Mr. Andrew, rose reluctantly to their feet. There was a
general feeling of disappointment that such a promising situation
should have come to so tame a conclusion.
Mr. Bates passed through the door with the rest into the darkness
outside.
Though it was not actually raining, only a shameless optimist could
have described it as a fine night. A raw November mist brooded
unpleasantly over everything, offering a dismal contrast to the
warmth and brightness of the little bar-parlour. Under the
circumstances, nobody stayed to gossip on the doorstep, even the
thrilling topic of Mr. Andrew's resignation being mutually abandoned.
There was a general turning up of coat-collars, the flare of a match,
a "Good-night, Tom!"--"Comin' my way, Potter?" and all the late
revellers clumped away to their respective homes--all of them, that
is to say, except Mr. Bates. He, unfortunately, had no home to go to.
He stood still, listening to the retreating footsteps. Then, with a
faint sigh, he thrust his hands into his pockets and began to walk
slowly back along the road in the direction from which he had arrived
at the inn.
He had covered nearly a quarter of a mile in this fashion when a few
yards ahead the dull yellow blue of an oil lamp suddenly appeared
through the mist. Mr. Bates stopped and began to peer anxiously
through the gloom on his left.
"Ought to be jest about here," he muttered, "if I ain't made a
mistake." The shadowy outline of a white gate rewarded his efforts.
He climbed carefully over it, and feeling his way by means of a wall
that ran at right angles to the road, arrived at a low stone
building, which, as far as could be seen in the darkness, bore the
appearance of a discarded cowshed.
Through an aperture that in more spacious days had probably been the
site of a doorway, Mr. Bates passed in to his hotel. It was black
inside, with that peculiar quality of blackness which seems to affect
the breathing power, and there was a faint odour of immemorial cows.
Mr. Bates struck a match, and by its spluttering light glanced
nervously about him. Against the opposite wall he detected a rough
manger, which seemed to be free of some of the less pleasing features
of the floor. A year ago Mr. Bates might have sniffed at its
possibilities as a bedstead, but recent experience had rendered him
less critical. Igniting a second match, he made a further
inspection, which resulted in the discovery of a couple of
indescribably filthy sacks. One of these he rolled up into a pillow
and placed in the manger, and then, scrambling in himself and lying
down, he drew the other luxuriously over his tired limbs. Some
twenty minutes later the sound of deep, steady breathing showed that
he was temporarily oblivious of the discomforts of the ill-arranged
planet.