"Stop, Thief!"
Since his brother had refused him hospitality; since Violet Forster had
spoken such sweet words to him by the summer-house; since he had been
thrown by his brother officers out of the room which he had regarded
almost as his own--these things, to Sydney Beaton, seemed how many
years ago? It was as though the Sydney Beaton that had been belonged to
one world and the Sydney Beaton that was to another. And indeed that
was the case. He had in truth passed from one world to another; out of
a world in which it was all joy, into another in which it was all
misery. But, instead of being divided by years from one another, it was
only by days. It seemed incredible that so much could have happened to
him in so short a time; but in cases such as his it is the incredible
which happens. Scarcely more than four weeks ago, twenty-eight days,
and already he was brought to this. During the last few days he had
been practically penniless; now he was literally without a farthing, or
the prospect of getting one, and it was November in London, one of
those damp, cold, foggy, uncharitable Novembers which Londoners know
well. Never since the night when he had been thrown out of the room
could he be said to have had all his wits about him, to have been, in
any real sense, himself. It was as though a cloud had settled on his
brain and dulled it; which was, perhaps, an explanation why from that
last moment of his crowning degradation he had behaved like an utter
fool. He had left the barracks with, as his whole fortune, the suit of
clothes which he was wearing, his watch and chain, his studs and links,
and about three pounds in money. All the rest of his cash, which had
been little enough, was in that last pool. His account at the bank was
overdrawn; no one owed him anything; and, placed as he was, there was
not a soul to whom he could turn. His first idea, if he could be said
to have had a really clear one, was to get out of England--it generally
is the first idea of men placed as he was; they are to be met all over
the English-speaking colonies. In his case it was impossible. He had
heard vaguely of a man working his passage, but he had no idea how it
was done. When he found his way down to the docks, and began to have
some glimmering of an idea of the state of things that obtained there,
it was borne in upon him that he had as much chance of working his
passage to any place worth going to as he had of getting to the moon.
For him there was only London, the seamy side of it.
His money lasted about a week. Then he pawned his watch and chain for
£10, and had fooled that away before he knew it. He got five more for
his links and studs, and that went. There was nothing left but the
clothes he stood up in. They were already in a state in which he had
never dreamt that clothes of his could ever be. It is unnecessary to
enter into details, but his full wardrobe was in what, a very short
time ago, would have been to him an unthinkable condition. He had to
get money somehow, or--he could not think or what. He had contemplated
suicide during the first few days; vague thoughts in that direction
still passed through his mind; but--he still lived. If he was to keep
on living, food was necessary. The less chance he had of getting food
the more he seemed to crave for it, with a craving which became sheer
agony.
That November night hunger seemed to be driving him mad. He had lived
during the last week on two or three shillings, but he himself could
scarcely have said how. He had come to look upon a common lodging-house
as a desirable haven, of a Rowton House as positive luxury; he had
slept two nights running in a Salvation Army shelter, and had been
thankful for that. The last three nights he had slept--if he could be
said to have slept at all--out of doors, under the November sky, in
mist and mire, cold and gloom. To-night he found himself in Hyde Park.
No man knows of what he is capable until his whole being cries out for
food, and gets none. When a man who has been nurtured as Sydney Beaton
had finds himself on the verge of starvation, his plight is much worse
than that of the man who has fared hardly all his days. His powers of
resistance are less, in more senses than one. Let so much be urged in
excuse of Sydney Beaton, because that night he went to Hyde Park with
some idea of asking for alms. Darkness, he thought, might shelter him;
in some sort hide his shame. He would not be able to see clearly whom
he accosted; what was much more, they would not be able to see him. But
almost at the outset he had a shock which drove all notion of playing
the beggar from him.
He was on the path on the Knightsbridge side of the Ring, under cover
of a tree. A fine rain was falling; it was the only shelter to be had.
Two men same swinging along the path. Something in their gait told him
even in the darkness, while they were still at some distance, that they
were well-to-do. He made up his mind that he would try to get out of
them at least the price of a loaf of bread; the mere thought of a hot
crusty loaf fresh from the oven made his brain reel. If he could only
get the wherewithal to purchase one from the men who were coming
towards him! Nearer they came, and nearer; they were almost on him. He
was just coming out from under the tree when one of them spoke and the
other laughed. He shrank back against the friendly trunk trembling,
shivering. He knew who the two men were; in the other world which he
had left behind they had been his brother officers: one was Anthony
Dodwell, who had accused him of foul play, the other was Noel Draycott,
who had supported the accusation! And he had been about to ask them for
the price of a loaf of bread! If he had!
They went on. Dodwell's voice came back to him again, and Draycott's
laughter. His heart was thumping so against his side that it seemed to
be shaking him to pieces. He felt sure they had not seen him. He had
noticed particularly that they never turned their heads; they were too
anxious to press on to look his way--but if they had! It was some time
after they were out of both sight and hearing that he recovered himself
sufficiently to venture out into the open. Then, like a frightened cur,
he slunk across the roadway towards the remoter portions of the park on
the other side.
What a night that was, almost the worst of all the nights that he had
had. Something, he knew not what, kept him in the park. When the hour
for closing approached, he was cowering under a clump of bushes not far
from the Serpentine. No one saw him. A policeman tramped along the
path, but did not trouble himself to search for stragglers either on
his right or left, seemingly taking it for granted that on such a night
even the most miserable wretch would not choose such quarters.
Towards morning the weather improved. When the tardy light came
back into the sky, Beaton ventured to show himself--a rain-sodden,
half-frozen, shivering, weary, hopeless, starving wretch; his hunger
seemed to be tearing at his vitals like some wild animal. A keeper eyed
him suspiciously.
"What are you doing here? Where have you been all night? Have you been
in the park?"
"In the park! Why, man, I spent last night at Claridge's Hotel, where
I've just had breakfast. You haven't got a crust of bread about you,
have you, something which you were going to give to the ducks?"
"No, I haven't. You had better take yourself outside of here. You're up
to no good, I'm sure."
The keeper passed on, leaving Beaton to obey him or not as he chose.
Sydney, aware that the park was now open to the public, did not choose.
The morning grew brighter; positively the sun began to appear in the
sky, a faint, uncertain sun in a watery sky. Riders began to come upon
the scene, for the most part masculine; those victims of too much work,
or perhaps too good living, who for various reasons are unable to take
exercise in any other form, and are ordered by their doctors to take a
regular morning ride in the park, no matter what the season of the year
or the weather. Possibly because the morning, for November, was a fine
one, the equestrians became quite numerous. Sydney stood up against the
rail to watch them. There had been times, not so very long ago, when he
had taken his morning canter in the park. As he watched the riders come
and go, it seemed incredible--now. In spite of his physical distress it
still tickled him to notice how badly some of them rode; the "Liver
Brigade" always had been famous for its bad riding. But what did it
matter how they rode? The world went very well with them; they had
slept on spring mattresses, between linen sheets, had come from
luxurious homes, were returning to an excellent meal, which they
probably lacked appetite to enjoy; while he----! He was rapidly
approaching that state of mind in which the anarchist throws bombs; if
he had had one handy he might have thrown it at one of those well-fed
looking persons there and then. If he were to stop one of them and ask
him for the price of a loaf of bread? Was it not probable that, instead
of giving him what he asked, he would summon the police? He knew them,
ignorant, stupid, selfish to the backbone, thinking that no one could
be hungry because they themselves were too well fed. The pangs of
hunger seemed suddenly to grow more intense; he would have to get food
somewhere, somehow, soon.
Two pedestrians came down the path, an old and a young man. They hailed
a passing rider. He stopped; they drew close up to the rails as he came
towards them. They were within three feet of Sydney Beaton. He could
hear distinctly what was said. The elder man drew out a sovereign
purse, and from it two gold coins. He said to the equestrian:
"You were right, Buxton, and I'm the loser. Here are your ill-gotten
gains."
He held out the coins towards the man on the horse. Always a creature
of impulse, Sydney Beaton gave way to the worst impulse he had ever had
yet; in other words, he all at once went stark, staring mad. The old
gentleman's umbrella was under his arm, in his left hand were the two
coins, in his right the sovereign purse, still open. A heavy gold chain
stretched from pocket to pocket across his waistcoat unguarded.
Probably there was a handsome gold watch at the other end of it. No
thought of anything of the kind had been in Beaton's mind one instant;
the next he stepped forward and, snatching at the unguarded chain, had
it in his possession before he himself clearly realised what he was
doing. The act was so audacious, so instantaneous, so unexpected, so
astounding, that for three or four seconds even the victim did not
appreciate what had happened. Then he shouted, so that he might have
been heard outside the park:
"The scoundrel's taken my watch and chain!"
Then his companion became alive to what had occurred, and the man on
the horse to whom he had been about to give the coins, and presently
everyone within sight and earshot. It is conceivable, and even
probable, that Beaton did not understand what he was doing till
he had done it; it was only when he saw the watch and chain in his
own hand that understanding really came. He knew he was a thief; and
the first instinct of a thief was born within him, the instinct of
self-preservation. In a moment all his energies were centred in an
attempt to escape. He rushed across the path, vaulted over the railing,
tore across the grass as fast as his feet could carry him, with the
chase at his heels. The old gentleman could not do much in the way of
chasing, but seemingly his companion could, and there, were others who
joined him who plainly were still capable of running after such a
quarry. Swift-footed though he knew himself to be, before he had taken
many steps Sydney knew that he would owe not a little to fortune if he
escaped scot free. His impulse was to hurl from him the incriminating
watch and chain, but that was an impulse to which he did not yield. It
would do him no good; everyone would see him throw it, just as everyone
had seen him take it. The watch would certainly be damaged, perhaps
ruined; there would be nothing gained by treating it in such brutal
fashion. So he crammed it into his jacket pocket, and set himself to
move yet faster. The victim's companion was uncomfortably close behind
him.
It was plain that he would have to reckon with more pursuers than one.
People were coming towards him from all sides, even from the front. A
crowd was gathering, all bent on capturing him. He saw a keeper
hurrying down the path which bounded the stretch of grass which he was
crossing, possibly the keeper who had already accosted him. A constable
was advancing from the other side. If he shook off the amateur
thief-catchers, he would have to reckon with them. The pair would
probably be more than a match for him, but he would not be taken if he
could help it. That would be indeed the end.
As he neared the opposite railing three or four persons were already
there to meet him, others were rapidly approaching, including the
keeper and the constable. He swerved to one side, ran rapidly along the
railing, vaulted over it a dozen yards lower down, alighting within a
few feet of the constable. That official halted, seeming to take it for
granted that the criminal had delivered himself into his hands. He was
premature. Nothing was farther from his intention. Sydney charged right
at him, as he had learnt to do in his old days of Rugby football. The
policeman, taken unawares, went over like a ninepin; he made a vain
grab at the other's legs as he fell. Sydney sped triumphantly on.
But, although he had sent the policeman sprawling, he knew that he had
almost shot his bolt; the next fence would bring him down. His breath
was failing him; the world seemed spinning round; a few more steps and
he would be able to go no farther; they would have him; all would be
ended.
At the very moment when already his pace was getting slower something
happened which, if he had had his wits sufficiently about him and time
enough to use them, would have seemed to him very like a miracle. He
was coming into the road which leads through the park from the Corner
to the Marble Arch. He had still sense enough to see that a motorcar
was coming along the road, slowing as it came. It came to a standstill
just as it was abreast of him. The sole occupant of the body of the car
was a woman, who all at once opened the door, stood up, and beckoned to
him. He did not pause to think what the gesture might mean, who this
fair owner of a motor-car might be who had fallen from the skies. There
was not time, nor had he wit enough; his senses were fast leaving him.
He was so conscious that this was so that he made a last desperate
effort, scrambled pantingly over the railing, got somehow to the side
of the car. When he had got there, unless the woman inside had given
him a helping hand, he would have been hard put to it to enter.
The moment he was in the door was slammed, the car was off. For Sydney
that was the end of the chapter. He just managed to drop back on to the
seat, but almost before he reached it his few remaining senses fled; he
was as unconscious of what was happening as if he had not been there.