"'The History of Mr. Polly\n\nby\n\nH. G. Wells\n\n\n\nChapter the First\n\nBeginnings, and the Bazaar\n\n\nI\n\n\"Hole!\" said Mr. Polly, and then for a change, and with greatly\nincreased emphasis: \"\'Ole!\" He paused, and then broke out with one of\nhis private and peculiar idioms. \"Oh! Beastly Silly Wheeze of a Hole!\"\n\nHe was sitting on a stile between two threadbare looking fields, and\nsuffering acutely from indigestion.\n\nHe suffered from indigestion now nearly every afternoon in his life,\nbut as he lacked introspection he projected the associated discomfort\nupon the world. Every afternoon he discovered afresh that life as a\nwhole and every aspect of life that presented itself was \"beastly.\"\nAnd this afternoon, lured by the delusive blueness of a sky that was\nblue because the wind was in the east, he had come out in the hope of\nsnatching something of the joyousness of spring. The mysterious\nalchemy of mind and body refused, however, to permit any joyousness\nwhatever in the spring.\n\nHe had had a little difficulty in finding his cap before he came out.\nHe wanted his cap--the new golf cap--and Mrs. Polly must needs fish\nout his old soft brown felt hat. \"\'_Ere\'s_ your \'at,\" she said in a\ntone of insincere encouragement.\n\nHe had been routing among the piled newspapers under the kitchen\ndresser, and had turned quite hopefully and taken the thing. He put it\non. But it didn\'t feel right. Nothing felt right. He put a trembling\nhand upon the crown of the thing and pressed it on his head, and tried\nit askew to the right and then askew to the left.\n\nThen the full sense of the indignity offered him came home to him. The\nhat masked the upper sinister quarter of his face, and he spoke with a\nwrathful eye regarding his wife from under the brim. In a voice thick\nwith fury he said: \"I s\'pose you\'d like me to wear that silly Mud Pie\nfor ever, eh? I tell you I won\'t. I\'m sick of it. I\'m pretty near sick\nof everything, comes to that.... Hat!\"\n\nHe clutched it with quivering fingers. \"Hat!\" he repeated. Then he\nflung it to the ground, and kicked it with extraordinary fury across\nthe kitchen. It flew up against the door and dropped to the ground\nwith its ribbon band half off.\n\n\"Shan\'t go out!\" he said, and sticking his hands into his jacket\npockets discovered the missing cap in the right one.\n\nThere was nothing for it but to go straight upstairs without a word,\nand out, slamming the shop door hard.\n\n\"Beauty!\" said Mrs. Polly at last to a tremendous silence, picking up\nand dusting the rejected headdress. \"Tantrums,\" she added. \"I \'aven\'t\npatience.\" And moving with the slow reluctance of a deeply offended\nwoman, she began to pile together the simple apparatus of their recent\nmeal, for transportation to the scullery sink.\n\nThe repast she had prepared for him did not seem to her to justify his\ningratitude. There had been the cold pork from Sunday and some nice\ncold potatoes, and Rashdall\'s Mixed Pickles, of which he was\ninordinately fond. He had eaten three gherkins, two onions, a small\ncauliflower head and several capers with every appearance of appetite,\nand indeed with avidity; and then there had been cold suet pudding to\nfollow, with treacle, and then a nice bit of cheese. It was the pale,\nhard sort of cheese he liked; red cheese he declared was indigestible.\nHe had also had three big slices of greyish baker\'s bread, and had\ndrunk the best part of the jugful of beer.... But there seems to be no\npleasing some people.\n\n\"Tantrums!\" said Mrs. Polly at the sink, struggling with the mustard\non his plate and expressing the only solution of the problem that\noccurred to her.\n\nAnd Mr. Polly sat on the stile and hated the whole scheme of\nlife--which was at once excessive and inadequate as a solution. He\nhated Foxbourne, he hated Foxbourne High Street, he hated his shop and\nhis wife and his neighbours--every blessed neighbour--and with\nindescribable bitterness he hated himself.\n\n\"Why did I ever get in this silly Hole?\" he said. \"Why did I ever?\"\n\nHe sat on the stile, and looked with eyes that seemed blurred with\nimpalpable flaws at a world in which even the spring buds were wilted,\nthe sunlight metallic and the shadows mixed with blue-black ink.\n\nTo the moralist I know he might have served as a figure of sinful\ndiscontent, but that is because it is the habit of moralists to ignore\nmaterial circumstances,--if indeed one may speak of a recent meal as a\ncircumstance,--with Mr. Polly _circum_. Drink, indeed, our teachers\nwill criticise nowadays both as regards quantity and quality, but\nneither church nor state nor school will raise a warning finger\nbetween a man and his hunger and his wife\'s catering. So on nearly\nevery day in his life Mr. Polly fell into a violent rage and hatred\nagainst the outer world in the afternoon, and never suspected that it\nwas this inner world to which I am with such masterly delicacy\nalluding, that was thus reflecting its sinister disorder upon the\nthings without. It is a pity that some human beings are not more\ntransparent. If Mr. Polly, for example, had been transparent or even\npassably translucent, then perhaps he might have realised from the\nLaocoon struggle he would have glimpsed, that indeed he was not so\nmuch a human being as a civil war.\n\nWonderful things must have been going on inside Mr. Polly. Oh!\nwonderful things. It must have been like a badly managed industrial\ncity during a period of depression; agitators, acts of violence,\nstrikes, the forces of law and order doing their best, rushings to and\nfro, upheavals, the _Marseillaise_, tumbrils, the rumble and the\nthunder of the tumbrils....\n\nI do not know why the east wind aggravates life to unhealthy people.\nIt made Mr. Polly\'s teeth seem loose in his head, and his skin feel\nlike a misfit, and his hair a dry, stringy exasperation....\n\nWhy cannot doctors give us an antidote to the east wind?\n\n\"Never have the sense to get your hair cut till it\'s too long,\" said\nMr. Polly catching sight of his shadow, \"you blighted, degenerated\nPaintbrush! Ugh!\" and he flattened down the projecting tails with an\nurgent hand.\n\n\nII\n\nMr. Polly\'s age was exactly thirty-five years and a half. He was a\nshort, compact figure, and a little inclined to a localised\n_embonpoint_. His face was not unpleasing; the features fine, but a\ntrifle too pointed about the nose to be classically perfect. The\ncorners of his sensitive mouth were depressed. His eyes were ruddy\nbrown and troubled, and the left one was round with more of wonder in\nit than its fellow. His complexion was dull and yellowish. That, as I\nhave explained, on account of those civil disturbances. He was, in the\ntechnical sense of the word, clean shaved, with a small sallow patch\nunder the right ear and a cut on the chin. His brow had the little\npuckerings of a thoroughly discontented man, little wrinklings and\nlumps, particularly over his right eye, and he sat with his hands in\nhis pockets, a little askew on the stile and swung one leg. \"Hole!\" he\nrepeated presently.\n\nHe broke into a quavering song. \"Ro-o-o-tten Be-e-astly Silly Hole!\"\n\nHis voice thickened with rage, and the rest of his discourse was\nmarred by an unfortunate choice of epithets.\n\nHe was dressed in a shabby black morning coat and vest; the braid that\nbound these garments was a little loose in places; his collar was\nchosen from stock and with projecting corners, technically a\n\"wing-poke\"; that and his tie, which was new and loose and rich in\ncolouring, had been selected to encourage and stimulate customers--for\nhe dealt in gentlemen\'s outfitting. His golf cap, which was also from\nstock and aslant over his eye, gave his misery a desperate touch. He\nwore brown leather boots--because he hated the smell of blacking.\n\nPerhaps after all it was not simply indigestion that troubled him.\n\nBehind the superficialities of Mr. Polly\'s being, moved a larger and\nvaguer distress. The elementary education he had acquired had left him\nwith the impression that arithmetic was a fluky science and best\navoided in practical affairs, but even the absence of book-keeping and\na total inability to distinguish between capital and interest could\nnot blind him for ever to the fact that the little shop in the High\nStreet was not paying. An absence of returns, a constriction of\ncredit, a depleted till, the most valiant resolves to keep smiling,\ncould not prevail for ever against these insistent phenomena. One\nmight bustle about in the morning before dinner, and in the afternoon\nafter tea and forget that huge dark cloud of insolvency that gathered\nand spread in the background, but it was part of the desolation of\nthese afternoon periods, these grey spaces of time after meals, when\nall one\'s courage had descended to the unseen battles of the pit, that\nlife seemed stripped to the bone and one saw with a hopeless\nclearness.\n\nLet me tell the history of Mr. Polly from the cradle to these present\ndifficulties.\n\n\"First the infant, mewling and puking in its nurse\'s arms.\"\n\nThere had been a time when two people had thought Mr. Polly the most\nwonderful and adorable thing in the world, had kissed his toe-nails,\nsaying \"myum, myum,\" and marvelled at the exquisite softness and\ndelicacy of his hair, had called to one another to remark the peculiar\ndistinction with which he bubbled, had disputed whether the sound he\nhad made was _just da da_, or truly and intentionally dadda, had\nwashed him in the utmost detail, and wrapped him up in soft, warm\nblankets, and smothered him with kisses. A regal time that was, and\nfour and thirty years ago; and a merciful forgetfulness barred Mr.\nPolly from ever bringing its careless luxury, its autocratic demands\nand instant obedience, into contrast with his present condition of\nlife. These two people had worshipped him from the crown of his head\nto the soles of his exquisite feet. And also they had fed him rather\nunwisely, for no one had ever troubled to teach his mother anything\nabout the mysteries of a child\'s upbringing--though of course the\nmonthly nurse and her charwoman gave some valuable hints--and by his\nfifth birthday the perfect rhythms of his nice new interior were\nalready darkened with perplexity ....\n\nHis mother died when he was seven.\n\nHe began only to have distinctive memories of himself in the time when\nhis education had already begun.\n\nI remember seeing a picture of Education--in some place. I think it\nwas Education, but quite conceivably it represented the Empire\nteaching her Sons, and I have a strong impression that it was a wall\npainting upon some public building in Manchester or Birmingham or\nGlasgow, but very possibly I am mistaken about that. It represented a\nglorious woman with a wise and fearless face stooping over her\nchildren and pointing them to far horizons. The sky displayed the\npearly warmth of a summer dawn, and all the painting was marvellously\nbright as if with the youth and hope of the delicately beautiful\nchildren in the foreground. She was telling them, one felt, of the\ngreat prospect of life that opened before them, of the spectacle of\nthe world, the splendours of sea and mountain they might travel and\nsee, the joys of skill they might acquire, of effort and the pride of\neffort and the devotions and nobilities it was theirs to achieve.\nPerhaps even she whispered of the warm triumphant mystery of love that\ncomes at last to those who have patience and unblemished hearts....\nShe was reminding them of their great heritage as English children,\nrulers of more than one-fifth of mankind, of the obligation to do and\nbe the best that such a pride of empire entails, of their essential\nnobility and knighthood and the restraints and the charities and the\ndisciplined strength that is becoming in knights and rulers....\n\nThe education of Mr. Polly did not follow this picture very closely.\nHe went for some time to a National School, which was run on severely\neconomical lines to keep down the rates by a largely untrained staff,\nhe was set sums to do that he did not understand, and that no one made\nhim understand, he was made to read the catechism and Bible with the\nutmost industry and an entire disregard of punctuation or\nsignificance, and caused to imitate writing copies and drawing copies,\nand given object lessons upon sealing wax and silk-worms and potato\nbugs and ginger and iron and such like things, and taught various\nother subjects his mind refused to entertain, and afterwards, when he\nwas about twelve, he was jerked by his parent to \"finish off\" in a\nprivate school of dingy aspect and still dingier pretensions, where\nthere were no object lessons, and the studies of book-keeping and\nFrench were pursued (but never effectually overtaken) under the\nguidance of an elderly gentleman who wore a nondescript gown and took\nsnuff, wrote copperplate, explained nothing, and used a cane with\nremarkable dexterity and gusto.\n\nMr. Polly went into the National School at six and he left the private\nschool at fourteen, and by that time his mind was in much the same\nstate that you would be in, dear reader, if you were operated upon for\nappendicitis by a well-meaning, boldly enterprising, but rather\nover-worked and under-paid butcher boy, who was superseded towards the\nclimax of the operation by a left-handed clerk of high principles but\nintemperate habits,--that is to say, it was in a thorough mess. The\nnice little curiosities and willingnesses of a child were in a jumbled\nand thwarted condition, hacked and cut about--the operators had left,\nso to speak, all their sponges and ligatures in the mangled\nconfusion--and Mr. Polly had lost much of his natural confidence, so\nfar as figures and sciences and languages and the possibilities of\nlearning things were concerned. He thought of the present world no\nlonger as a wonderland of experiences, but as geography and history,\nas the repeating of names that were hard to pronounce, and lists of\nproducts and populations and heights and lengths, and as lists and\ndates--oh! and boredom indescribable. He thought of religion as the\nrecital of more or less incomprehensible words that were hard to\nremember, and of the Divinity as of a limitless Being having the\nnature of a schoolmaster and making infinite rules, known and unknown\nrules, that were always ruthlessly enforced, and with an infinite\ncapacity for punishment and, most horrible of all to think of!\nlimitless powers of espial. (So to the best of his ability he did not\nthink of that unrelenting eye.) He was uncertain about the spelling\nand pronunciation of most of the words in our beautiful but abundant\nand perplexing tongue,--that especially was a pity because words\nattracted him, and under happier conditions he might have used them\nwell--he was always doubtful whether it was eight sevens or nine\neights that was sixty-three--(he knew no method for settling the\ndifficulty) and he thought the merit of a drawing consisted in the\ncare with which it was \"lined in.\" \"Lining in\" bored him beyond\nmeasure.\n\nBut the _indigestions_ of mind and body that were to play so large a\npart in his subsequent career were still only beginning. His liver and\nhis gastric juice, his wonder and imagination kept up a fight against\nthe things that threatened to overwhelm soul and body together.\nOutside the regions devastated by the school curriculum he was still\nintensely curious. He had cheerful phases of enterprise, and about\nthirteen he suddenly discovered reading and its joys. He began to read\nstories voraciously, and books of travel, provided they were also\nadventurous. He got these chiefly from the local institute, and he\nalso \"took in,\" irregularly but thoroughly, one of those inspiring\nweeklies that dull people used to call \"penny dreadfuls,\" admirable\nweeklies crammed with imagination that the cheap boys\' \"comics\" of\nto-day have replaced. At fourteen, when he emerged from the valley of\nthe shadow of education, there survived something, indeed it survived\nstill, obscured and thwarted, at five and thirty, that pointed--not\nwith a visible and prevailing finger like the finger of that beautiful\nwoman in the picture, but pointed nevertheless--to the idea that there\nwas interest and happiness in the world. Deep in the being of Mr.\nPolly, deep in that darkness, like a creature which has been beaten\nabout the head and left for dead but still lives, crawled a persuasion\nthat over and above the things that are jolly and \"bits of all right,\"\nthere was beauty, there was delight, that somewhere--magically\ninaccessible perhaps, but still somewhere, were pure and easy and\njoyous states of body and mind.\n\nHe would sneak out on moonless winter nights and stare up at the\nstars, and afterwards find it difficult to tell his father where he\nhad been.\n\nHe would read tales about hunters and explorers, and imagine himself\nriding mustangs as fleet as the wind across the prairies of Western\nAmerica, or coming as a conquering and adored white man into the\nswarming villages of Central Africa. He shot bears with a revolver--a\ncigarette in the other hand--and made a necklace of their teeth and\nclaws for the chief\'s beautiful young daughter. Also he killed a lion\nwith a pointed stake, stabbing through the beast\'s heart as it stood\nover him.\n\nHe thought it would be splendid to be a diver and go down into the\ndark green mysteries of the sea.\n\nHe led stormers against well-nigh impregnable forts, and died on the\nramparts at the moment of victory. (His grave was watered by a\nnation\'s tears.)\n\nHe rammed and torpedoed ships, one against ten.\n\nHe was beloved by queens in barbaric lands, and reconciled whole\nnations to the Christian faith.\n\nHe was martyred, and took it very calmly and beautifully--but only\nonce or twice after the Revivalist week. It did not become a habit\nwith him.\n\nHe explored the Amazon, and found, newly exposed by the fall of a\ngreat tree, a rock of gold.\n\nEngaged in these pursuits he would neglect the work immediately in\nhand, sitting somewhat slackly on the form and projecting himself in a\nmanner tempting to a schoolmaster with a cane.... And twice he had\nbooks confiscated.\n\nRecalled to the realities of life, he would rub himself or sigh deeply\nas the occasion required, and resume his attempts to write as good as\ncopperplate. He hated writing; the ink always crept up his fingers and\nthe smell of ink offended him. And he was filled with unexpressed\ndoubts. _Why_ should writing slope down from right to left? _Why_\nshould downstrokes be thick and upstrokes thin? _Why_ should the\nhandle of one\'s pen point over one\'s right shoulder?\n\nHis copy books towards the end foreshadowed his destiny and took the\nform of commercial documents. \"_Dear Sir_,\" they ran, \"_Referring to\nyour esteemed order of the 26th ult., we beg to inform you_,\" and so\non.\n\nThe compression of Mr. Polly\'s mind and soul in the educational\ninstitutions of his time, was terminated abruptly by his father\nbetween his fourteenth and fifteenth birthday. His father--who had\nlong since forgotten the time when his son\'s little limbs seemed to\nhave come straight from God\'s hand, and when he had kissed five minute\ntoe-nails in a rapture of loving tenderness--remarked:\n\n\"It\'s time that dratted boy did something for a living.\"\n\nAnd a month or so later Mr. Polly began that career in business that\nled him at last to the sole proprietorship of a bankrupt outfitter\'s\nshop--and to the stile on which he was sitting.\n\n\nIII\n\nMr. Polly was not naturally interested in hosiery and gentlemen\'s\noutfitting. At times, indeed, he urged himself to a spurious curiosity\nabout that trade, but presently something more congenial came along\nand checked the effort. He was apprenticed in one of those large,\nrather low-class establishments which sell everything, from pianos and\nfurniture to books and millinery, a department store in fact, The Port\nBurdock Drapery Bazaar at Port Burdock, one of the three townships\nthat are grouped around the Port Burdock naval dockyards. There he\nremained six years. He spent most of the time inattentive to business,\nin a sort of uncomfortable happiness, increasing his indigestion.\n\nOn the whole he preferred business to school; the hours were longer\nbut the tension was not nearly so great. The place was better aired,\nyou were not kept in for no reason at all, and the cane was not\nemployed. You watched the growth of your moustache with interest and\nimpatience, and mastered the beginnings of social intercourse. You\ntalked, and found there were things amusing to say. Also you had\nregular pocket money, and a voice in the purchase of your clothes, and\npresently a small salary. And there were girls. And friendship! In the\nretrospect Port Burdock sparkled with the facets of quite a cluster of\nremembered jolly times.\n\n(\"Didn\'t save much money though,\" said Mr. Polly.)\n\nThe first apprentices\' dormitory was a long bleak room with six beds,\nsix chests of drawers and looking glasses and a number of boxes of\nwood or tin; it opened into a still longer and bleaker room of eight\nbeds, and this into a third apartment with yellow grained paper and\nAmerican cloth tables, which was the dining-room by day and the men\'s\nsitting-and smoking-room after nine. Here Mr. Polly, who had been an\nonly child, first tasted the joys of social intercourse. At first\nthere were attempts to bully him on account of his refusal to consider\nface washing a diurnal duty, but two fights with the apprentices next\nabove him, established a useful reputation for choler, and the\npresence of girl apprentices in the shop somehow raised his standard\nof cleanliness to a more acceptable level. He didn\'t of course have\nvery much to do with the feminine staff in his department, but he\nspoke to them casually as he traversed foreign parts of the Bazaar, or\ngot out of their way politely, or helped them to lift down heavy\nboxes, and on such occasions he felt their scrutiny. Except in the\ncourse of business or at meal times the men and women of the\nestablishment had very little opportunity of meeting; the men were in\ntheir rooms and the girls in theirs. Yet these feminine creatures, at\nonce so near and so remote, affected him profoundly. He would watch\nthem going to and fro, and marvel secretly at the beauty of their hair\nor the roundness of their necks or the warm softness of their cheeks\nor the delicacy of their hands. He would fall into passions for them\nat dinner time, and try and show devotions by his manner of passing\nthe bread and margarine at tea. There was a very fair-haired,\nfair-skinned apprentice in the adjacent haberdashery to whom he said\n\"good-morning\" every morning, and for a period it seemed to him the\nmost significant event in his day. When she said, \"I _do_ hope it will\nbe fine to-morrow,\" he felt it marked an epoch. He had had no sisters,\nand was innately disposed to worship womankind. But he did not betray\nas much to Platt and Parsons.\n\nTo Platt and Parsons he affected an attitude of seasoned depravity\ntowards womankind. Platt and Parsons were his contemporary apprentices\nin departments of the drapery shop, and the three were drawn together\ninto a close friendship by the fact that all their names began with P.\nThey decided they were the Three Ps, and went about together of an\nevening with the bearing of desperate dogs. Sometimes, when they had\nmoney, they went into public houses and had drinks. Then they would\nbecome more desperate than ever, and walk along the pavement under the\ngas lamps arm in arm singing. Platt had a good tenor voice, and had\nbeen in a church choir, and so he led the singing; Parsons had a\nserviceable bellow, which roared and faded and roared again very\nwonderfully; Mr. Polly\'s share was an extraordinary lowing noise, a\nsort of flat recitative which he called \"singing seconds.\" They would\nhave sung catches if they had known how to do it, but as it was they\nsang melancholy music hall songs about dying soldiers and the old\nfolks far away.\n\nThey would sometimes go into the quieter residential quarters of Port\nBurdock, where policemen and other obstacles were infrequent, and\nreally let their voices soar like hawks and feel very happy. The dogs\nof the district would be stirred to hopeless emulation, and would keep\nit up for long after the Three Ps had been swallowed up by the night.\nOne jealous brute of an Irish terrier made a gallant attempt to bite\nParsons, but was beaten by numbers and solidarity.\n\nThe Three Ps took the utmost interest in each other and found no other\ncompany so good. They talked about everything in the world, and would\ngo on talking in their dormitory after the gas was out until the other\nmen were reduced to throwing boots; they skulked from their\ndepartments in the slack hours of the afternoon to gossip in the\npacking-room of the warehouse; on Sundays and Bank holidays they went\nfor long walks together, talking.\n\nPlatt was white-faced and dark, and disposed to undertones and mystery\nand a curiosity about society and the _demi-monde_. He kept himself\n_au courant_ by reading a penny paper of infinite suggestion called\n_Modern Society_. Parsons was of an ampler build, already promising\nfatness, with curly hair and a lot of rolling, rollicking, curly\nfeatures, and a large blob-shaped nose. He had a great memory and a\nreal interest in literature. He knew great portions of Shakespeare and\nMilton by heart, and would recite them at the slightest provocation.\nHe read everything he could get hold of, and if he liked it he read it\naloud. It did not matter who else liked it. At first Mr. Polly was\ndisposed to be suspicious of this literature, but was carried away by\nParsons\' enthusiasm. The Three Ps went to a performance of \"Romeo and\nJuliet\" at the Port Burdock Theatre Royal, and hung over the gallery\nfascinated. After that they made a sort of password of: \"Do you bite\nyour thumbs at Us, Sir?\"\n\nTo which the countersign was: \"We bite our thumbs.\"\n\nFor weeks the glory of Shakespeare\'s Verona lit Mr. Polly\'s life. He\nwalked as though he carried a sword at his side, and swung a mantle\nfrom his shoulders. He went through the grimy streets of Port Burdock\nwith his eye on the first floor windows--looking for balconies. A\nladder in the yard flooded his mind with romantic ideas. Then Parsons\ndiscovered an Italian writer, whose name Mr. Polly rendered as\n\"Bocashieu,\" and after some excursions into that author\'s remains the\ntalk of Parsons became infested with the word \"_amours_,\" and Mr.\nPolly would stand in front of his hosiery fixtures trifling with paper\nand string and thinking of perennial picnics under dark olive trees in\nthe everlasting sunshine of Italy.\n\nAnd about that time it was that all Three Ps adopted turn-down collars\nand large, loose, artistic silk ties, which they tied very much on one\nside and wore with an air of defiance. And a certain swashbuckling\ncarriage.\n\nAnd then came the glorious revelation of that great Frenchman whom Mr.\nPolly called \"Rabooloose.\" The Three Ps thought the birth feast of\nGargantua the most glorious piece of writing in the world, and I am\nnot certain they were wrong, and on wet Sunday evenings where there\nwas danger of hymn singing they would get Parsons to read it aloud.\n\nTowards the several members of the Y. M. C. A. who shared the\ndormitory, the Three Ps always maintained a sarcastic and defiant\nattitude.\n\n\"We got a perfect right to do what we like in our corner,\" Platt\nmaintained. \"You do what you like in yours.\"\n\n\"But the language!\" objected Morrison, the white-faced, earnest-eyed\nimprover, who was leading a profoundly religious life under great\ndifficulties.\n\n\"_Language_, man!\" roared Parsons, \"why, it\'s _Literature_!\"\n\n\"Sunday isn\'t the time for Literature.\"\n\n\"It\'s the only time we\'ve got. And besides--\"\n\nThe horrors of religious controversy would begin....\n\nMr. Polly stuck loyally to the Three Ps, but in the secret places of\nhis heart he was torn. A fire of conviction burnt in Morrison\'s eyes\nand spoke in his urgent persuasive voice; he lived the better life\nmanifestly, chaste in word and deed, industrious, studiously kindly.\nWhen the junior apprentice had sore feet and homesickness Morrison\nwashed the feet and comforted the heart, and he helped other men to\nget through with their work when he might have gone early, a\nsuperhuman thing to do. Polly was secretly a little afraid to be left\nalone with this man and the power of the spirit that was in him. He\nfelt watched.\n\nPlatt, also struggling with things his mind could not contrive to\nreconcile, said \"that confounded hypocrite.\"\n\n\"He\'s no hypocrite,\" said Parsons, \"he\'s no hypocrite, O\' Man. But\nhe\'s got no blessed Joy de Vive; that\'s what\'s wrong with him. Let\'s\ngo down to the Harbour Arms and see some of those blessed old captains\ngetting drunk.\"\n\n\"Short of sugar, O\' Man,\" said Mr. Polly, slapping his trouser pocket.\n\n\"Oh, _carm_ on,\" said Parsons. \"Always do it on tuppence for a\nbitter.\"\n\n\"Lemme get my pipe on,\" said Platt, who had recently taken to smoking\nwith great ferocity. \"Then I\'m with you.\"\n\nPause and struggle.\n\n\"Don\'t ram it down, O\' Man,\" said Parsons, watching with knitted\nbrows. \"Don\'t ram it down. Give it Air. Seen my stick, O\' Man? Right\nO.\"\n\nAnd leaning on his cane he composed himself in an attitude of\nsympathetic patience towards Platt\'s incendiary efforts.\n\n\nIV\n\nJolly days of companionship they were for the incipient bankrupt on\nthe stile to look back upon.\n\nThe interminable working hours of the Bazaar had long since faded from\nhis memory--except for one or two conspicuous rows and one or two\nlarks--but the rare Sundays and holidays shone out like diamonds among\npebbles. They shone with the mellow splendour of evening skies\nreflected in calm water, and athwart them all went old Parsons\nbellowing an interpretation of life, gesticulating, appreciating and\nmaking appreciate, expounding books, talking of that mystery of his,\nthe \"Joy de Vive.\"\n\nThere were some particularly splendid walks on Bank holidays. The\nThree Ps would start on Sunday morning early and find a room in some\nmodest inn and talk themselves asleep, and return singing through the\nnight, or having an \"argy bargy\" about the stars, on Monday evening.\nThey would come over the hills out of the pleasant English\ncountry-side in which they had wandered, and see Port Burdock spread\nout below, a network of interlacing street lamps and shifting tram\nlights against the black, beacon-gemmed immensity of the harbour\nwaters.\n\n\"Back to the collar, O\' Man,\" Parsons would say. There is no\nsatisfactory plural to O\' Man, so he always used it in the singular.\n\n\"Don\'t mention it,\" said Platt.\n\nAnd once they got a boat for the whole summer day, and rowed up past\nthe moored ironclads and the black old hulks and the various shipping\nof the harbour, past a white troopship and past the trim front and the\nships and interesting vistas of the dockyard to the shallow channels\nand rocky weedy wildernesses of the upper harbour. And Parsons and Mr.\nPolly had a great dispute and quarrel that day as to how far a big gun\ncould shoot.\n\nThe country over the hills behind Port Burdock is all that an\nold-fashioned, scarcely disturbed English country-side should be. In\nthose days the bicycle was still rare and costly and the motor car had\nyet to come and stir up rural serenities. The Three Ps would take\nfootpaths haphazard across fields, and plunge into unknown winding\nlanes between high hedges of honeysuckle and dogrose. Greatly daring,\nthey would follow green bridle paths through primrose studded\nundergrowths, or wander waist deep in the bracken of beech woods.\nAbout twenty miles from Port Burdock there came a region of hop\ngardens and hoast crowned farms, and further on, to be reached only by\ncheap tickets at Bank Holiday times, was a sterile ridge of very clean\nroads and red sand pits and pines and gorse and heather. The Three Ps\ncould not afford to buy bicycles and they found boots the greatest\nitem of their skimpy expenditure. They threw appearances to the winds\nat last and got ready-made workingmen\'s hob-nails. There was much\ndiscussion and strong feeling over this step in the dormitory.\n\nThere is no country-side like the English country-side for those who\nhave learnt to love it; its firm yet gentle lines of hill and dale,\nits ordered confusion of features, its deer parks and downland, its\ncastles and stately houses, its hamlets and old churches, its farms\nand ricks and great barns and ancient trees, its pools and ponds and\nshining threads of rivers; its flower-starred hedgerows, its orchards\nand woodland patches, its village greens and kindly inns. Other\ncountry-sides have their pleasant aspects, but none such variety, none\nthat shine so steadfastly throughout the year. Picardy is pink and\nwhite and pleasant in the blossom time, Burgundy goes on with its\nsunshine and wide hillsides and cramped vineyards, a beautiful tune\nrepeated and repeated, Italy gives salitas and wayside chapels and\nchestnuts and olive orchards, the Ardennes has its woods and\ngorges--Touraine and the Rhineland, the wide Campagna with its distant\nApennines, and the neat prosperities and mountain backgrounds of South\nGermany, all clamour their especial merits at one\'s memory. And there\nare the hills and fields of Virginia, like an England grown very big\nand slovenly, the woods and big river sweeps of Pennsylvania, the trim\nNew England landscape, a little bleak and rather fine like the New\nEngland mind, and the wide rough country roads and hills and woodland\nof New York State. But none of these change scene and character in\nthree miles of walking, nor have so mellow a sunlight nor so\ndiversified a cloudland, nor confess the perpetual refreshment of the\nstrong soft winds that blow from off the sea as our Mother England\ndoes.\n\nIt was good for the Three Ps to walk through such a land and forget\nfor a time that indeed they had no footing in it all, that they were\ndoomed to toil behind counters in such places as Port Burdock for the\nbetter part of their lives. They would forget the customers and\nshopwalkers and department buyers and everything, and become just\nhappy wanderers in a world of pleasant breezes and song birds and\nshady trees.\n\nThe arrival at the inn was a great affair. No one, they were\nconvinced, would take them for drapers, and there might be a pretty\nserving girl or a jolly old lady, or what Parsons called a \"bit of\ncharacter\" drinking in the bar.\n\nThere would always be weighty enquiries as to what they could have,\nand it would work out always at cold beef and pickles, or fried ham\nand eggs and shandygaff, two pints of beer and two bottles of ginger\nbeer foaming in a huge round-bellied jug.\n\nThe glorious moment of standing lordly in the inn doorway, and staring\nout at the world, the swinging sign, the geese upon the green, the\nduck-pond, a waiting waggon, the church tower, a sleepy cat, the blue\nheavens, with the sizzle of the frying audible behind one! The keen\nsmell of the bacon! The trotting of feet bearing the repast; the click\nand clatter as the tableware is finally arranged! A clean white cloth!\n\n\"Ready, Sir!\" or \"Ready, Gentlemen.\" Better hearing that than \"Forward\nPolly! look sharp!\"\n\nThe going in! The sitting down! The falling to!\n\n\"Bread, O\' Man?\"\n\n\"Right O! Don\'t bag all the crust, O\' Man.\"\n\nOnce a simple mannered girl in a pink print dress stayed and talked\nwith them as they ate; led by the gallant Parsons they professed to be\nall desperately in love with her, and courted her to say which she\npreferred of them, it was so manifest she did prefer one and so\nimpossible to say which it was held her there, until a distant\nmaternal voice called her away. Afterwards as they left the inn she\nwaylaid them at the orchard corner and gave them, a little shyly,\nthree keen yellow-green apples--and wished them to come again some\nday, and vanished, and reappeared looking after them as they turned\nthe corner--waving a white handkerchief. All the rest of that day they\ndisputed over the signs of her favour, and the next Sunday they went\nthere again.\n\nBut she had vanished, and a mother of forbidding aspect afforded no\nexplanations.\n\nIf Platt and Parsons and Mr. Polly live to be a hundred, they will\nnone of them forget that girl as she stood with a pink flush upon her,\nfaintly smiling and yet earnest, parting the branches of the hedgerows\nand reaching down apple in hand. Which of them was it, had caught her\nspirit to attend to them?...\n\nAnd once they went along the coast, following it as closely as\npossible, and so came at last to Foxbourne, that easternmost suburb of\nBrayling and Hampsted-on-the-Sea.\n\nFoxbourne seemed a very jolly little place to Mr. Polly that\nafternoon. It has a clean sandy beach instead of the mud and pebbles\nand coaly _défilements_ of Port Burdock, a row of six bathing\nmachines, and a shelter on the parade in which the Three Ps sat after\na satisfying but rather expensive lunch that had included celery. Rows\nof verandahed villas proffered apartments, they had feasted in an\nhotel with a porch painted white and gay with geraniums above, and the\nHigh Street with the old church at the head had been full of an\nagreeable afternoon stillness.\n\n\"Nice little place for business,\" said Platt sagely from behind his\nbig pipe.\n\nIt stuck in Mr. Polly\'s memory.\n\n\nV\n\nMr. Polly was not so picturesque a youth as Parsons. He lacked\nrichness in his voice, and went about in those days with his hands in\nhis pockets looking quietly speculative.\n\nHe specialised in slang and the disuse of English, and he played the\nrôle of an appreciative stimulant to Parsons. Words attracted him\ncuriously, words rich in suggestion, and he loved a novel and striking\nphrase. His school training had given him little or no mastery of the\nmysterious pronunciation of English and no confidence in himself. His\nschoolmaster indeed had been both unsound and variable. New words had\nterror and fascination for him; he did not acquire them, he could not\navoid them, and so he plunged into them. His only rule was not to be\nmisled by the spelling. That was no guide anyhow. He avoided every\nrecognised phrase in the language and mispronounced everything in\norder that he shouldn\'t be suspected of ignorance, but whim.\n\n\"Sesquippledan,\" he would say. \"Sesquippledan verboojuice.\"\n\n\"Eh?\" said Platt.\n\n\"Eloquent Rapsodooce.\"\n\n\"Where?\" asked Platt.\n\n\"In the warehouse, O\' Man. All among the table-cloths and blankets.\nCarlyle. He\'s reading aloud. Doing the High Froth. Spuming!\nWindmilling! Waw, waw! It\'s a sight worth seeing. He\'ll bark his\nblessed knuckles one of these days on the fixtures, O\' Man.\"\n\nHe held an imaginary book in one hand and waved an eloquent gesture.\n\"So too shall every Hero inasmuch as notwithstanding for evermore come\nback to Reality,\" he parodied the enthusiastic Parsons, \"so that in\nfashion and thereby, upon things and not _under_ things\narticulariously He stands.\"\n\n\"I should laugh if the Governor dropped on him,\" said Platt. \"He\'d\nnever hear him coming.\"\n\n\"The O\' Man\'s drunk with it--fair drunk,\" said Polly. \"I never did.\nIt\'s worse than when he got on to Raboloose.\"\n\n\n\nChapter the Second\n\nThe Dismissal of Parsons\n\n\nI\n\nSuddenly Parsons got himself dismissed.\n\nHe got himself dismissed under circumstances of peculiar violence,\nthat left a deep impression on Mr. Polly\'s mind. He wondered about it\nfor years afterwards, trying to get the rights of the case.\n\nParsons\' apprenticeship was over; he had reached the status of an\nImprover, and he dressed the window of the Manchester department. By\nall the standards available he dressed it very well. By his own\nstandards he dressed it wonderfully. \"Well, O\' Man,\" he used to say,\n\"there\'s one thing about my position here,--I _can_ dress a window.\"\n\nAnd when trouble was under discussion he would hold that \"little\nFluffums\"--which was the apprentices\' name for Mr. Garvace, the senior\npartner and managing director of the Bazaar--would think twice before\nhe got rid of the only man in the place who could make a windowful of\nManchester goods _tell_.\n\nThen like many a fellow artist he fell a prey to theories.\n\n\"The art of window dressing is in its infancy, O\' Man--in its blooming\nInfancy. All balance and stiffness like a blessed Egyptian picture. No\nJoy in it, no blooming Joy! Conventional. A shop window ought to get\nhold of people, _grip_ \'em as they go along. It stands to reason.\nGrip!\"\n\nHis voice would sink to a kind of quiet bellow. \"_Do_ they grip?\"\n\nThen after a pause, a savage roar; \"_Naw_!\"\n\n\"He\'s got a Heavy on,\" said Mr. Polly. \"Go it, O\' Man; let\'s have some\nmore of it.\"\n\n\"Look at old Morrison\'s dress-stuff windows! Tidy, tasteful, correct,\nI grant you, but Bleak!\" He let out the word reinforced to a shout;\n\"Bleak!\"\n\n\"Bleak!\" echoed Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Just pieces of stuff in rows, rows of tidy little puffs, perhaps one\nbit just unrolled, quiet tickets.\"\n\n\"Might as well be in church, O\' Man,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"A window ought to be exciting,\" said Parsons; \"it ought to make you\nsay: El-_lo_! when you see it.\"\n\nHe paused, and Platt watched him over a snorting pipe.\n\n\"Rockcockyo,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"We want a new school of window dressing,\" said Parsons, regardless of\nthe comment. \"A New School! The Port Burdock school. Day after\nto-morrow I change the Fitzallan Street stuff. This time, it\'s going to\nbe a change. I mean to have a crowd or bust!\"\n\nAnd as a matter of fact he did both.\n\nHis voice dropped to a note of self-reproach. \"I\'ve been timid, O\'\nMan. I\'ve been holding myself in. I haven\'t done myself Justice. I\'ve\nkept down the simmering, seething, teeming ideas.... All that\'s over\nnow.\"\n\n\"Over,\" gulped Polly.\n\n\"Over for good and all, O\' Man.\"\n\n\nII\n\nPlatt came to Polly, who was sorting up collar boxes. \"O\' Man\'s doing\nhis Blooming Window.\"\n\n\"What window?\"\n\n\"What he said.\"\n\nPolly remembered.\n\nHe went on with his collar boxes with his eye on his senior,\nMansfield. Mansfield was presently called away to the counting house,\nand instantly Polly shot out by the street door, and made a rapid\ntransit along the street front past the Manchester window, and so into\nthe silkroom door. He could not linger long, but he gathered joy, a\nswift and fearful joy, from his brief inspection of Parsons\'\nunconscious back. Parsons had his tail coat off and was working with\nvigour; his habit of pulling his waistcoat straps to the utmost\nbrought out all the agreeable promise of corpulence in his youthful\nframe. He was blowing excitedly and running his fingers through his\nhair, and then moving with all the swift eagerness of a man inspired.\nAll about his feet and knees were scarlet blankets, not folded, not\nformally unfolded, but--the only phrase is--shied about. And a great\nbar sinister of roller towelling stretched across the front of the\nwindow on which was a ticket, and the ticket said in bold black\nletters: \"LOOK!\"\n\nSo soon as Mr. Polly got into the silk department and met Platt he\nknew he had not lingered nearly long enough outside. \"Did you see the\nboards at the back?\" said Platt.\n\nHe hadn\'t. \"The High Egrugious is fairly On,\" he said, and dived down\nto return by devious subterranean routes to the outfitting department.\n\nPresently the street door opened and Platt, with an air of intense\ndevotion to business assumed to cover his adoption of that unusual\nroute, came in and made for the staircase down to the warehouse. He\nrolled up his eyes at Polly. \"Oh _Lor_!\" he said and vanished.\n\nIrresistible curiosity seized Polly. Should he go through the shop to\nthe Manchester department, or risk a second transit outside?\n\nHe was impelled to make a dive at the street door.\n\n\"Where are you going?\" asked Mansfield.\n\n\"Lill Dog,\" said Polly with an air of lucid explanation, and left him\nto get any meaning he could from it.\n\nParsons was worth the subsequent trouble. Parsons really was extremely\nrich. This time Polly stopped to take it in.\n\nParsons had made a huge symmetrical pile of thick white and red\nblankets twisted and rolled to accentuate their woolly richness,\nheaped up in a warm disorder, with large window tickets inscribed in\nblazing red letters: \"Cosy Comfort at Cut Prices,\" and \"Curl up and\nCuddle below Cost.\" Regardless of the daylight he had turned up the\nelectric light on that side of the window to reflect a warm glow upon\nthe heap, and behind, in pursuit of contrasted bleakness, he was now\nhanging long strips of grey silesia and chilly coloured linen\ndusterings.\n\nIt was wonderful, but--\n\nMr. Polly decided that it was time he went in. He found Platt in the\nsilk department, apparently on the verge of another plunge into the\nexterior world. \"Cosy Comfort at Cut Prices,\" said Polly.\n\"Allittritions Artful Aid.\"\n\nHe did not dare go into the street for the third time, and he was\nhovering feverishly near the window when he saw the governor, Mr.\nGarvace, that is to say, the managing director of the Bazaar, walking\nalong the pavement after his manner to assure himself all was well\nwith the establishment he guided.\n\nMr. Garvace was a short stout man, with that air of modest pride that\nso often goes with corpulence, choleric and decisive in manner, and\nwith hands that looked like bunches of fingers. He was red-haired and\nruddy, and after the custom of such _complexions_, hairs sprang from\nthe tip of his nose. When he wished to bring the power of the human\neye to bear upon an assistant, he projected his chest, knitted one\nbrow and partially closed the left eyelid.\n\nAn expression of speculative wonder overspread the countenance of Mr.\nPolly. He felt he must _see_. Yes, whatever happened he must _see_.\n\n\"Want to speak to Parsons, Sir,\" he said to Mr. Mansfield, and\ndeserted his post hastily, dashed through the intervening departments\nand was in position behind a pile of Bolton sheeting as the governor\ncame in out of the street.\n\n\"What on Earth do you think you are doing with that window, Parsons?\"\nbegan Mr. Garvace.\n\nOnly the legs of Parsons and the lower part of his waistcoat and an\nintervening inch of shirt were visible. He was standing inside the\nwindow on the steps, hanging up the last strip of his background from\nthe brass rail along the ceiling. Within, the Manchester shop window\nwas cut off by a partition rather like the partition of an\nold-fashioned church pew from the general space of the shop. There was\na panelled barrier, that is to say, with a little door like a pew door\nin it. Parsons\' face appeared, staring with round eyes at his\nemployer.\n\nMr. Garvace had to repeat his question.\n\n\"Dressing it, Sir--on new lines.\"\n\n\"Come out of it,\" said Mr. Garvace.\n\nParsons stared, and Mr. Garvace had to repeat his command.\n\nParsons, with a dazed expression, began to descend the steps slowly.\n\nMr. Garvace turned about. \"Where\'s Morrison? Morrison!\"\n\nMorrison appeared.\n\n\"Take this window over,\" said Mr. Garvace pointing his bunch of\nfingers at Parsons. \"Take all this muddle out and dress it properly.\"\n\nMorrison advanced and hesitated.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, Sir,\" said Parsons with an immense politeness,\n\"but this is _my_ window.\"\n\n\"Take it all out,\" said Mr. Garvace, turning away.\n\nMorrison advanced. Parsons shut the door with a click that arrested\nMr. Garvace.\n\n\"Come out of that window,\" he said. \"You can\'t dress it. If you want\nto play the fool with a window----\"\n\n\"This window\'s All Right,\" said the genius in window dressing, and\nthere was a little pause.\n\n\"Open the door and go right in,\" said Mr. Garvace to Morrison.\n\n\"You leave that door alone, Morrison,\" said Parsons.\n\nPolly was no longer even trying to hide behind the stack of Bolton\nsheetings. He realised he was in the presence of forces too stupendous\nto heed him.\n\n\"Get him out,\" said Mr. Garvace.\n\nMorrison seemed to be thinking out the ethics of his position. The\nidea of loyalty to his employer prevailed with him. He laid his hand\non the door to open it; Parsons tried to disengage his hand. Mr.\nGarvace joined his effort to Morrison\'s. Then the heart of Polly leapt\nand the world blazed up to wonder and splendour. Parsons disappeared\nbehind the partition for a moment and reappeared instantly, gripping a\nthin cylinder of rolled huckaback. With this he smote at Morrison\'s\nhead. Morrison\'s head ducked under the resounding impact, but he clung\non and so did Mr. Garvace. The door came open, and then Mr. Garvace\nwas staggering back, hand to head; his autocratic, his sacred\nbaldness, smitten. Parsons was beyond all control--a strangeness, a\nmarvel. Heaven knows how the artistic struggle had strained that\nrichly endowed temperament. \"Say I can\'t dress a window, you\nthundering old Humbug,\" he said, and hurled the huckaback at his\nmaster. He followed this up by hurling first a blanket, then an armful\nof silesia, then a window support out of the window into the shop. It\nleapt into Polly\'s mind that Parsons hated his own effort and was glad\nto demolish it. For a crowded second Polly\'s mind was concentrated\nupon Parsons, infuriated, active, like a figure of earthquake with\nits coat off, shying things headlong.\n\nThen he perceived the back of Mr. Garvace and heard his gubernatorial\nvoice crying to no one in particular and everybody in general: \"Get\nhim out of the window. He\'s mad. He\'s dangerous. Get him out of the\nwindow.\"\n\nThen a crimson blanket was for a moment over the head of Mr. Garvace,\nand his voice, muffled for an instant, broke out into unwonted\nexpletive.\n\nThen people had arrived from all parts of the Bazaar. Luck, the ledger\nclerk, blundered against Polly and said, \"Help him!\" Somerville from\nthe silks vaulted the counter, and seized a chair by the back. Polly\nlost his head. He clawed at the Bolton sheeting before him, and if he\ncould have detached a piece he would certainly have hit somebody with\nit. As it was he simply upset the pile. It fell away from Polly, and\nhe had an impression of somebody squeaking as it went down. It was the\nsort of impression one disregards. The collapse of the pile of goods\njust sufficed to end his subconscious efforts to get something to hit\nsomebody with, and his whole attention focussed itself upon the\nstruggle in the window. For a splendid instant Parsons towered up over\nthe active backs that clustered about the shop window door, an active\nwhirl of gesture, tearing things down and throwing them, and then he\nwent under. There was an instant\'s furious struggle, a crash, a second\ncrash and the crack of broken plate glass. Then a stillness and heavy\nbreathing.\n\nParsons was overpowered....\n\nPolly, stepping over scattered pieces of Bolton sheeting, saw his\ntransfigured friend with a dark cut, that was not at present bleeding,\non the forehead, one arm held by Somerville and the other by Morrison.\n\n\"You--you--you--you annoyed me,\" said Parsons, sobbing for breath.\n\n\nIII\n\nThere are events that detach themselves from the general stream of\noccurrences and seem to partake of the nature of revelations. Such was\nthis Parsons affair. It began by seeming grotesque; it ended\ndisconcertingly. The fabric of Mr. Polly\'s daily life was torn, and\nbeneath it he discovered depths and terrors.\n\nLife was not altogether a lark.\n\nThe calling in of a policeman seemed at the moment a pantomime touch.\nBut when it became manifest that Mr. Garvace was in a fury of\nvindictiveness, the affair took on a different complexion. The way in\nwhich the policeman made a note of everything and aspirated nothing\nimpressed the sensitive mind of Polly profoundly. Polly presently\nfound himself straightening up ties to the refrain of \"\'E then \'It you\non the \'Ed and----\"\n\nIn the dormitory that night Parsons had become heroic. He sat on the\nedge of the bed with his head bandaged, packing very slowly and\ninsisting over and again: \"He ought to have left my window alone, O\'\nMan. He didn\'t ought to have touched my window.\"\n\nPolly was to go to the police court in the morning as a witness. The\nterror of that ordeal almost overshadowed the tragic fact that Parsons\nwas not only summoned for assault, but \"swapped,\" and packing his box.\nPolly knew himself well enough to know he would make a bad witness. He\nfelt sure of one fact only, namely, that \"\'E then \'It \'Im on the \'Ed\nand--\" All the rest danced about in his mind now, and how it would\ndance about on the morrow Heaven only knew. Would there be a\ncross-examination? Is it perjoocery to make a slip? People did\nsometimes perjuice themselves. Serious offence.\n\nPlatt was doing his best to help Parsons, and inciting public opinion\nagainst Morrison. But Parsons would not hear of anything against\nMorrison. \"He was all right, O\' Man--according to his lights,\" said\nParsons. \"It isn\'t him I complain of.\"\n\nHe speculated on the morrow. \"I shall \'_ave_ to pay a fine,\" he said.\n\"No good trying to get out of it. It\'s true I hit him. I hit him\"--he\npaused and seemed to be seeking an exquisite accuracy. His voice sank\nto a confidential note;--\"On the head--about here.\"\n\nHe answered the suggestion of a bright junior apprentice in a corner\nof the dormitory. \"What\'s the Good of a Cross summons?\" he replied;\n\"with old Corks, the chemist, and Mottishead, the house agent, and all\nthat lot on the Bench? Humble Pie, that\'s my meal to-morrow, O\' Man.\nHumble Pie.\"\n\nPacking went on for a time.\n\n\"But Lord! what a Life it is!\" said Parsons, giving his deep notes\nscope. \"Ten-thirty-five a man trying to do his Duty, mistaken perhaps,\nbut trying his best; ten-forty--Ruined! Ruined!\" He lifted his voice\nto a shout. \"Ruined!\" and dropped it to \"Like an earthquake.\"\n\n\"Heated altaclation,\" said Polly.\n\n\"Like a blooming earthquake!\" said Parsons, with the notes of a rising\nwind.\n\nHe meditated gloomily upon his future and a colder chill invaded\nPolly\'s mind. \"Likely to get another crib, ain\'t I--with assaulted the\nguvnor on my reference. I suppose, though, he won\'t give me refs. Hard\nenough to get a crib at the best of times,\" said Parsons.\n\n\"You ought to go round with a show, O\' Man,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nThings were not so dreadful in the police court as Mr. Polly had\nexpected. He was given a seat with other witnesses against the wall of\nthe court, and after an interesting larceny case Parsons appeared and\nstood, not in the dock, but at the table. By that time Mr. Polly\'s\nlegs, which had been tucked up at first under his chair out of respect\nto the court, were extended straight before him and his hands were in\nhis trouser pockets. He was inventing names for the four magistrates\non the bench, and had got to \"the Grave and Reverend Signor with the\npalatial Boko,\" when his thoughts were recalled to gravity by the\nsound of his name. He rose with alacrity and was fielded by an expert\npoliceman from a brisk attempt to get into the vacant dock. The clerk\nto the Justices repeated the oath with incredible rapidity.\n\n\"Right O,\" said Mr. Polly, but quite respectfully, and kissed the\nbook.\n\nHis evidence was simple and quite audible after one warning from the\nsuperintendent of police to \"speak up.\" He tried to put in a good word\nfor Parsons by saying he was \"naturally of a choleraic disposition,\"\nbut the start and the slow grin of enjoyment upon the face of the\ngrave and Reverend Signor with the palatial Boko suggested that the\nword was not so good as he had thought it. The rest of the bench was\nfrankly puzzled and there were hasty consultations.\n\n\"You mean \'E \'As a \'Ot temper,\" said the presiding magistrate.\n\n\"I mean \'E \'As a \'Ot temper,\" replied Polly, magically incapable of\naspirates for the moment.\n\n\"You don\'t mean \'E ketches cholera.\"\n\n\"I mean--he\'s easily put out.\"\n\n\"Then why can\'t you say so?\" said the presiding magistrate.\n\nParsons was bound over.\n\nHe came for his luggage while every one was in the shop, and Garvace\nwould not let him invade the business to say good-by. When Mr. Polly\nwent upstairs for margarine and bread and tea, he slipped on into the\ndormitory at once to see what was happening further in the Parsons\ncase. But Parsons had vanished. There was no Parsons, no trace of\nParsons. His cubicle was swept and garnished. For the first time in\nhis life Polly had a sense of irreparable loss.\n\nA minute or so after Platt dashed in.\n\n\"Ugh!\" he said, and then discovered Polly. Polly was leaning out of\nthe window and did not look around. Platt went up to him.\n\n\"He\'s gone already,\" said Platt. \"Might have stopped to say good-by to\na chap.\"\n\nThere was a little pause before Polly replied. He thrust his finger\ninto his mouth and gulped.\n\n\"Bit on that beastly tooth of mine,\" he said, still not looking at\nPlatt. \"It\'s made my eyes water, something chronic. Any one might\nthink I\'d been doing a blooming Pipe, by the look of me.\"\n\n\n\nChapter the Third\n\nCribs\n\n\nI\n\nPort Burdock was never the same place for Mr. Polly after Parsons had\nleft it. There were no chest notes in his occasional letters, and\nlittle of the \"Joy de Vive\" got through by them. Parsons had gone, he\nsaid, to London, and found a place as warehouseman in a cheap\noutfitting shop near St. Paul\'s Churchyard, where references were not\nrequired. It became apparent as time passed that new interests were\nabsorbing him. He wrote of socialism and the rights of man, things\nthat had no appeal for Mr. Polly. He felt strangers had got hold of\nhis Parsons, were at work upon him, making him into someone else,\nsomething less picturesque.... Port Burdock became a dreariness full\nof faded memories of Parsons and work a bore. Platt revealed himself\nalone as a tiresome companion, obsessed by romantic ideas about\nintrigues and vices and \"society women.\"\n\nMr. Polly\'s depression manifested itself in a general slackness. A\ncertain impatience in the manner of Mr. Garvace presently got upon his\nnerves. Relations were becoming strained. He asked for a rise of\nsalary to test his position, and gave notice to leave when it was\nrefused.\n\nIt took him two months to place himself in another situation, and\nduring that time he had quite a disagreeable amount of loneliness,\ndisappointment, anxiety and humiliation.\n\nHe went at first to stay with a married cousin who had a house at\nEasewood. His widowed father had recently given up the music and\nbicycle shop (with the post of organist at the parish church) that had\nsustained his home, and was living upon a small annuity as a guest\nwith this cousin, and growing a little tiresome on account of some\nmysterious internal discomfort that the local practitioner diagnosed\nas imagination. He had aged with mysterious rapidity and become\nexcessively irritable, but the cousin\'s wife was a born manager, and\ncontrived to get along with him. Our Mr. Polly\'s status was that of a\nguest pure and simple, but after a fortnight of congested hospitality\nin which he wrote nearly a hundred letters beginning:\n\n_Sir:_\n\n_Referring to your advt. in the \"Christian World\" for an improver in\nGents\' outfitting I beg to submit myself for the situation. Have had\nsix years\' experience...._\n\nand upset a bottle of ink over a toilet cover and the bedroom carpet,\nhis cousin took him for a walk and pointed out the superior advantages\nof apartments in London from which to swoop upon the briefly yawning\nvacancy.\n\n\"Helpful,\" said Mr. Polly; \"very helpful, O\' Man indeed. I might have\ngone on there for weeks,\" and packed.\n\nHe got a room in an institution that was partly a benevolent hostel\nfor men in his circumstances and partly a high minded but forbidding\ncoffee house and a centre for pleasant Sunday afternoons. Mr. Polly\nspent a critical but pleasant Sunday afternoon in a back seat,\ninventing such phrases as:\n\n\"Soulful Owner of the Exorbiant Largenial Development.\"--An Adam\'s\nApple being in question.\n\n\"Earnest Joy.\"\n\n\"Exultant, Urgent Loogoobuosity.\"\n\nA manly young curate, marking and misunderstanding his preoccupied\nface and moving lips, came and sat by him and entered into\nconversation with the idea of making him feel more at home. The\nconversation was awkward and disconnected for a minute or so, and then\nsuddenly a memory of the Port Burdock Bazaar occurred to Mr. Polly,\nand with a baffling whisper of \"Lill\' dog,\" and a reassuring nod, he\nrose up and escaped, to wander out relieved and observant into the\nvaried London streets.\n\nHe found the collection of men he found waiting about in wholesale\nestablishments in Wood Street and St. Paul\'s Churchyard (where they\ninterview the buyers who have come up from the country) interesting\nand stimulating, but far too strongly charged with the suggestion of\nhis own fate to be really joyful. There were men in all degrees\nbetween confidence and distress, and in every stage between\nextravagant smartness and the last stages of decay. There were sunny\nyoung men full of an abounding and elbowing energy, before whom the\nsoul of Polly sank in hate and dismay. \"Smart Juniors,\" said Polly to\nhimself, \"full of Smart Juniosity. The Shoveacious Cult.\" There were\nhungry looking individuals of thirty-five or so that he decided must\nbe \"Proletelerians\"--he had often wanted to find someone who fitted\nthat attractive word. Middle-aged men, \"too Old at Forty,\" discoursed\nin the waiting-rooms on the outlook in the trade; it had never been so\nbad, they said, while Mr. Polly wondered if \"De-juiced\" was a\npermissible epithet. There were men with an overweening sense of their\nimportance, manifestly annoyed and angry to find themselves still\ndisengaged, and inclined to suspect a plot, and men so faint-hearted\none was terrified to imagine their behaviour when it came to an\ninterview. There was a fresh-faced young man with an unintelligent\nface who seemed to think himself equipped against the world beyond all\nmisadventure by a collar of exceptional height, and another who\nintroduced a note of gaiety by wearing a flannel shirt and a check\nsuit of remarkable virulence. Every day Mr. Polly looked round to mark\nhow many of the familiar faces had gone, and the deepening anxiety\n(reflecting his own) on the faces that remained, and every day some\nnew type joined the drifting shoal. He realised how small a chance his\npoor letter from Easewood ran against this hungry cluster of\ncompetitors at the fountain head.\n\nAt the back of Mr. Polly\'s mind while he made his observations was a\ndisagreeable flavour of dentist\'s parlour. At any moment his name\nmight be shouted, and he might have to haul himself into the presence\nof some fresh specimen of employer, and to repeat once more his\npassionate protestation of interest in the business, his possession of\na capacity for zeal--zeal on behalf of anyone who would pay him a\nyearly salary of twenty-six pounds a year.\n\nThe prospective employer would unfold his ideals of the employee. \"I\nwant a smart, willing young man, thoroughly willing--who won\'t object\nto take trouble. I don\'t want a slacker, the sort of fellow who has to\nbe pushed up to his work and held there. I\'ve got no use for him.\"\n\nAt the back of Mr. Polly\'s mind, and quite beyond his control, the\ninsubordinate phrasemaker would be proffering such combinations as\n\"Chubby Chops,\" or \"Chubby Charmer,\" as suitable for the gentleman,\nvery much as a hat salesman proffers hats.\n\n\"I don\'t think you\'d find much slackness about _me_, sir,\" said Mr.\nPolly brightly, trying to disregard his deeper self.\n\n\"I want a young man who means getting on.\"\n\n\"Exactly, sir. Excelsior.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\"\n\n\"I said excelsior, sir. It\'s a sort of motto of mine. From Longfellow.\nWould you want me to serve through?\"\n\nThe chubby gentleman explained and reverted to his ideals, with a\nfaint air of suspicion. \"Do _you_ mean getting on?\" he asked.\n\n\"I hope so, sir,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Get on or get out, eh?\"\n\nMr. Polly made a rapturous noise, nodded appreciation, and said\nindistinctly--\"_Quite_ my style.\"\n\n\"Some of my people have been with me twenty years,\" said the employer.\n\"My Manchester buyer came to me as a boy of twelve. You\'re a\nChristian?\"\n\n\"Church of England,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"H\'m,\" said the employer a little checked. \"For good all round\nbusiness work I should have preferred a Baptist. Still--\"\n\nHe studied Mr. Polly\'s tie, which was severely neat and businesslike,\nas became an aspiring outfitter. Mr. Polly\'s conception of his own\npose and expression was rendered by that uncontrollable phrasemonger\nat the back as \"Obsequies Deference.\"\n\n\"I am inclined,\" said the prospective employer in a conclusive manner,\n\"to look up your reference.\"\n\nMr. Polly stood up abruptly.\n\n\"Thank you,\" said the employer and dismissed him.\n\n\"Chump chops! How about chump chops?\" said the phrasemonger with an\nair of inspiration.\n\n\"I hope then to hear from you, sir,\" said Mr. Polly in his best\nsalesman manner.\n\n\"If everything is satisfactory,\" said the prospective employer.\n\n\nII\n\nA man whose brain devotes its hinterland to making odd phrases and\nnicknames out of ill-conceived words, whose conception of life is a\nlump of auriferous rock to which all the value is given by rare veins\nof unbusinesslike joy, who reads Boccaccio and Rabelais and\nShakespeare with gusto, and uses \"Stertoraneous Shover\" and \"Smart\nJunior\" as terms of bitterest opprobrium, is not likely to make a\ngreat success under modern business conditions. Mr. Polly dreamt\nalways of picturesque and mellow things, and had an instinctive hatred\nof the strenuous life. He would have resisted the spell of\nex-President Roosevelt, or General Baden Powell, or Mr. Peter Keary,\nor the late Dr. Samuel Smiles, quite easily; and he loved Falstaff and\nHudibras and coarse laughter, and the old England of Washington Irving\nand the memory of Charles the Second\'s courtly days. His progress was\nnecessarily slow. He did not get rises; he lost situations; there was\nsomething in his eye employers did not like; he would have lost his\nplaces oftener if he had not been at times an exceptionally brilliant\nsalesman, rather carefully neat, and a slow but very fair\nwindow-dresser.\n\nHe went from situation to situation, he invented a great wealth of\nnicknames, he conceived enmities and made friends--but none so richly\nsatisfying as Parsons. He was frequently but mildly and discursively\nin love, and sometimes he thought of that girl who had given him a\nyellow-green apple. He had an idea, amounting to a flattering\ncertainty, whose youthful freshness it was had stirred her to\nself-forgetfulness. And sometimes he thought of Foxbourne sleeping\nprosperously in the sun. And he began to have moods of discomfort and\nlassitude and ill-temper due to the beginnings of indigestion.\n\nVarious forces and suggestions came into his life and swayed him for\nlonger and shorter periods.\n\nHe went to Canterbury and came under the influence of Gothic\narchitecture. There was a blood affinity between Mr. Polly and the\nGothic; in the middle ages he would no doubt have sat upon a\nscaffolding and carved out penetrating and none too flattering\nportraits of church dignitaries upon the capitals, and when he\nstrolled, with his hands behind his back, along the cloisters behind\nthe cathedral, and looked at the rich grass plot in the centre, he had\nthe strangest sense of being at home--far more than he had ever been\nat home before. \"Portly _capóns_,\" he used to murmur to himself, under\nthe impression that he was naming a characteristic type of medieval\nchurchman.\n\nHe liked to sit in the nave during the service, and look through the\ngreat gates at the candles and choristers, and listen to the\norgan-sustained voices, but the transepts he never penetrated because\nof the charge for admission. The music and the long vista of the\nfretted roof filled him with a vague and mystical happiness that he\nhad no words, even mispronounceable words, to express. But some of the\nsmug monuments in the aisles got a wreath of epithets: \"Metrorious\nurnfuls,\" \"funererial claims,\" \"dejected angelosity,\" for example. He\nwandered about the precincts and speculated about the people who lived\nin the ripe and cosy houses of grey stone that cluster there so\ncomfortably. Through green doors in high stone walls he caught\nglimpses of level lawns and blazing flower beds; mullioned windows\nrevealed shaded reading lamps and disciplined shelves of brown bound\nbooks. Now and then a dignitary in gaiters would pass him, \"Portly\ncapon,\" or a drift of white-robed choir boys cross a distant arcade\nand vanish in a doorway, or the pink and cream of some girlish dress\nflit like a butterfly across the cool still spaces of the place.\nParticularly he responded to the ruined arches of the Benedictine\'s\nInfirmary and the view of Bell Harry tower from the school buildings.\nHe was stirred to read the Canterbury Tales, but he could not get on\nwith Chaucer\'s old-fashioned English; it fatigued his attention, and\nhe would have given all the story telling very readily for a few\nadventures on the road. He wanted these nice people to live more and\nyarn less. He liked the Wife of Bath very much. He would have liked to\nhave known that woman.\n\nAt Canterbury, too, he first to his knowledge saw Americans.\n\nHis shop did a good class trade in Westgate Street, and he would see\nthem go by on the way to stare at Chaucer\'s \"Chequers,\" and then turn\ndown Mercery Lane to Prior Goldstone\'s gate. It impressed him that\nthey were always in a kind of quiet hurry, and very determined and\nmethodical people,--much more so than any English he knew.\n\n\"Cultured Rapacicity,\" he tried.\n\n\"Vorocious Return to the Heritage.\"\n\nHe would expound them incidentally to his attendant apprentices. He\nhad overheard a little lady putting her view to a friend near the\nChristchurch gate. The accent and intonation had hung in his memory,\nand he would reproduce them more or less accurately. \"Now does this\nMarlowe monument really and truly _matter_?\" he had heard the little\nlady enquire. \"We\'ve no time for side shows and second rate stunts,\nMamie. We want just the Big Simple Things of the place, just the Broad\nElemental Canterbury praposition. What is it saying to us? I want to\nget right hold of that, and then have tea in the very room that\nChaucer did, and hustle to get that four-eighteen train back to\nLondon.\"\n\nHe would go over these precious phrases, finding them full of an\nindescribable flavour. \"Just the Broad Elemental Canterbury\npraposition,\" he would repeat....\n\nHe would try to imagine Parsons confronted with Americans. For his own\npart he knew himself to be altogether inadequate....\n\nCanterbury was the most congenial situation Mr. Polly ever found\nduring these wander years, albeit a very desert so far as\ncompanionship went.\n\n\nIII\n\nIt was after Canterbury that the universe became really disagreeable\nto Mr. Polly. It was brought home to him, not so much vividly as with\na harsh and ungainly insistence, that he was a failure in his trade.\nIt was not the trade he ought to have chosen, though what trade he\nought to have chosen was by no means clear.\n\nHe made great but irregular efforts and produced a forced smartness\nthat, like a cheap dye, refused to stand sunshine. He acquired a sort\nof parsimony also, in which acquisition he was helped by one or two\nphases of absolute impecuniosity. But he was hopeless in competition\nagainst the naturally gifted, the born hustlers, the young men who\nmeant to get on.\n\nHe left the Canterbury place very regretfully. He and another\ncommercial gentleman took a boat one Sunday afternoon at\nSturry-on-the-Stour, when the wind was in the west, and sailed it very\nhappily eastward for an hour. They had never sailed a boat before and\nit seemed simple and wonderful. When they turned they found the river\ntoo narrow for tacking and the tide running out like a sluice. They\nbattled back to Sturry in the course of six hours (at a shilling the\nfirst hour and six-pence for each hour afterwards) rowing a mile in an\nhour and a half or so, until the turn of the tide came to help them,\nand then they had a night walk to Canterbury, and found themselves\nremorselessly locked out.\n\nThe Canterbury employer was an amiable, religious-spirited man and he\nwould probably not have dismissed Mr. Polly if that unfortunate\ntendency to phrase things had not shocked him. \"A Tide\'s a Tide, Sir,\"\nsaid Mr. Polly, feeling that things were not so bad. \"I\'ve no\nlune-attic power to alter that.\"\n\nIt proved impossible to explain to the Canterbury employer that this\nwas not a highly disrespectful and blasphemous remark.\n\n\"And besides, what good are you to me this morning, do you think?\"\nsaid the Canterbury employer, \"with your arms pulled out of their\nsockets?\"\n\nSo Mr. Polly resumed his observations in the Wood Street warehouses\nonce more, and had some dismal times. The shoal of fish waiting for\nthe crumbs of employment seemed larger than ever.\n\nHe took counsel with himself. Should he \"chuck\" the outfitting? It\nwasn\'t any good for him now, and presently when he was older and his\nyouthful smartness had passed into the dulness of middle age it would\nbe worse. What else could he do?\n\nHe could think of nothing. He went one night to a music hall and\ndeveloped a vague idea of a comic performance; the comic men seemed\nviolent rowdies and not at all funny; but when he thought of the great\npit of the audience yawning before him he realised that his was an\naltogether too delicate talent for such a use. He was impressed by the\ncharm of selling vegetables by auction in one of those open shops near\nLondon Bridge, but admitted upon reflection his general want of\ntechnical knowledge. He made some enquiries about emigration, but none\nof the colonies were in want of shop assistants without capital. He\nkept up his attendance in Wood Street.\n\nHe subdued his ideal of salary by the sum of five pounds a year, and\nwas taken at that into a driving establishment in Clapham, which dealt\nchiefly in ready-made suits, fed its assistants in an underground\ndining-room and kept them until twelve on Saturdays. He found it hard\nto be cheerful there. His fits of indigestion became worse, and he\nbegan to lie awake at night and think. Sunshine and laughter seemed\nthings lost for ever; picnics and shouting in the moonlight.\n\nThe chief shopwalker took a dislike to him and nagged him. \"Nar then\nPolly!\" \"Look alive Polly!\" became the burthen of his days. \"As smart\na chap as you could have,\" said the chief shopwalker, \"but no _Zest_.\nNo _Zest_! No _Vim_! What\'s the matter with you?\"\n\nDuring his night vigils Mr. Polly had a feeling--A young rabbit must\nhave very much the feeling, when after a youth of gambolling in sunny\nwoods and furtive jolly raids upon the growing wheat and exciting\ntriumphant bolts before ineffectual casual dogs, it finds itself at\nlast for a long night of floundering effort and perplexity, in a\nnet--for the rest of its life.\n\nHe could not grasp what was wrong with him. He made enormous efforts\nto diagnose his case. Was he really just a \"lazy slacker\" who ought to\n\"buck up\"? He couldn\'t find it in him to believe it. He blamed his\nfather a good deal--it is what fathers are for--in putting him to a\ntrade he wasn\'t happy to follow, but he found it impossible to say\nwhat he ought to have followed. He felt there had been something\nstupid about his school, but just where that came in he couldn\'t say.\nHe made some perfectly sincere efforts to \"buck up\" and \"shove\"\nruthlessly. But that was infernal--impossible. He had to admit himself\nmiserable with all the misery of a social misfit, and with no clear\nprospect of more than the most incidental happiness ahead of him. And\nfor all his attempts at self-reproach or self-discipline he felt at\nbottom that he wasn\'t at fault.\n\nAs a matter of fact all the elements of his troubles had been\nadequately diagnosed by a certain high-browed, spectacled gentleman\nliving at Highbury, wearing a gold _pince_-_nez_, and writing for the\nmost part in the beautiful library of the Reform Club. This gentleman\ndid not know Mr. Polly personally, but he had dealt with him generally\nas \"one of those ill-adjusted units that abound in a society that has\nfailed to develop a collective intelligence and a collective will for\norder, commensurate with its complexities.\"\n\nBut phrases of that sort had no appeal for Mr. Polly.\n\n\n\nChapter the Fourth\n\nMr. Polly an Orphan\n\n\nI\n\nThen a great change was brought about in the life of Mr. Polly by the\ndeath of his father. His father had died suddenly--the local\npractitioner still clung to his theory that it was imagination he\nsuffered from, but compromised in the certificate with the\nappendicitis that was then so fashionable--and Mr. Polly found himself\nheir to a debateable number of pieces of furniture in the house of his\ncousin near Easewood Junction, a family Bible, an engraved portrait of\nGaribaldi and a bust of Mr. Gladstone, an invalid gold watch, a gold\nlocket formerly belonging to his mother, some minor jewelry and\n_bric-a-brac_, a quantity of nearly valueless old clothes and an\ninsurance policy and money in the bank amounting altogether to the sum\nof three hundred and ninety-five pounds.\n\nMr. Polly had always regarded his father as an immortal, as an eternal\nfact, and his father being of a reserved nature in his declining years\nhad said nothing about the insurance policy. Both wealth and\nbereavement therefore took Mr. Polly by surprise and found him a\nlittle inadequate. His mother\'s death had been a childish grief and\nlong forgotten, and the strongest affection in his life had been for\nParsons. An only child of sociable tendencies necessarily turns his\nback a good deal upon home, and the aunt who had succeeded his mother\nwas an economist and furniture polisher, a knuckle rapper and sharp\nsilencer, no friend for a slovenly little boy. He had loved other\nlittle boys and girls transitorily, none had been frequent and\nfamiliar enough to strike deep roots in his heart, and he had grown up\nwith a tattered and dissipated affectionateness that was becoming\nwildly shy. His father had always been a stranger, an irritable\nstranger with exceptional powers of intervention and comment, and an\nair of being disappointed about his offspring. It was shocking to lose\nhim; it was like an unexpected hole in the universe, and the writing\nof \"Death\" upon the sky, but it did not tear Mr. Polly\'s heartstrings\nat first so much as rouse him to a pitch of vivid attention.\n\nHe came down to the cottage at Easewood in response to an urgent\ntelegram, and found his father already dead. His cousin Johnson\nreceived him with much solemnity and ushered him upstairs, to look at\na stiff, straight, shrouded form, with a face unwontedly quiet and, as\nit seemed, with its pinched nostrils, scornful.\n\n\"Looks peaceful,\" said Mr. Polly, disregarding the scorn to the best\nof his ability.\n\n\"It was a merciful relief,\" said Mr. Johnson.\n\nThere was a pause.\n\n\"Second--Second Departed I\'ve ever seen. Not counting mummies,\" said\nMr. Polly, feeling it necessary to say something.\n\n\"We did all we could.\"\n\n\"No doubt of it, O\' Man,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nA second long pause followed, and then, much to Mr. Polly\'s great\nrelief, Johnson moved towards the door.\n\nAfterwards Mr. Polly went for a solitary walk in the evening light,\nand as he walked, suddenly his dead father became real to him. He\nthought of things far away down the perspective of memory, of jolly\nmoments when his father had skylarked with a wildly excited little\nboy, of a certain annual visit to the Crystal Palace pantomime, full\nof trivial glittering incidents and wonders, of his father\'s dread\nback while customers were in the old, minutely known shop. It is\ncurious that the memory which seemed to link him nearest to the dead\nman was the memory of a fit of passion. His father had wanted to get a\nsmall sofa up the narrow winding staircase from the little room behind\nthe shop to the bedroom above, and it had jammed. For a time his\nfather had coaxed, and then groaned like a soul in torment and given\nway to blind fury, had sworn, kicked and struck at the offending piece\nof furniture and finally wrenched it upstairs, with considerable\nincidental damage to lath and plaster and one of the castors. That\nmoment when self-control was altogether torn aside, the shocked\ndiscovery of his father\'s perfect humanity, had left a singular\nimpression on Mr. Polly\'s queer mind. It was as if something\nextravagantly vital had come out of his father and laid a warmly\npassionate hand upon his heart. He remembered that now very vividly,\nand it became a clue to endless other memories that had else been\ndispersed and confusing.\n\nA weakly wilful being struggling to get obdurate things round\nimpossible corners--in that symbol Mr. Polly could recognise himself\nand all the trouble of humanity.\n\nHe hadn\'t had a particularly good time, poor old chap, and now it was\nall over. Finished....\n\nJohnson was the sort of man who derives great satisfaction from a\nfuneral, a melancholy, serious, practical-minded man of five and\nthirty, with great powers of advice. He was the up-line ticket clerk\nat Easewood Junction, and felt the responsibilities of his position.\nHe was naturally thoughtful and reserved, and greatly sustained in\nthat by an innate rectitude of body and an overhanging and forward\ninclination of the upper part of his face and head. He was pale but\nfreckled, and his dark grey eyes were deeply set. His lightest\ninterest was cricket, but he did not take that lightly. His chief\nholiday was to go to a cricket match, which he did as if he was going\nto church, and he watched critically, applauded sparingly, and was\ndarkly offended by any unorthodox play. His convictions upon all\nsubjects were taciturnly inflexible. He was an obstinate player of\ndraughts and chess, and an earnest and persistent reader of the\n_British Weekly_. His wife was a pink, short, wilfully smiling,\nmanaging, ingratiating, talkative woman, who was determined to be\npleasant, and take a bright hopeful view of everything, even when it\nwas not really bright and hopeful. She had large blue expressive eyes\nand a round face, and she always spoke of her husband as Harold. She\naddressed sympathetic and considerate remarks about the deceased to\nMr. Polly in notes of brisk encouragement. \"He was really quite\ncheerful at the end,\" she said several times, with congratulatory\ngusto, \"quite cheerful.\"\n\nShe made dying seem almost agreeable.\n\nBoth these people were resolved to treat Mr. Polly very well, and to\nhelp his exceptional incompetence in every possible way, and after a\nsimple supper of ham and bread and cheese and pickles and cold apple\ntart and small beer had been cleared away, they put him into the\narmchair almost as though he was an invalid, and sat on chairs that\nmade them look down on him, and opened a directive discussion of the\narrangements for the funeral. After all a funeral is a distinct social\nopportunity, and rare when you have no family and few relations, and\nthey did not want to see it spoilt and wasted.\n\n\"You\'ll have a hearse of course,\" said Mrs. Johnson. \"Not one of them\ncombinations with the driver sitting on the coffin. Disrespectful I\nthink they are. I can\'t fancy how people can bring themselves to be\nburied in combinations.\" She flattened her voice in a manner she used\nto intimate aesthetic feeling. \"I _do_ like them glass hearses,\" she\nsaid. \"So refined and nice they are.\"\n\n\"Podger\'s hearse you\'ll have,\" said Johnson conclusively. \"It\'s the\nbest in Easewood.\"\n\n\"Everything that\'s right and proper,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Podger\'s ready to come and measure at any time,\" said Johnson.\n\n\"Then you\'ll want a mourner\'s carriage or two, according as to whom\nyou\'re going to invite,\" said Mr. Johnson.\n\n\"Didn\'t think of inviting any one,\" said Polly.\n\n\"Oh! you\'ll _have_ to ask a few friends,\" said Mr. Johnson. \"You can\'t\nlet your father go to his grave without asking a few friends.\"\n\n\"Funerial baked meats like,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Not baked, but of course you\'ll have to give them something. Ham and\nchicken\'s very suitable. You don\'t want a lot of cooking with the\nceremony coming into the middle of it. I wonder who Alfred ought to\ninvite, Harold. Just the immediate relations; one doesn\'t want a great\ncrowd of people and one doesn\'t want not to show respect.\"\n\n\"But he hated our relations--most of them.\"\n\n\"He\'s not hating them _now_,\" said Mrs. Johnson, \"you may be sure of\nthat. It\'s just because of that I think they ought to come--all of\nthem--even your Aunt Mildred.\"\n\n\"Bit vulturial, isn\'t it?\" said Mr. Polly unheeded.\n\n\"Wouldn\'t be more than twelve or thirteen people if they _all_ came,\"\nsaid Mr. Johnson.\n\n\"We could have everything put out ready in the back room and the\ngloves and whiskey in the front room, and while we were all at the\nceremony, Bessie could bring it all into the front room on a tray and\nput it out nice and proper. There\'d have to be whiskey and sherry or\nport for the ladies....\"\n\n\"Where\'ll you get your mourning?\" asked Johnson abruptly.\n\nMr. Polly had not yet considered this by-product of sorrow. \"Haven\'t\nthought of it yet, O\' Man.\"\n\nA disagreeable feeling spread over his body as though he was\nblackening as he sat. He hated black garments.\n\n\"I suppose I must have mourning,\" he said.\n\n\"Well!\" said Johnson with a solemn smile.\n\n\"Got to see it through,\" said Mr. Polly indistinctly.\n\n\"If I were you,\" said Johnson, \"I should get ready-made trousers.\nThat\'s all you really want. And a black satin tie and a top hat with a\ndeep mourning band. And gloves.\"\n\n\"Jet cuff links he ought to have--as chief mourner,\" said Mrs.\nJohnson.\n\n\"Not obligatory,\" said Johnson.\n\n\"It shows respect,\" said Mrs. Johnson.\n\n\"It shows respect of course,\" said Johnson.\n\nAnd then Mrs. Johnson went on with the utmost gusto to the details of\nthe \"casket,\" while Mr. Polly sat more and more deeply and droopingly\ninto the armchair, assenting with a note of protest to all they said.\nAfter he had retired for the night he remained for a long time perched\non the edge of the sofa which was his bed, staring at the prospect\nbefore him. \"Chasing the O\' Man about up to the last,\" he said.\n\nHe hated the thought and elaboration of death as a healthy animal must\nhate it. His mind struggled with unwonted social problems.\n\n\"Got to put \'em away somehow, I suppose,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Wish I\'d looked him up a bit more while he was alive,\" said Mr.\nPolly.\n\n\nII\n\nBereavement came to Mr. Polly before the realisation of opulence and\nits anxieties and responsibilities. That only dawned upon him on the\nmorrow--which chanced to be Sunday--as he walked with Johnson before\nchurch time about the tangle of struggling building enterprise that\nconstituted the rising urban district of Easewood. Johnson was off\nduty that morning, and devoted the time very generously to the\nadmonitory discussion of Mr. Polly\'s worldly outlook.\n\n\"Don\'t seem to get the hang of the business somehow,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\"Too much blooming humbug in it for my way of thinking.\"\n\n\"If I were you,\" said Mr. Johnson, \"I should push for a first-class\nplace in London--take almost nothing and live on my reserves. That\'s\nwhat I should do.\"\n\n\"Come the Heavy,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Get a better class reference.\"\n\nThere was a pause. \"Think of investing your money?\" asked Johnson.\n\n\"Hardly got used to the idea of having it yet, O\' Man.\"\n\n\"You\'ll have to do something with it. Give you nearly twenty pounds a\nyear if you invest it properly.\"\n\n\"Haven\'t seen it yet in that light,\" said Mr. Polly defensively.\n\n\"There\'s no end of things you could put it into.\"\n\n\"It\'s getting it out again I shouldn\'t feel sure of. I\'m no sort of\nFiancianier. Sooner back horses.\"\n\n\"I wouldn\'t do that if I were you.\"\n\n\"Not my style, O\' Man.\"\n\n\"It\'s a nest egg,\" said Johnson.\n\nMr. Polly made an indeterminate noise.\n\n\"There\'s building societies,\" Johnson threw out in a speculative tone.\nMr. Polly, with detached brevity, admitted there were.\n\n\"You might lend it on mortgage,\" said Johnson. \"Very safe form of\ninvestment.\"\n\n\"Shan\'t think anything about it--not till the O\' Man\'s underground,\"\nsaid Mr. Polly with an inspiration.\n\nThey turned a corner that led towards the junction.\n\n\"Might do worse,\" said Johnson, \"than put it into a small shop.\"\n\nAt the moment this remark made very little appeal to Mr. Polly. But\nafterwards it developed. It fell into his mind like some small obscure\nseed, and germinated.\n\n\"These shops aren\'t in a bad position,\" said Johnson.\n\nThe row he referred to gaped in the late painful stage in building\nbefore the healing touch of the plasterer assuages the roughness of\nthe brickwork. The space for the shop yawned an oblong gap below,\nframed above by an iron girder; \"windows and fittings to suit tenant,\"\na board at the end of the row promised; and behind was the door space\nand a glimpse of stairs going up to the living rooms above. \"Not a bad\nposition,\" said Johnson, and led the way into the establishment. \"Room\nfor fixtures there,\" he said, pointing to the blank wall. The two men\nwent upstairs to the little sitting-room or best bedroom (it would\nhave to be) above the shop. Then they descended to the kitchen below.\n\n\"Rooms in a new house always look a bit small,\" said Johnson.\n\nThey came out of the house again by the prospective back door, and\npicked their way through builder\'s litter across the yard space to the\nroad again. They drew nearer the junction to where a pavement and\nshops already open and active formed the commercial centre of\nEasewood. On the opposite side of the way the side door of a\nflourishing little establishment opened, and a man and his wife and a\nlittle boy in a sailor suit came into the street. The wife was a\npretty woman in brown with a floriferous straw hat, and the group was\naltogether very Sundayfied and shiny and spick and span. The shop\nitself had a large plate-glass window whose contents were now veiled\nby a buff blind on which was inscribed in scrolly letters: \"Rymer,\nPork Butcher and Provision Merchant,\" and then with voluptuous\nelaboration: \"The World-Famed Easewood Sausage.\"\n\nGreetings were exchanged between Mr. Johnson and this distinguished\ncomestible.\n\n\"Off to church already?\" said Johnson.\n\n\"Walking across the fields to Little Dorington,\" said Mr. Rymer.\n\n\"Very pleasant walk,\" said Johnson.\n\n\"Very,\" said Mr. Rymer.\n\n\"Hope you\'ll enjoy it,\" said Mr. Johnson.\n\n\"That chap\'s done well,\" said Johnson _sotto voce_ as they went on.\n\"Came here with nothing--practically, four years ago. And as thin as a\nlath. Look at him now!\n\n\"He\'s worked hard of course,\" said Johnson, improving the occasion.\n\nThought fell between the cousins for a space.\n\n\"Some men can do one thing,\" said Johnson, \"and some another.... For a\nman who sticks to it there\'s a lot to be done in a shop.\"\n\n\nIII\n\nAll the preparations for the funeral ran easily and happily under Mrs.\nJohnson\'s skilful hands. On the eve of the sad event she produced a\nreserve of black sateen, the kitchen steps and a box of tin-tacks, and\ndecorated the house with festoons and bows of black in the best\npossible taste. She tied up the knocker with black crape, and put a\nlarge bow over the corner of the steel engraving of Garibaldi, and\nswathed the bust of Mr. Gladstone, that had belonged to the deceased,\nwith inky swathings. She turned the two vases that had views of Tivoli\nand the Bay of Naples round, so that these rather brilliant landscapes\nwere hidden and only the plain blue enamel showed, and she anticipated\nthe long-contemplated purchase of a tablecloth for the front room, and\nsubstituted a violet purple cover for the now very worn and faded\nraptures and roses in plushette that had hitherto done duty there.\nEverything that loving consideration could do to impart a dignified\nsolemnity to her little home was done.\n\nShe had released Mr. Polly from the irksome duty of issuing\ninvitations, and as the moments of assembly drew near she sent him and\nMr. Johnson out into the narrow long strip of garden at the back of\nthe house, to be free to put a finishing touch or so to her\npreparations. She sent them out together because she had a queer\nlittle persuasion at the back of her mind that Mr. Polly wanted to\nbolt from his sacred duties, and there was no way out of the garden\nexcept through the house.\n\nMr. Johnson was a steady, successful gardener, and particularly good\nwith celery and peas. He walked slowly along the narrow path down the\ncentre pointing out to Mr. Polly a number of interesting points in the\nmanagement of peas, wrinkles neatly applied and difficulties wisely\novercome, and all that he did for the comfort and propitiation of that\nfitful but rewarding vegetable. Presently a sound of nervous laughter\nand raised voices from the house proclaimed the arrival of the earlier\nguests, and the worst of that anticipatory tension was over.\n\nWhen Mr. Polly re-entered the house he found three entirely strange\nyoung women with pink faces, demonstrative manners and emphatic\nmourning, engaged in an incoherent conversation with Mrs. Johnson. All\nthree kissed him with great gusto after the ancient English fashion.\n\"These are your cousins Larkins,\" said Mrs. Johnson; \"that\'s Annie\n(unexpected hug and smack), that\'s Miriam (resolute hug and smack),\nand that\'s Minnie (prolonged hug and smack).\"\n\n\"Right-O,\" said Mr. Polly, emerging a little crumpled and breathless\nfrom this hearty introduction. \"I see.\"\n\n\"Here\'s Aunt Larkins,\" said Mrs. Johnson, as an elderly and stouter\nedition of the three young women appeared in the doorway.\n\nMr. Polly backed rather faint-heartedly, but Aunt Larkins was not to\nbe denied. Having hugged and kissed her nephew resoundingly she\ngripped him by the wrists and scanned his features. She had a round,\nsentimental, freckled face. \"I should \'_ave_ known \'im anywhere,\" she\nsaid with fervour.\n\n\"Hark at mother!\" said the cousin called Annie. \"Why, she\'s never set\neyes on him before!\"\n\n\"I should \'_ave_ known \'im anywhere,\" said Mrs. Larkins, \"for Lizzie\'s\nchild. You\'ve got her eyes! It\'s a Resemblance! And as for _never\nseeing \'im_-- I\'ve _dandled_ him, Miss Imperence. I\'ve dandled him.\"\n\n\"You couldn\'t dandle him now, Ma!\" Miss Annie remarked with a shriek\nof laughter.\n\nAll the sisters laughed at that. \"The things you say, Annie!\" said\nMiriam, and for a time the room was full of mirth.\n\nMr. Polly felt it incumbent upon him to say something. \"_My_ dandling\ndays are over,\" he said.\n\nThe reception of this remark would have convinced a far more modest\ncharacter than Mr. Polly that it was extremely witty.\n\nMr. Polly followed it up by another one almost equally good. \"My turn\nto dandle,\" he said, with a sly look at his aunt, and convulsed\neveryone.\n\n\"Not me,\" said Mrs. Larkins, taking his point, \"_thank_ you,\" and\nachieved a climax.\n\nIt was queer, but they seemed to be easy people to get on with anyhow.\nThey were still picking little ripples and giggles of mirth from the\nidea of Mr. Polly dandling Aunt Larkins when Mr. Johnson, who had\nanswered the door, ushered in a stooping figure, who was at once\nhailed by Mrs. Johnson as \"Why! Uncle Pentstemon!\" Uncle Pentstemon\nwas rather a shock. His was an aged rather than venerable figure; Time\nhad removed the hair from the top of his head and distributed a small\ndividend of the plunder in little bunches carelessly and impartially\nover the rest of his features; he was dressed in a very big old frock\ncoat and a long cylindrical top hat, which he had kept on; he was very\nmuch bent, and he carried a rush basket from which protruded coy\nintimations of the lettuces and onions he had brought to grace the\noccasion. He hobbled into the room, resisting the efforts of Johnson\nto divest him of his various encumbrances, halted and surveyed the\ncompany with an expression of profound hostility, breathing hard.\nRecognition quickened in his eyes.\n\n\"_You_ here,\" he said to Aunt Larkins and then; \"You _would_ be....\nThese your gals?\"\n\n\"They are,\" said Aunt Larkins, \"and better gals----\"\n\n\"That Annie?\" asked Uncle Pentstemon, pointing a horny thumb-nail.\n\n\"Fancy your remembering her name!\"\n\n\"She mucked up my mushroom bed, the baggage!\" said Uncle Pentstemon\nungenially, \"and I give it to her to rights. Trounced her I\ndid--fairly. I remember her. Here\'s some green stuff for you, Grace.\nFresh it is and wholesome. I shall be wanting the basket back and mind\nyou let me have it.... Have you nailed him down yet? You always was a\nbit in front of what was needful.\"\n\nHis attention was drawn inward by a troublesome tooth, and he sucked\nat it spitefully. There was something potent about this old man that\nsilenced everyone for a moment or so. He seemed a fragment from the\nruder agricultural past of our race, like a lump of soil among things\nof paper. He put his basket of vegetables very deliberately on the new\nviolet tablecloth, removed his hat carefully and dabbled his brow, and\nwiped out his hat brim with a crimson and yellow pocket handkerchief.\n\n\"I\'m glad you were able to come, Uncle,\" said Mrs. Johnson.\n\n\"Oh, I _came_\" said Uncle Pentstemon. \"I _came_.\"\n\nHe turned on Mrs. Larkins. \"Gals in service?\" he asked.\n\n\"They aren\'t and they won\'t be,\" said Mrs. Larkins.\n\n\"No,\" he said with infinite meaning, and turned his eye on Mr. Polly.\n\n\"You Lizzie\'s boy?\" he said.\n\nMr. Polly was spared much self-exposition by the tumult occasioned by\nfurther arrivals.\n\n\"Ah! here\'s May Punt!\" said Mrs. Johnson, and a small woman dressed in\nthe borrowed mourning of a large woman and leading a very small\nlong-haired observant little boy--it was his first funeral--appeared,\nclosely followed by several friends of Mrs. Johnson who had come to\nswell the display of respect and made only vague, confused impressions\nupon Mr. Polly\'s mind. (Aunt Mildred, who was an unexplained family\nscandal, had declined Mrs. Johnson\'s hospitality.)\n\nEverybody was in profound mourning, of course, mourning in the modern\nEnglish style, with the dyer\'s handiwork only too apparent, and hats\nand jackets of the current cut. There was very little crape, and the\ncostumes had none of the goodness and specialisation and genuine\nenjoyment of mourning for mourning\'s sake that a similar continental\ngathering would have displayed. Still that congestion of strangers in\nblack sufficed to stun and confuse Mr. Polly\'s impressionable mind. It\nseemed to him much more extraordinary than anything he had expected.\n\n\"Now, gals,\" said Mrs. Larkins, \"see if you can help,\" and the three\ndaughters became confusingly active between the front room and the\nback.\n\n\"I hope everyone\'ll take a glass of sherry and a biscuit,\" said Mrs.\nJohnson. \"We don\'t stand on ceremony,\" and a decanter appeared in the\nplace of Uncle Pentstemon\'s vegetables.\n\nUncle Pentstemon had refused to be relieved of his hat; he sat stiffly\ndown on a chair against the wall with that venerable headdress between\nhis feet, watching the approach of anyone jealously. \"Don\'t you go\nsquashing my hat,\" he said. Conversation became confused and general.\nUncle Pentstemon addressed himself to Mr. Polly. \"You\'re a little\nchap,\" he said, \"a puny little chap. I never did agree to Lizzie\nmarrying him, but I suppose by-gones must be bygones now. I suppose\nthey made you a clerk or something.\"\n\n\"Outfitter,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"I remember. Them girls pretend to be dressmakers.\"\n\n\"They _are_ dressmakers,\" said Mrs. Larkins across the room.\n\n\"I _will_ take a glass of sherry. They \'old to it, you see.\"\n\nHe took the glass Mrs. Johnson handed him, and poised it critically\nbetween a horny finger and thumb. \"You\'ll be paying for this,\" he said\nto Mr. Polly. \"Here\'s _to_ you.... Don\'t you go treading on my hat,\nyoung woman. You brush your skirts against it and you take a shillin\'\noff its value. It ain\'t the sort of \'at you see nowadays.\"\n\nHe drank noisily.\n\nThe sherry presently loosened everybody\'s tongue, and the early\ncoldness passed.\n\n\"There ought to have been a _post-mortem_,\" Polly heard Mrs. Punt\nremarking to one of Mrs. Johnson\'s friends, and Miriam and another\nwere lost in admiration of Mrs. Johnson\'s decorations. \"So very nice\nand refined,\" they were both repeating at intervals.\n\nThe sherry and biscuits were still being discussed when Mr. Podger,\nthe undertaker, arrived, a broad, cheerfully sorrowful, clean-shaven\nlittle man, accompanied by a melancholy-faced assistant. He conversed\nfor a time with Johnson in the passage outside; the sense of his\nbusiness stilled the rising waves of chatter and carried off\neveryone\'s attention in the wake of his heavy footsteps to the room\nabove.\n\n\nIV\n\nThings crowded upon Mr. Polly. Everyone, he noticed, took sherry with\na solemn avidity, and a small portion even was administered\nsacramentally to the Punt boy. There followed a distribution of black\nkid gloves, and much trying on and humouring of fingers. \"_Good_\ngloves,\" said one of Mrs. Johnson\'s friends. \"There\'s a little pair\nthere for Willie,\" said Mrs. Johnson triumphantly. Everyone seemed\ngravely content with the amazing procedure of the occasion. Presently\nMr. Podger was picking Mr. Polly out as Chief Mourner to go with Mrs.\nJohnson, Mrs. Larkins and Annie in the first mourning carriage.\n\n\"Right O,\" said Mr. Polly, and repented instantly of the alacrity of\nthe phrase.\n\n\"There\'ll have to be a walking party,\" said Mrs. Johnson cheerfully.\n\"There\'s only two coaches. I daresay we can put in six in each, but\nthat leaves three over.\"\n\nThere was a generous struggle to be pedestrian, and the two other\nLarkins girls, confessing coyly to tight new boots and displaying a\ncertain eagerness, were added to the contents of the first carriage.\n\n\"It\'ll be a squeeze,\" said Annie.\n\n\"_I_ don\'t mind a squeeze,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nHe decided privately that the proper phrase for the result of that\nremark was \"Hysterial catechunations.\"\n\nMr. Podger re-entered the room from a momentary supervision of the\nbumping business that was now proceeding down the staircase.\n\n\"Bearing up,\" he said cheerfully, rubbing his hands together. \"Bearing\nup!\"\n\nThat stuck very vividly in Mr. Polly\'s mind, and so did the\nclose-wedged drive to the churchyard, bunched in between two young\nwomen in confused dull and shiny black, and the fact that the wind was\nbleak and that the officiating clergyman had a cold, and sniffed\nbetween his sentences. The wonder of life! The wonder of everything!\nWhat had he expected that this should all be so astoundingly\ndifferent.\n\nHe found his attention converging more and more upon the Larkins\ncousins. The interest was reciprocal. They watched him with a kind of\nsuppressed excitement and became risible with his every word and\ngesture. He was more and more aware of their personal quality. Annie\nhad blue eyes and a red, attractive mouth, a harsh voice and a habit\nof extreme liveliness that even this occasion could not suppress;\nMinnie was fond, extremely free about the touching of hands and\nsuchlike endearments; Miriam was quieter and regarded him earnestly.\nMrs. Larkins was very happy in her daughters, and they had the naïve\naffectionateness of those who see few people and find a strange cousin\na wonderful outlet. Mr. Polly had never been very much kissed, and it\nmade his mind swim. He did not know for the life of him whether he\nliked or disliked all or any of the Larkins cousins. It was rather\nattractive to make them laugh; they laughed at anything.\n\nThere they were tugging at his mind, and the funeral tugging at his\nmind, too, and the sense of himself as Chief Mourner in a brand new\nsilk hat with a broad mourning band. He watched the ceremony and\nmissed his responses, and strange feelings twisted at his\nheartstrings.\n\n\nV\n\nMr. Polly walked back to the house because he wanted to be alone.\nMiriam and Minnie would have accompanied him, but finding Uncle\nPentstemon beside the Chief Mourner they went on in front.\n\n\"You\'re wise,\" said Uncle Pentstemon.\n\n\"Glad you think so,\" said Mr. Polly, rousing himself to talk.\n\n\"I likes a bit of walking before a meal,\" said Uncle Pentstemon, and\nmade a kind of large hiccup. \"That sherry rises,\" he remarked.\n\"Grocer\'s stuff, I expect.\"\n\nHe went on to ask how much the funeral might be costing, and seemed\npleased to find Mr. Polly didn\'t know.\n\n\"In that case,\" he said impressively, \"it\'s pretty certain to cost\nmore\'n you expect, my boy.\"\n\nHe meditated for a time. \"I\'ve seen a mort of undertakers,\" he\ndeclared; \"a mort of undertakers.\"\n\nThe Larkins girls attracted his attention.\n\n\"Let\'s lodgin\'s and chars,\" he commented. \"Leastways she goes out to\ncook dinners. And look at \'em!\n\n\"Dressed up to the nines. If it ain\'t borryd clothes, that is. And\nthey goes out to work at a factory!\"\n\n\"Did you know my father much, Uncle Pentstemon?\" asked Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Couldn\'t stand Lizzie throwin\' herself away like that,\" said Uncle\nPentstemon, and repeated his hiccup on a larger scale.\n\n\"That _weren\'t_ good sherry,\" said Uncle Pentstemon with the first\nnote of pathos Mr. Polly had detected in his quavering voice.\n\nThe funeral in the rather cold wind had proved wonderfully appetising,\nand every eye brightened at the sight of the cold collation that was\nnow spread in the front room. Mrs. Johnson was very brisk, and Mr.\nPolly, when he re-entered the house found everybody sitting down.\n\"Come along, Alfred,\" cried the hostess cheerfully. \"We can\'t very\nwell begin without you. Have you got the bottled beer ready to open,\nBetsy? Uncle, you\'ll have a drop of whiskey, I expect.\"\n\n\"Put it where I can mix for myself,\" said Uncle Pentstemon, placing\nhis hat very carefully out of harm\'s way on the bookcase.\n\nThere were two cold boiled chickens, which Johnson carved with great\ncare and justice, and a nice piece of ham, some brawn and a steak and\nkidney pie, a large bowl of salad and several sorts of pickles, and\nafterwards came cold apple tart, jam roll and a good piece of Stilton\ncheese, lots of bottled beer, some lemonade for the ladies and milk\nfor Master Punt; a very bright and satisfying meal. Mr. Polly found\nhimself seated between Mrs. Punt, who was much preoccupied with Master\nPunt\'s table manners, and one of Mrs. Johnson\'s school friends, who\nwas exchanging reminiscences of school days and news of how various\ncommon friends had changed and married with Mrs. Johnson. Opposite him\nwas Miriam and another of the Johnson circle, and also he had brawn to\ncarve and there was hardly room for the helpful Betsy to pass behind\nhis chair, so that altogether his mind would have been amply\ndistracted from any mortuary broodings, even if a wordy warfare about\nthe education of the modern young woman had not sprung up between\nUncle Pentstemon and Mrs. Larkins and threatened for a time, in spite\nof a word or so in season from Johnson, to wreck all the harmony of\nthe sad occasion.\n\nThe general effect was after this fashion:\n\nFirst an impression of Mrs. Punt on the right speaking in a refined\nundertone: \"You didn\'t, I suppose, Mr. Polly, think to \'_ave_ your\npoor dear father post-mortemed--\"\n\nLady on the left side breaking in: \"I was just reminding Grace of the\ndear dead days beyond recall--\"\n\nAttempted reply to Mrs. Punt: \"Didn\'t think of it for a moment. Can\'t\ngive you a piece of this brawn, can I?\"\n\nFragment from the left: \"Grace and Beauty they used to call us and we\nused to sit at the same desk--\"\n\nMrs. Punt, breaking out suddenly: \"Don\'t _swaller_ your fork, Willy.\nYou see, Mr. Polly, I used to \'_ave_ a young gentleman, a medical\nstudent, lodging with me--\"\n\nVoice from down the table: \"\'Am, Alfred? I didn\'t give you very much.\"\n\nBessie became evident at the back of Mr. Polly\'s chair, struggling\nwildly to get past. Mr. Polly did his best to be helpful. \"Can you get\npast? Lemme sit forward a bit. Urr-oo! Right O.\"\n\nLady to the left going on valiantly and speaking to everyone who cares\nto listen, while Mrs. Johnson beams beside her: \"There she used to sit\nas bold as brass, and the fun she used to make of things no one\n_could_ believe--knowing her now. She used to make faces at the\nmistress through the--\"\n\nMrs. Punt keeping steadily on: \"The contents of the stummik at any\nrate _ought_ to be examined.\"\n\nVoice of Mr. Johnson. \"Elfrid, pass the mustid down.\"\n\nMiriam leaning across the table: \"Elfrid!\"\n\n\"Once she got us all kept in. The whole school!\"\n\nMiriam, more insistently: \"Elfrid!\"\n\nUncle Pentstemon, raising his voice defiantly: \"Trounce \'er again I\nwould if she did as much now. That I would! Dratted mischief!\"\n\nMiriam, catching Mr. Polly\'s eye: \"Elfrid! This lady knows Canterbury.\nI been telling her you been there.\"\n\nMr. Polly: \"Glad you know it.\"\n\nThe lady shouting: \"I like it.\"\n\nMrs. Larkins, raising her voice: \"I won\'t \'_ave_ my girls spoken of,\nnot by nobody, old or young.\"\n\nPop! imperfectly located.\n\nMr. Johnson at large: \"_Ain\'t_ the beer up! It\'s the \'eated room.\"\n\nBessie: \"Scuse me, sir, passing so soon again, but--\" Rest\ninaudible. Mr. Polly, accommodating himself: \"Urr-oo! Right? Right\nO.\"\n\nThe knives and forks, probably by some secret common agreement, clash\nand clatter together and drown every other sound.\n\n\"Nobody \'ad the least idea \'ow \'E died,--nobody.... Willie, don\'t\n_golp_ so. You ain\'t in a \'urry, are you? You don\'t want to ketch a\ntrain or anything,--golping like that!\"\n\n\"D\'you remember, Grace, \'ow one day we \'ad writing lesson....\"\n\n\"Nicer girls no one ever \'ad--though I say it who shouldn\'t.\"\n\nMrs. Johnson in a shrill clear hospitable voice: \"Harold, won\'t Mrs.\nLarkins \'_ave_ a teeny bit more fowl?\"\n\nMr. Polly rising to the situation. \"Or some brawn, Mrs. Larkins?\"\nCatching Uncle Pentstemon\'s eye: \"Can\'t send _you_ some brawn, sir?\"\n\n\"Elfrid!\"\n\nLoud hiccup from Uncle Pentstemon, momentary consternation followed by\ngiggle from Annie.\n\nThe narration at Mr. Polly\'s elbow pursued a quiet but relentless\ncourse. \"Directly the new doctor came in he said: \'Everything must be\ntook out and put in spirits--everything.\'\"\n\nWillie,--audible ingurgitation.\n\nThe narration on the left was flourishing up to a climax. \"Ladies,\"\nshe sez, \"dip their pens _in_ their ink and keep their noses out of\nit!\"\n\n\"Elfrid!\"--persuasively.\n\n\"Certain people may cast snacks at other people\'s daughters, never\nhaving had any of their own, though two poor souls of wives dead and\nburied through their goings on--\"\n\nJohnson ruling the storm: \"We don\'t want old scores dug up on such a\nday as this--\"\n\n\"Old scores you may call them, but worth a dozen of them that put them\nto their rest, poor dears.\"\n\n\"Elfrid!\"--with a note of remonstrance.\n\n\"If you choke yourself, my lord, not another mouthful do you \'_ave_.\nNo nice puddin\'! Nothing!\"\n\n\"And kept us in, she did, every afternoon for a week!\"\n\nIt seemed to be the end, and Mr. Polly replied with an air of being\nprofoundly impressed: \"Really!\"\n\n\"Elfrid!\"--a little disheartened.\n\n\"And then they \'ad it! They found he\'d swallowed the very key to\nunlock the drawer--\"\n\n\"Then don\'t let people go casting snacks!\"\n\n\"_Who\'s_ casting snacks!\"\n\n\"Elfrid! This lady wants to _know_, \'_ave_ the Prossers left\nCanterbury?\"\n\n\"No wish to make myself disagreeable, not to God\'s \'umblest worm--\"\n\n\"Alf, you aren\'t very busy with that brawn up there!\"\n\nAnd so on for the hour.\n\nThe general effect upon Mr. Polly at the time was at once confusing\nand exhilarating; but it led him to eat copiously and carelessly, and\nlong before the end, when after an hour and a quarter a movement took\nthe party, and it pushed away its cheese plates and rose sighing and\nstretching from the remains of the repast, little streaks and bands of\ndyspeptic irritation and melancholy were darkening the serenity of his\nmind.\n\nHe stood between the mantel shelf and the window--the blinds were up\nnow--and the Larkins sisters clustered about him. He battled with the\noncoming depression and forced himself to be extremely facetious about\ntwo noticeable rings on Annie\'s hand. \"They ain\'t real,\" said Annie\ncoquettishly. \"Got \'em out of a prize packet.\"\n\n\"Prize packet in trousers, I expect,\" said Mr. Polly, and awakened\ninextinguishable laughter.\n\n\"Oh! the things you say!\" said Minnie, slapping his shoulder.\n\nSuddenly something he had quite extraordinarily forgotten came into\nhis head.\n\n\"Bless my heart!\" he cried, suddenly serious.\n\n\"What\'s the matter?\" asked Johnson.\n\n\"Ought to have gone back to shop--three days ago. They\'ll make no end\nof a row!\"\n\n\"Lor, you _are_ a Treat!\" said cousin Annie, and screamed with\nlaughter at a delicious idea. \"You\'ll get the Chuck,\" she said.\n\nMr. Polly made a convulsing grimace at her.\n\n\"I\'ll die!\" she said. \"I don\'t believe you care a bit!\"\n\nFeeling a little disorganized by her hilarity and a shocked expression\nthat had come to the face of cousin Miriam, he made some indistinct\nexcuse and went out through the back room and scullery into the little\ngarden. The cool air and a very slight drizzle of rain was a\nrelief--anyhow. But the black mood of the replete dyspeptic had come\nupon him. His soul darkened hopelessly. He walked with his hands in\nhis pockets down the path between the rows of exceptionally cultured\npeas and unreasonably, overwhelmingly, he was smitten by sorrow for\nhis father. The heady noise and muddle and confused excitement of the\nfeast passed from him like a curtain drawn away. He thought of that\nhot and angry and struggling creature who had tugged and sworn so\nfoolishly at the sofa upon the twisted staircase, and who was now\nlying still and hidden, at the bottom of a wall-sided oblong pit\nbeside the heaped gravel that would presently cover him. The stillness\nof it! the wonder of it! the infinite reproach! Hatred for all these\npeople--all of them--possessed Mr. Polly\'s soul.\n\n\"Hen-witted gigglers,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nHe went down to the fence, and stood with his hands on it staring away\nat nothing. He stayed there for what seemed a long time. From the\nhouse came a sound of raised voices that subsided, and then Mrs.\nJohnson calling for Bessie.\n\n\"Gowlish gusto,\" said Mr. Polly. \"Jumping it in. Funererial Games.\nDon\'t hurt _him_ of course. Doesn\'t matter to _him_....\"\n\nNobody missed Mr. Polly for a long time.\n\nWhen at last he reappeared among them his eye was almost grim, but\nnobody noticed his eye. They were looking at watches, and Johnson was\nbeing omniscient about trains. They seemed to discover Mr. Polly\nafresh just at the moment of parting, and said a number of more or\nless appropriate things. But Uncle Pentstemon was far too worried\nabout his rush basket, which had been carelessly mislaid, he seemed to\nthink with larcenous intentions, to remember Mr. Polly at all. Mrs.\nJohnson had tried to fob him off with a similar but inferior\nbasket,--his own had one handle mended with string according to a\nmethod of peculiar virtue and inimitable distinction known only to\nhimself--and the old gentleman had taken her attempt as the gravest\nreflection upon his years and intelligence. Mr. Polly was left very\nlargely to the Larkins trio. Cousin Minnie became shameless and kept\nkissing him good-by--and then finding out it wasn\'t time to go.\nCousin Miriam seemed to think her silly, and caught Mr. Polly\'s eye\nsympathetically. Cousin Annie ceased to giggle and lapsed into a\nnearly sentimental state. She said with real feeling that she had\nenjoyed the funeral more than words could tell.\n\n\n\nChapter the Fifth\n\nMr. Polly Takes a Vacation\n\n\nI\n\nMr. Polly returned to Clapham from the funeral celebration prepared\nfor trouble, and took his dismissal in a manly spirit.\n\n\"You\'ve merely anti-_separated_ me by a hair,\" he said politely.\n\nAnd he told them in the dormitory that he meant to take a little\nholiday before his next crib, though a certain inherited reticence\nsuppressed the fact of the legacy.\n\n\"You\'ll do that all right,\" said Ascough, the head of the boot shop.\n\"It\'s quite the fashion just at present. Six Weeks in Wonderful Wood\nStreet. They\'re running excursions....\"\n\n\"A little holiday\"; that was the form his sense of wealth took first,\nthat it made a little holiday possible. Holidays were his life, and\nthe rest merely adulterated living. And now he might take a little\nholiday and have money for railway fares and money for meals and money\nfor inns. But--he wanted someone to take the holiday with.\n\nFor a time he cherished a design of hunting up Parsons, getting him to\nthrow up his situation, and going with him to Stratford-on-Avon and\nShrewsbury and the Welsh mountains and the Wye and a lot of places\nlike that, for a really gorgeous, careless, illimitable old holiday of\na month. But alas! Parsons had gone from the St. Paul\'s Churchyard\noutfitter\'s long ago, and left no address.\n\nMr. Polly tried to think he would be almost as happy wandering alone,\nbut he knew better. He had dreamt of casual encounters with\ndelightfully interesting people by the wayside--even romantic\nencounters. Such things happened in Chaucer and \"Bocashiew,\" they\nhappened with extreme facility in Mr. Richard Le Gallienne\'s very\ndetrimental book, _The Quest of the Golden Girl_, which he had read at\nCanterbury, but he had no confidence they would happen in England--to\nhim.\n\nWhen, a month later, he came out of the Clapham side door at last into\nthe bright sunshine of a fine London day, with a dazzling sense of\nlimitless freedom upon him, he did nothing more adventurous than order\nthe cabman to drive to Waterloo, and there take a ticket for Easewood.\n\nHe wanted--what _did_ he want most in life? I think his distinctive\ncraving is best expressed as fun--fun in companionship. He had already\nspent a pound or two upon three select feasts to his fellow\nassistants, sprat suppers they were, and there had been a great and\nvery successful Sunday pilgrimage to Richmond, by Wandsworth and\nWimbledon\'s open common, a trailing garrulous company walking about a\nsolemnly happy host, to wonderful cold meat and salad at the Roebuck,\na bowl of punch, punch! and a bill to correspond; but now it was a\nweekday, and he went down to Easewood with his bag and portmanteau in\na solitary compartment, and looked out of the window upon a world in\nwhich every possible congenial seemed either toiling in a situation\nor else looking for one with a gnawing and hopelessly preoccupying\nanxiety. He stared out of the window at the exploitation roads of\nsuburbs, and rows of houses all very much alike, either emphatically\nand impatiently _to let_ or full of rather busy unsocial people.\nNear Wimbledon he had a glimpse of golf links, and saw two elderly\ngentlemen who, had they chosen, might have been gentlemen of grace\nand leisure, addressing themselves to smite little hunted white balls\ngreat distances with the utmost bitterness and dexterity. Mr. Polly\ncould not understand them.\n\nEvery road he remarked, as freshly as though he had never observed it\nbefore, was bordered by inflexible palings or iron fences or severely\ndisciplined hedges. He wondered if perhaps abroad there might be\nbeautifully careless, unenclosed high roads. Perhaps after all the\nbest way of taking a holiday is to go abroad.\n\nHe was haunted by the memory of what was either a half-forgotten\npicture or a dream; a carriage was drawn up by the wayside and four\nbeautiful people, two men and two women graciously dressed, were\ndancing a formal ceremonious dance full of bows and curtseys, to the\nmusic of a wandering fiddler they had encountered. They had been\ndriving one way and he walking another--a happy encounter with this\nobvious result. They might have come straight out of happy Theleme,\nwhose motto is: \"Do what thou wilt.\" The driver had taken his two\nsleek horses out; they grazed unchallenged; and he sat on a stone\nclapping time with his hands while the fiddler played. The shade of\nthe trees did not altogether shut out the sunshine, the grass in the\nwood was lush and full of still daffodils, the turf they danced on was\nstarred with daisies.\n\nMr. Polly, dear heart! firmly believed that things like that could and\ndid happen--somewhere. Only it puzzled him that morning that he never\nsaw them happening. Perhaps they happened south of Guilford. Perhaps\nthey happened in Italy. Perhaps they ceased to happen a hundred years\nago. Perhaps they happened just round the corner--on weekdays when all\ngood Mr. Pollys are safely shut up in shops. And so dreaming of\ndelightful impossibilities until his heart ached for them, he was\nrattled along in the suburban train to Johnson\'s discreet home and the\nbriskly stimulating welcome of Mrs. Johnson.\n\n\nII\n\nMr. Polly translated his restless craving for joy and leisure into\nHarold Johnsonese by saying that he meant to look about him for a bit\nbefore going into another situation. It was a decision Johnson very\nwarmly approved. It was arranged that Mr. Polly should occupy his\nformer room and board with the Johnsons in consideration of a weekly\npayment of eighteen shillings. And the next morning Mr. Polly went out\nearly and reappeared with a purchase, a safety bicycle, which he\nproposed to study and master in the sandy lane below the Johnsons\'\nhouse. But over the struggles that preceded his mastery it is humane\nto draw a veil.\n\nAnd also Mr. Polly bought a number of books, Rabelais for his own, and\n\"The Arabian Nights,\" the works of Sterne, a pile of \"Tales from\nBlackwood,\" cheap in a second-hand bookshop, the plays of William\nShakespeare, a second-hand copy of Belloc\'s \"Road to Rome,\" an odd\nvolume of \"Purchas his Pilgrimes\" and \"The Life and Death of Jason.\"\n\n\"Better get yourself a good book on bookkeeping,\" said Johnson,\nturning over perplexing pages.\n\nA belated spring was now advancing with great strides to make up for\nlost time. Sunshine and a stirring wind were poured out over the land,\nfleets of towering clouds sailed upon urgent tremendous missions\nacross the blue seas of heaven, and presently Mr. Polly was riding a\nlittle unstably along unfamiliar Surrey roads, wondering always what\nwas round the next corner, and marking the blackthorn and looking out\nfor the first white flower-buds of the may. He was perplexed and\ndistressed, as indeed are all right thinking souls, that there is no\nmay in early May.\n\nHe did not ride at the even pace sensible people use who have marked\nout a journey from one place to another, and settled what time it will\ntake them. He rode at variable speeds, and always as though he was\nlooking for something that, missing, left life attractive still, but a\nlittle wanting in significance. And sometimes he was so unreasonably\nhappy he had to whistle and sing, and sometimes he was incredibly, but\nnot at all painfully, sad. His indigestion vanished with air and\nexercise, and it was quite pleasant in the evening to stroll about the\ngarden with Johnson and discuss plans for the future. Johnson was full\nof ideas. Moreover, Mr. Polly had marked the road that led to Stamton,\nthat rising populous suburb; and as his bicycle legs grew strong his\nwheel with a sort of inevitableness carried him towards the row of\nhouses in a back street in which his Larkins cousins made their home\ntogether.\n\nHe was received with great enthusiasm.\n\nThe street was a dingy little street, a _cul-de-sac_ of very small\nhouses in a row, each with an almost flattened bow window and a\nblistered brown door with a black knocker. He poised his bright new\nbicycle against the window, and knocked and stood waiting, and felt\nhimself in his straw hat and black serge suit a very pleasant and\nprosperous-looking figure. The door was opened by cousin Miriam. She\nwas wearing a bluish print dress that brought out a kind of sallow\nwarmth in her skin, and although it was nearly four o\'clock in the\nafternoon, her sleeves were tucked up, as if for some domestic work,\nabove the elbows, showing her rather slender but very shapely\nyellowish arms. The loosely pinned bodice confessed a delicately\nrounded neck.\n\nFor a moment she regarded him with suspicion and a faint hostility,\nand then recognition dawned in her eyes.\n\n\"Why!\" she said, \"it\'s cousin Elfrid!\"\n\n\"Thought I\'d look you up,\" he said.\n\n\"Fancy! you coming to see us like this!\" she answered.\n\nThey stood confronting one another for a moment, while Miriam\ncollected herself for the unexpected emergency.\n\n\"Explorations menanderings,\" said Mr. Polly, indicating the bicycle.\n\nMiriam\'s face betrayed no appreciation of the remark.\n\n\"Wait a moment,\" she said, coming to a rapid decision, \"and I\'ll tell\nMa.\"\n\nShe closed the door on him abruptly, leaving him a little surprised in\nthe street. \"Ma!\" he heard her calling, and swift speech followed, the\nimport of which he didn\'t catch. Then she reappeared. It seemed but an\ninstant, but she was changed; the arms had vanished into sleeves, the\napron had gone, a certain pleasing disorder of the hair had been at\nleast reproved.\n\n\"I didn\'t mean to shut you out,\" she said, coming out upon the step.\n\"I just told Ma. How are you, Elfrid? You _are_ looking well. I didn\'t\nknow you rode a bicycle. Is it a new one?\"\n\nShe leaned upon his bicycle. \"Bright it is!\" she said. \"What a trouble\nyou must have to keep it clean!\"\n\nMr. Polly was aware of a rustling transit along the passage, and of\nthe house suddenly full of hushed but strenuous movement.\n\n\"It\'s plated mostly,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"What do you carry in that little bag thing?\" she asked, and then\nbranched off to: \"We\'re all in a mess to-day you know. It\'s my\ncleaning up day to-day. I\'m not a bit tidy I know, but I _do_ like to\n\'_ave_ a go in at things now and then. You got to take us as you find\nus, Elfrid. Mercy we wasn\'t all out.\" She paused. She was talking\nagainst time. \"I _am_ glad to see you again,\" she repeated.\n\n\"Couldn\'t keep away,\" said Mr. Polly gallantly. \"Had to come over and\nsee my pretty cousins again.\"\n\nMiriam did not answer for a moment. She coloured deeply. \"You _do say_\nthings!\" she said.\n\nShe stared at Mr. Polly, and his unfortunate sense of fitness made him\nnod his head towards her, regard her firmly with a round brown eye,\nand add impressively: \"I don\'t say _which_ of them.\"\n\nHer answering expression made him realise for an instant the terrible\ndangers he trifled with. Avidity flared up in her eyes. Minnie\'s voice\ncame happily to dissolve the situation.\n\n\"\'Ello, Elfrid!\" she said from the doorstep.\n\nHer hair was just passably tidy, and she was a little effaced by a red\nblouse, but there was no mistaking the genuine brightness of her\nwelcome.\n\nHe was to come in to tea, and Mrs. Larkins, exuberantly genial in a\nfloriferous but dingy flannel dressing gown, appeared to confirm that.\nHe brought in his bicycle and put it in the narrow, empty passage, and\neveryone crowded into a small untidy kitchen, whose table had been\nhastily cleared of the _débris_ of the midday repast.\n\n\"You must come in \'ere,\" said Mrs. Larkins, \"for Miriam\'s turning out\nthe front room. I never did see such a girl for cleanin\' up. Miriam\'s\n\'oliday\'s a scrub. You\'ve caught us on the \'Op as the sayin\' is, but\nWelcome all the same. Pity Annie\'s at work to-day; she won\'t be \'ome\ntill seven.\"\n\nMiriam put chairs and attended to the fire, Minnie edged up to Mr.\nPolly and said: \"I _am_ glad to see you again, Elfrid,\" with a warm\ncontiguous intimacy that betrayed a broken tooth. Mrs. Larkins got out\ntea things, and descanted on the noble simplicity of their lives, and\nhow he \"mustn\'t mind our simple ways.\" They enveloped Mr. Polly with a\ngeniality that intoxicated his amiable nature; he insisted upon\nhelping lay the things, and created enormous laughter by pretending\nnot to know where plates and knives and cups ought to go. \"Who\'m I\ngoing to sit next?\" he said, and developed voluminous amusement by\nattempts to arrange the plates so that he could rub elbows with all\nthree. Mrs. Larkins had to sit down in the windsor chair by the\ngrandfather clock (which was dark with dirt and not going) to laugh at\nher ease at his well-acted perplexity.\n\nThey got seated at last, and Mr. Polly struck a vein of humour in\ntelling them how he learnt to ride the bicycle. He found the mere\nrepetition of the word \"wabble\" sufficient to produce almost\ninextinguishable mirth.\n\n\"No foreseeing little accidentulous misadventures,\" he said, \"none\nwhatever.\"\n\n(Giggle from Minnie.)\n\n\"Stout elderly gentleman--shirt sleeves--large straw wastepaper basket\nsort of hat--starts to cross the road--going to the oil shop--prodic\nrefreshment of oil can--\"\n\n\"Don\'t say you run \'im down,\" said Mrs. Larkins, gasping. \"Don\'t say\nyou run \'im down, Elfrid!\"\n\n\"Run \'im down! Not me, Madam. I never run anything down. Wabble. Ring\nthe bell. Wabble, wabble--\"\n\n(Laughter and tears.)\n\n\"No one\'s going to run him down. Hears the bell! Wabble. Gust of wind.\nOff comes the hat smack into the wheel. Wabble. _Lord! what\'s_ going\nto happen? Hat across the road, old gentleman after it, bell, shriek.\nHe ran into me. Didn\'t ring his bell, hadn\'t _got_ a bell--just ran\ninto me. Over I went clinging to his venerable head. Down he went with\nme clinging to him. Oil can blump, blump into the road.\"\n\n(Interlude while Minnie is attended to for crumb in the windpipe.)\n\n\"Well, what happened to the old man with the oil can?\" said Mrs.\nLarkins.\n\n\"We sat about among the debreece and had a bit of an argument. I told\nhim he oughtn\'t to come out wearing such a dangerous hat--flying at\nthings. Said if he couldn\'t control his hat he ought to leave it at\nhome. High old jawbacious argument we had, I tell you. \'I tell you,\nsir--\' \'I tell _you_, sir.\' Waw-waw-waw. Infuriacious. But that\'s the\nsort of thing that\'s constantly happening you know--on a bicycle.\nPeople run into you, hens and cats and dogs and things. Everything\nseems to have its mark on you; everything.\"\n\n\"_You_ never run into anything.\"\n\n\"Never. Swelpme,\" said Mr. Polly very solemnly.\n\n\"Never, \'E say!\" squealed Minnie. \"Hark at \'im!\" and relapsed into a\ncondition that urgently demanded back thumping. \"Don\'t be so silly,\"\nsaid Miriam, thumping hard.\n\nMr. Polly had never been such a social success before. They hung upon\nhis every word--and laughed. What a family they were for laughter! And\nhe loved laughter. The background he apprehended dimly; it was very\nmuch the sort of background his life had always had. There was a\nthreadbare tablecloth on the table, and the slop basin and teapot did\nnot go with the cups and saucers, the plates were different again, the\nknives worn down, the butter lived in a greenish glass dish of its\nown. Behind was a dresser hung with spare and miscellaneous crockery,\nwith a workbox and an untidy work-basket, there was an ailing musk\nplant in the window, and the tattered and blotched wallpaper was\ncovered by bright-coloured grocers\' almanacs. Feminine wrappings hung\nfrom pegs upon the door, and the floor was covered with a varied\ncollection of fragments of oilcloth. The Windsor chair he sat in was\nunstable--which presently afforded material for humour. \"Steady, old\nnag,\" he said; \"whoa, my friskiacious palfry!\"\n\n\"The things he says! You never know what he won\'t say next!\"\n\n\nIII\n\n\"You ain\'t talkin\' of goin\'!\" cried Mrs. Larkins.\n\n\"Supper at eight.\"\n\n\"Stay to supper with _us_, now you \'_ave_ come over,\" said Mrs.\nLarkins, with corroborating cries from Minnie. \"\'Ave a bit of a walk\nwith the gals, and then come back to supper. You might all go and meet\nAnnie while I straighten up, and lay things out.\"\n\n\"You\'re not to go touching the front room mind,\" said Miriam.\n\n\"_Who\'s_ going to touch yer front room?\" said Mrs. Larkins, apparently\nforgetful for a moment of Mr. Polly.\n\nBoth girls dressed with some care while Mrs. Larkins sketched the\nbetter side of their characters, and then the three young people went\nout to see something of Stamton. In the streets their risible mood\ngave way to a self-conscious propriety that was particularly evident\nin Miriam\'s bearing. They took Mr. Polly to the Stamton Wreckeryation\nground--that at least was what they called it--with its handsome\ncustodian\'s cottage, its asphalt paths, its Jubilee drinking fountain,\nits clumps of wallflower and daffodils, and so to the new cemetery and\na distant view of the Surrey hills, and round by the gasworks to the\ncanal to the factory, that presently disgorged a surprised and radiant\nAnnie.\n\n\"El-_lo_\" said Annie.\n\nIt is very pleasant to every properly constituted mind to be a centre\nof amiable interest for one\'s fellow creatures, and when one is a\nyoung man conscious of becoming mourning and a certain wit, and the\nfellow creatures are three young and ardent and sufficiently\nexpressive young women who dispute for the honour of walking by one\'s\nside, one may be excused a secret exaltation. They did dispute.\n\n\"I\'m going to \'_ave_ \'im now,\" said Annie. \"You two\'ve been \'aving \'im\nall the afternoon. Besides, I\'ve got something to say to him.\"\n\nShe had something to say to him. It came presently. \"I say,\" she said\nabruptly. \"I _did_ get them rings out of a prize packet.\"\n\n\"What rings?\" asked Mr. Polly.\n\n\"What you saw at your poor father\'s funeral. You made out they meant\nsomething. They didn\'t--straight.\"\n\n\"Then some people have been very remiss about their chances,\" said Mr.\nPolly, understanding.\n\n\"They haven\'t had any chances,\" said Annie. \"I don\'t believe in making\noneself too free with people.\"\n\n\"Nor me,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"I may be a bit larky and cheerful in my manner,\" Annie admitted. \"But\nit don\'t _mean_ anything. I ain\'t that sort.\"\n\n\"Right O,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\nIV\n\nIt was past ten when Mr. Polly found himself riding back towards\nEasewood in a broad moonlight with a little Japanese lantern dangling\nfrom his handle bar and making a fiery circle of pinkish light on and\nround about his front wheel. He was mightily pleased with himself and\nthe day. There had been four-ale to drink at supper mixed with\ngingerbeer, very free and jolly in a jug. No shadow fell upon the\nagreeable excitement of his mind until he faced the anxious and\nreproachful face of Johnson, who had been sitting up for him, smoking\nand trying to read the odd volume of \"Purchas his Pilgrimes,\"--about\nthe monk who went into Sarmatia and saw the Tartar carts.\n\n\"Not had an accident, Elfrid?\" said Johnson.\n\nThe weakness of Mr. Polly\'s character came out in his reply. \"Not\nmuch,\" he said. \"Pedal got a bit loose in Stamton, O\' Man. Couldn\'t\nride it. So I looked up the cousins while I waited.\"\n\n\"Not the Larkins lot?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nJohnson yawned hugely and asked for and was given friendly\nparticulars. \"Well,\" he said, \"better get to bed. I have been reading\nthat book of yours--rum stuff. Can\'t make it out quite. Quite out of\ndate I should say if you asked me.\"\n\n\"That\'s all right, O\' Man,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Not a bit of use for anything I can see.\"\n\n\"Not a bit.\"\n\n\"See any shops in Stamton?\"\n\n\"Nothing to speak of,\" said Mr. Polly. \"Goo-night, O\' Man.\"\n\nBefore and after this brief conversation his mind ran on his cousins\nvery warmly and prettily in the vein of high spring. Mr. Polly had\nbeen drinking at the poisoned fountains of English literature,\nfountains so unsuited to the needs of a decent clerk or shopman,\nfountains charged with the dangerous suggestion that it becomes a man\nof gaiety and spirit to make love, gallantly and rather carelessly. It\nseemed to him that evening to be handsome and humorous and practicable\nto make love to all his cousins. It wasn\'t that he liked any of them\nparticularly, but he liked something about them. He liked their youth\nand femininity, their resolute high spirits and their interest in him.\n\nThey laughed at nothing and knew nothing, and Minnie had lost a tooth\nand Annie screamed and shouted, but they were interesting, intensely\ninteresting.\n\nAnd Miriam wasn\'t so bad as the others. He had kissed them all and had\nbeen kissed in addition several times by Minnie,--\"oscoolatory\nexercise.\"\n\nHe buried his nose in his pillow and went to sleep--to dream of\nanything rather than getting on in the world, as a sensible young man\nin his position ought to have done.\n\n\nV\n\nAnd now Mr. Polly began to lead a divided life. With the Johnsons he\nprofessed to be inclined, but not so conclusively inclined as to be\ninconvenient, to get a shop for himself, to be, to use the phrase he\npreferred, \"looking for an opening.\" He would ride off in the\nafternoon upon that research, remarking that he was going to \"cast a\nstrategetical eye\" on Chertsey or Weybridge. But if not all roads,\nstill a great majority of them, led by however devious ways to\nStamton, and to laughter and increasing familiarity. Relations\ndeveloped with Annie and Minnie and Miriam. Their various characters\nwere increasingly interesting. The laughter became perceptibly less\nabundant, something of the fizz had gone from the first opening, still\nthese visits remained wonderfully friendly and upholding. Then back he\nwould come to grave but evasive discussions with Johnson.\n\nJohnson was really anxious to get Mr. Polly \"into something.\" His was\na reserved honest character, and he would really have preferred to see\nhis lodger doing things for himself than receive his money for\nhousekeeping. He hated waste, anybody\'s waste, much more than he\ndesired profit. But Mrs. Johnson was all for Mr. Polly\'s loitering.\nShe seemed much the more human and likeable of the two to Mr. Polly.\n\nHe tried at times to work up enthusiasm for the various avenues to\nwell-being his discussion with Johnson opened. But they remained\ndisheartening prospects. He imagined himself wonderfully smartened up,\nacquiring style and value in a London shop, but the picture was stiff\nand unconvincing. He tried to rouse himself to enthusiasm by the idea\nof his property increasing by leaps and bounds, by twenty pounds a\nyear or so, let us say, each year, in a well-placed little shop, the\ncorner shop Johnson favoured. There was a certain picturesque interest\nin imagining cut-throat economies, but his heart told him there would\nbe little in practising them.\n\nAnd then it happened to Mr. Polly that real Romance came out of\ndreamland into life, and intoxicated and gladdened him with sweetly\nbeautiful suggestions--and left him. She came and left him as that\ndear lady leaves so many of us, alas! not sparing him one jot or one\ntittle of the hollowness of her retreating aspect.\n\nIt was all the more to Mr. Polly\'s taste that the thing should happen\nas things happen in books.\n\nIn a resolute attempt not to get to Stamton that day, he had turned\ndue southward from Easewood towards a country where the abundance of\nbracken jungles, lady\'s smock, stitchwork, bluebells and grassy\nstretches by the wayside under shady trees does much to compensate the\nlighter type of mind for the absence of promising \"openings.\" He\nturned aside from the road, wheeled his machine along a faintly marked\nattractive trail through bracken until he came to a heap of logs\nagainst a high old stone wall with a damaged coping and wallflower\nplants already gone to seed. He sat down, balanced the straw hat on a\nconvenient lump of wood, lit a cigarette, and abandoned himself to\nagreeable musings and the friendly observation of a cheerful little\nbrown and grey bird his stillness presently encouraged to approach\nhim. \"This is All Right,\" said Mr. Polly softly to the little brown\nand grey bird. \"Business--later.\"\n\nHe reflected that he might go on this way for four or five years, and\nthen be scarcely worse off than he had been in his father\'s lifetime.\n\n\"Vile Business,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nThen Romance appeared. Or to be exact, Romance became audible.\n\nRomance began as a series of small but increasingly vigorous movements\non the other side of the wall, then as a voice murmuring, then as a\nfalling of little fragments on the hither side and as ten pink finger\ntips, scarcely apprehended before Romance became startling and\nemphatically a leg, remained for a time a fine, slender, actively\nstruggling limb, brown stockinged and wearing a brown toe-worn shoe,\nand then--. A handsome red-haired girl wearing a short dress of blue\nlinen was sitting astride the wall, panting, considerably disarranged\nby her climbing, and as yet unaware of Mr. Polly....\n\nHis fine instincts made him turn his head away and assume an attitude\nof negligent contemplation, with his ears and mind alive to every\nsound behind him.\n\n\"Goodness!\" said a voice with a sharp note of surprise.\n\nMr. Polly was on his feet in an instant. \"Dear me! Can I be of any\nassistance?\" he said with deferential gallantry.\n\n\"I don\'t know,\" said the young lady, and regarded him calmly with\nclear blue eyes.\n\n\"I didn\'t know there was anyone here,\" she added.\n\n\"Sorry,\" said Mr. Polly, \"if I am intrudaceous. I didn\'t know you\ndidn\'t want me to be here.\"\n\nShe reflected for a moment on the word. \"It isn\'t that,\" she said,\nsurveying him.\n\n\"I oughtn\'t to get over the wall,\" she explained. \"It\'s out of bounds.\nAt least in term time. But this being holidays--\"\n\nHer manner placed the matter before him.\n\n\"Holidays is different,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"I don\'t want to actually _break_ the rules,\" she said.\n\n\"Leave them behind you,\" said Mr. Polly with a catch of the breath,\n\"where they are safe\"; and marvelling at his own wit and daring, and\nindeed trembling within himself, he held out a hand for her.\n\nShe brought another brown leg from the unknown, and arranged her skirt\nwith a dexterity altogether feminine. \"I think I\'ll stay on the wall,\"\nshe decided. \"So long as some of me\'s in bounds--\"\n\nShe continued to regard him with eyes that presently joined dancing in\nan irresistible smile of satisfaction. Mr. Polly smiled in return.\n\n\"You bicycle?\" she said.\n\nMr. Polly admitted the fact, and she said she did too.\n\n\"All my people are in India,\" she explained. \"It\'s beastly rot--I mean\nit\'s frightfully dull being left here alone.\"\n\n\"All _my_ people,\" said Mr. Polly, \"are in Heaven!\"\n\n\"I say!\"\n\n\"Fact!\" said Mr. Polly. \"Got nobody.\"\n\n\"And that\'s why--\" she checked her artless comment on his mourning. \"I\nsay,\" she said in a sympathetic voice, \"I _am_ sorry. I really am. Was\nit a fire or a ship--or something?\"\n\nHer sympathy was very delightful. He shook his head. \"The ordinary\ntable of mortality,\" he said. \"First one and then another.\"\n\nBehind his outward melancholy, delight was dancing wildly. \"Are _you_\nlonely?\" asked the girl.\n\nMr. Polly nodded.\n\n\"I was just sitting there in melancholy rectrospectatiousness,\" he\nsaid, indicating the logs, and again a swift thoughtfulness swept\nacross her face.\n\n\"There\'s no harm in our talking,\" she reflected.\n\n\"It\'s a kindness. Won\'t you get down?\"\n\nShe reflected, and surveyed the turf below and the scene around and\nhim.\n\n\"I\'ll stay on the wall,\" she said. \"If only for bounds\' sake.\"\n\nShe certainly looked quite adorable on the wall. She had a fine neck\nand pointed chin that was particularly admirable from below, and\npretty eyes and fine eyebrows are never so pretty as when they look\ndown upon one. But no calculation of that sort, thank Heaven, was\ngoing on beneath her ruddy shock of hair.\n\n\nVI\n\n\"Let\'s talk,\" she said, and for a time they were both tongue-tied.\n\nMr. Polly\'s literary proclivities had taught him that under such\ncircumstances a strain of gallantry was demanded. And something in his\nblood repeated that lesson.\n\n\"You make me feel like one of those old knights,\" he said, \"who rode\nabout the country looking for dragons and beautiful maidens and\nchivalresque adventures.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" she said. \"Why?\"\n\n\"Beautiful maiden,\" he said.\n\nShe flushed under her freckles with the quick bright flush those\npretty red-haired people have. \"Nonsense!\" she said.\n\n\"You are. I\'m not the first to tell you that. A beautiful maiden\nimprisoned in an enchanted school.\"\n\n\"_You_ wouldn\'t think it enchanted!\"\n\n\"And here am I--clad in steel. Well, not exactly, but my fiery war\nhorse is anyhow. Ready to absquatulate all the dragons and rescue\nyou.\"\n\nShe laughed, a jolly laugh that showed delightfully gleaming teeth. \"I\nwish you could _see_ the dragons,\" she said with great enjoyment. Mr.\nPolly felt they were a sun\'s distance from the world of everyday.\n\n\"Fly with me!\" he dared.\n\nShe stared for a moment, and then went off into peals of laughter.\n\"You _are_ funny!\" she said. \"Why, I haven\'t known you five minutes.\"\n\n\"One doesn\'t--in this medevial world. My mind is made up, anyhow.\"\n\nHe was proud and pleased with his joke, and quick to change his key\nneatly. \"I wish one could,\" he said.\n\n\"I wonder if people ever did!\"\n\n\"If there were people like you.\"\n\n\"We don\'t even know each other\'s names,\" she remarked with a descent\nto matters of fact.\n\n\"Yours is the prettiest name in the world.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\"\n\n\"It must be--anyhow.\"\n\n\"It _is_ rather pretty you know--it\'s Christabel.\"\n\n\"What did I tell you?\"\n\n\"And yours?\"\n\n\"Poorer than I deserve. It\'s Alfred.\"\n\n\"_I_ can\'t call you Alfred.\"\n\n\"Well, Polly.\"\n\n\"It\'s a girl\'s name!\"\n\nFor a moment he was out of tune. \"I wish it was!\" he said, and could\nhave bitten out his tongue at the Larkins sound of it.\n\n\"I shan\'t forget it,\" she remarked consolingly.\n\n\"I say,\" she said in the pause that followed. \"Why are you riding\nabout the country on a bicycle?\"\n\n\"I\'m doing it because I like it.\"\n\nShe sought to estimate his social status on her limited basis of\nexperience. He stood leaning with one hand against the wall, looking\nup at her and tingling with daring thoughts. He was a littleish man,\nyou must remember, but neither mean-looking nor unhandsome in those\ndays, sunburnt by his holiday and now warmly flushed. He had an\ninspiration to simple speech that no practised trifler with love could\nhave bettered. \"There _is_ love at first sight,\" he said, and said it\nsincerely.\n\nShe stared at him with eyes round and big with excitement.\n\n\"I think,\" she said slowly, and without any signs of fear or retreat,\n\"I ought to get back over the wall.\"\n\n\"It needn\'t matter to you,\" he said. \"I\'m just a nobody. But I know\nyou are the best and most beautiful thing I\'ve ever spoken to.\" His\nbreath caught against something. \"No harm in telling you that,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"I should have to go back if I thought you were serious,\" she said\nafter a pause, and they both smiled together.\n\nAfter that they talked in a fragmentary way for some time. The blue\neyes surveyed Mr. Polly with kindly curiosity from under a broad,\nfinely modelled brow, much as an exceptionally intelligent cat might\nsurvey a new sort of dog. She meant to find out all about him. She\nasked questions that riddled the honest knight in armour below, and\nprobed ever nearer to the hateful secret of the shop and his normal\nservitude. And when he made a flourish and mispronounced a word a\nthoughtful shade passed like the shadow of a cloud across her face.\n\n\"Boom!\" came the sound of a gong.\n\n\"Lordy!\" cried the girl and flashed a pair of brown legs at him and\nwas gone.\n\nThen her pink finger tips reappeared, and the top of her red hair.\n\"Knight!\" she cried from the other side of the wall. \"Knight there!\"\n\n\"Lady!\" he answered.\n\n\"Come again to-morrow!\"\n\n\"At your command. But----\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Just one finger.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"To kiss.\"\n\nThe rustle of retreating footsteps and silence....\n\nBut after he had waited next day for twenty minutes she reappeared, a\nlittle out of breath with the effort to surmount the wall--and head\nfirst this time. And it seemed to him she was lighter and more daring\nand altogether prettier than the dreams and enchanted memories that\nhad filled the interval.\n\n\nVII\n\nFrom first to last their acquaintance lasted ten days, but into that\ntime Mr. Polly packed ten years of dreams.\n\n\"He don\'t seem,\" said Johnson, \"to take a serious interest in\nanything. That shop at the corner\'s bound to be snapped up if he don\'t\nlook out.\"\n\nThe girl and Mr. Polly did not meet on every one of those ten days;\none was Sunday and she could not come, and on the eighth the school\nreassembled and she made vague excuses. All their meetings amounted to\nthis, that she sat on the wall, more or less in bounds as she\nexpressed it, and let Mr. Polly fall in love with her and try to\nexpress it below. She sat in a state of irresponsible exaltation,\nwatching him and at intervals prodding a vivisecting point of\nencouragement into him--with that strange passive cruelty which is\nnatural to her sex and age.\n\nAnd Mr. Polly fell in love, as though the world had given way beneath\nhim and he had dropped through into another, into a world of luminous\nclouds and of desolate hopeless wildernesses of desiring and of wild\nvalleys of unreasonable ecstasies, a world whose infinite miseries\nwere finer and in some inexplicable way sweeter than the purest gold\nof the daily life, whose joys--they were indeed but the merest remote\nglimpses of joy--were brighter than a dying martyr\'s vision of heaven.\nHer smiling face looked down upon him out of heaven, her careless pose\nwas the living body of life. It was senseless, it was utterly foolish,\nbut all that was best and richest in Mr. Polly\'s nature broke like a\nwave and foamed up at that girl\'s feet, and died, and never touched\nher. And she sat on the wall and marvelled at him and was amused, and\nonce, suddenly moved and wrung by his pleading, she bent down rather\nshamefacedly and gave him a freckled, tennis-blistered little paw to\nkiss. And she looked into his eyes and suddenly felt a perplexity, a\ncurious swimming of the mind that made her recoil and stiffen, and\nwonder afterwards and dream....\n\nAnd then with some dim instinct of self-protection, she went and told\nher three best friends, great students of character all, of this\nremarkable phenomenon she had discovered on the other side of the\nwall.\n\n\"Look here,\" said Mr. Polly, \"I\'m wild for the love of you! I can\'t\nkeep up this gesticulations game any more! I\'m not a Knight. Treat me\nas a human man. You may sit up there smiling, but I\'d die in torments\nto have you mine for an hour. I\'m nobody and nothing. But look here!\nWill you wait for me for five years? You\'re just a girl yet, and it\nwouldn\'t be hard.\"\n\n\"Shut up!\" said Christabel in an aside he did not hear, and something\nhe did not see touched her hand.\n\n\"I\'ve always been just dilletentytating about till now, but I could\nwork. I\'ve just woke up. Wait till I\'ve got a chance with the money\nI\'ve got.\"\n\n\"But you haven\'t got much money!\"\n\n\"I\'ve got enough to take a chance with, some sort of a chance. I\'d\nfind a chance. I\'ll do that anyhow. I\'ll go away. I mean what I\nsay--I\'ll stop trifling and shirking. If I don\'t come back it won\'t\nmatter. If I do----\"\n\nHer expression had become uneasy. Suddenly she bent down towards him.\n\n\"Don\'t!\" she said in an undertone.\n\n\"Don\'t--what?\"\n\n\"Don\'t go on like this! You\'re different! Go on being the knight who\nwants to kiss my hand as his--what did you call it?\" The ghost of a\nsmile curved her face. \"Gurdrum!\"\n\n\"But----!\"\n\nThen through a pause they both stared at each other, listening.\n\nA muffled tumult on the other side of the wall asserted itself.\n\n\"Shut _up_, Rosie!\" said a voice.\n\n\"I tell you I will see! I can\'t half hear. Give me a leg up!\"\n\n\"You Idiot! He\'ll see you. You\'re spoiling everything.\"\n\nThe bottom dropped out of Mr. Polly\'s world. He felt as people must\nfeel who are going to faint.\n\n\"You\'ve got someone--\" he said aghast.\n\nShe found life inexpressible to Mr. Polly. She addressed some unseen\nhearers. \"You filthy little Beasts!\" she cried with a sharp note of\nagony in her voice, and swung herself back over the wall and vanished.\nThere was a squeal of pain and fear, and a swift, fierce altercation.\n\nFor a couple of seconds he stood agape.\n\nThen a wild resolve to confirm his worst sense of what was on the\nother side of the wall made him seize a log, put it against the\nstones, clutch the parapet with insecure fingers, and lug himself to a\nmomentary balance on the wall.\n\nRomance and his goddess had vanished.\n\nA red-haired girl with a pigtail was wringing the wrist of a\nschoolfellow who shrieked with pain and cried: \"Mercy! mercy! Ooo!\nChristabel!\"\n\n\"You idiot!\" cried Christabel. \"You giggling Idiot!\"\n\nTwo other young ladies made off through the beech trees from this\noutburst of savagery.\n\nThen the grip of Mr. Polly\'s fingers gave, and he hit his chin against\nthe stones and slipped clumsily to the ground again, scraping his\ncheek against the wall and hurting his shin against the log by which\nhe had reached the top. Just for a moment he crouched against the\nwall.\n\nHe swore, staggered to the pile of logs and sat down.\n\nHe remained very still for some time, with his lips pressed together.\n\n\"Fool,\" he said at last; \"you Blithering Fool!\" and began to rub his\nshin as though he had just discovered its bruises.\n\nAfterwards he found his face was wet with blood--which was none the\nless red stuff from the heart because it came from slight\nabrasions.\n\n\n\nChapter the Sixth\n\nMiriam\n\n\nI\n\nIt is an illogical consequence of one human being\'s ill-treatment that\nwe should fly immediately to another, but that is the way with us. It\nseemed to Mr. Polly that only a human touch could assuage the smart of\nhis humiliation. Moreover it had for some undefined reason to be a\nfeminine touch, and the number of women in his world was limited.\n\nHe thought of the Larkins family--the Larkins whom he had not been\nnear now for ten long days. Healing people they seemed to him\nnow--healing, simple people. They had good hearts, and he had\nneglected them for a mirage. If he rode over to them he would be able\nto talk nonsense and laugh and forget the whirl of memories and\nthoughts that was spinning round and round so unendurably in his\nbrain.\n\n\"Law!\" said Mrs. Larkins, \"come in! You\'re quite a stranger, Elfrid!\"\n\n\"Been seeing to business,\" said the unveracious Polly.\n\n\"None of \'em ain\'t at \'ome, but Miriam\'s just out to do a bit of\nshopping. Won\'t let me shop, she won\'t, because I\'m so keerless. She\'s\na wonderful manager, that girl. Minnie\'s got some work at the carpet\nplace. \'Ope it won\'t make \'er ill again. She\'s a loving deliket sort,\nis Minnie.... Come into the front parlour. It\'s a bit untidy, but you\ngot to take us as you find us. Wot you been doing to your face?\"\n\n\"Bit of a scrase with the bicycle,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Trying to pass a carriage on the on side, and he drew up and ran me\nagainst a wall.\"\n\nMrs. Larkins scrutinised it. \"You ought to \'_ave_ someone look after\nyour scrases,\" she said. \"That\'s all red and rough. It ought to be\ncold-creamed. Bring your bicycle into the passage and come in.\"\n\nShe \"straightened up a bit,\" that is to say she increased the\ndislocation of a number of scattered articles, put a workbasket on the\ntop of several books, swept two or three dogs\'-eared numbers of the\n_Lady\'s Own Novelist_ from the table into the broken armchair, and\nproceeded to sketch together the tea-things with various such\ninterpolations as: \"Law, if I ain\'t forgot the butter!\" All the while\nshe talked of Annie\'s good spirits and cleverness with her millinery,\nand of Minnie\'s affection and Miriam\'s relative love of order and\nmanagement. Mr. Polly stood by the window uneasily and thought how\ngood and sincere was the Larkins tone. It was well to be back again.\n\n\"You\'re a long time finding that shop of yours,\" said Mrs. Larkins.\n\n\"Don\'t do to be precipitous,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"No,\" said Mrs. Larkins, \"once you got it you got it. Like choosing a\n\'usband. You better see you got it good. I kept Larkins \'esitating two\nyears I did, until I felt sure of him. A \'ansom man \'e was as you can\nsee by the looks of the girls, but \'ansom is as \'ansom does. You\'d\nlike a bit of jam to your tea, I expect? I \'ope they\'ll keep _their_\nmen waiting when the time comes. I tell them if they think of marrying\nit only shows they don\'t know when they\'re well off. Here\'s Miriam!\"\n\nMiriam entered with several parcels in a net, and a peevish\nexpression. \"Mother,\" she said, \"you might \'_ave_ prevented my going\nout with the net with the broken handle. I\'ve been cutting my fingers\nwith the string all the way \'ome.\" Then she discovered Mr. Polly and\nher face brightened.\n\n\"Ello, Elfrid!\" she said. \"Where you been all this time?\"\n\n\"Looking round,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Found a shop?\"\n\n\"One or two likely ones. But it takes time.\"\n\n\"You\'ve got the wrong cups, Mother.\"\n\nShe went into the kitchen, disposed of her purchases, and returned\nwith the right cups. \"What you done to your face, Elfrid?\" she asked,\nand came and scrutinised his scratches. \"All rough it is.\"\n\nHe repeated his story of the accident, and she was sympathetic in a\npleasant homely way.\n\n\"You are quiet to-day,\" she said as they sat down to tea.\n\n\"Meditatious,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nQuite by accident he touched her hand on the table, and she answered\nhis touch.\n\n\"Why not?\" thought Mr. Polly, and looking up, caught Mrs. Larkins\' eye\nand flushed guiltily. But Mrs. Larkins, with unusual restraint, said\nnothing. She merely made a grimace, enigmatical, but in its essence\nfriendly.\n\nPresently Minnie came in with some vague grievance against the manager\nof the carpet-making place about his method of estimating piece work.\nHer account was redundant, defective and highly technical, but\nredeemed by a certain earnestness. \"I\'m never within sixpence of what\nI reckon to be,\" she said. \"It\'s a bit too \'ot.\" Then Mr. Polly,\nfeeling that he was being conspicuously dull, launched into a\ndescription of the shop he was looking for and the shops he had seen.\nHis mind warmed up as he talked.\n\n\"Found your tongue again,\" said Mrs. Larkins. He had. He began to\nembroider the subject and work upon it. For the first time it assumed\npicturesque and desirable qualities in his mind. It stimulated him to\nsee how readily and willingly they accepted his sketches. Bright ideas\nappeared in his mind from nowhere. He was suddenly enthusiastic.\n\n\"When I get this shop of mine I shall have a cat. Must make a home for\na cat, you know.\"\n\n\"What, to catch the mice?\" said Mrs. Larkins.\n\n\"No--sleep in the window. A venerable _signor_ of a cat. Tabby. Cat\'s\nno good if it isn\'t tabby. Cat I\'m going to have, and a canary! Didn\'t\nthink of that before, but a cat and a canary seem to go, you know.\nSummer weather I shall sit at breakfast in the little room behind the\nshop, sun streaming in the window to rights, cat on a chair, canary\nsinging and--Mrs. Polly....\"\n\n\"Ello!\" said Mrs. Larkins.\n\n\"Mrs. Polly frying an extra bit of bacon. Bacon singing, cat singing,\ncanary singing. Kettle singing. Mrs. Polly--\"\n\n\"But who\'s Mrs. Polly going to be?\" said Mrs. Larkins.\n\n\"Figment of the imagination, ma\'am,\" said Mr. Polly. \"Put in to fill\nup picture. No face to figure as yet. Still, that\'s how it will be, I\ncan assure you. I think I must have a bit of garden. Johnson\'s the man\nfor a garden of course,\" he said, going off at a tangent, \"but I don\'t\nmean a fierce sort of garden. Earnest industry. Anxious moments.\nFervous digging. Shan\'t go in for that sort of garden, ma\'am. No! Too\nmuch backache for me. My garden will be just a patch of \'sturtiums and\nsweet pea. Red brick yard, clothes\' line. Trellis put up in odd time.\nHumorous wind vane. Creeper up the back of the house.\"\n\n\"Virginia creeper?\" asked Miriam.\n\n\"Canary creeper,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"You _will_ \'_ave_ it nice,\" said Miriam, desirously.\n\n\"Rather,\" said Mr. Polly. \"Ting-a-ling-a-ling. _Shop!_\"\n\nHe straightened himself up and then they all laughed.\n\n\"Smart little shop,\" he said. \"Counter. Desk. All complete. Umbrella\nstand. Carpet on the floor. Cat asleep on the counter. Ties and hose\non a rail over the counter. All right.\"\n\n\"I wonder you don\'t set about it right off,\" said Miriam.\n\n\"Mean to get it exactly right, m\'am,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Have to have a tomcat,\" said Mr. Polly, and paused for an expectant\nmoment. \"Wouldn\'t do to open shop one morning, you know, and find the\nwindow full of kittens. Can\'t sell kittens....\"\n\nWhen tea was over he was left alone with Minnie for a few minutes, and\nan odd intimation of an incident occurred that left Mr. Polly rather\nscared and shaken. A silence fell between them--an uneasy silence. He\nsat with his elbows on the table looking at her. All the way from\nEasewood to Stamton his erratic imagination had been running upon neat\nways of proposing marriage. I don\'t know why it should have done, but\nit had. It was a kind of secret exercise that had not had any definite\naim at the time, but which now recurred to him with extraordinary\nforce. He couldn\'t think of anything in the world that wasn\'t the\ngambit to a proposal. It was almost irresistibly fascinating to think\nhow immensely a few words from him would excite and revolutionise\nMinnie. She was sitting at the table with a workbasket among the tea\nthings, mending a glove in order to avoid her share of clearing away.\n\n\"I like cats,\" said Minnie after a thoughtful pause. \"I\'m always\nsaying to mother, \'I wish we \'ad a cat.\' But we couldn\'t \'_ave_ a cat\n\'ere--not with no yard.\"\n\n\"Never had a cat myself,\" said Mr. Polly. \"No!\"\n\n\"I\'m fond of them,\" said Minnie.\n\n\"I like the look of them,\" said Mr. Polly. \"Can\'t exactly call myself\nfond.\"\n\n\"I expect I shall get one some day. When about you get your shop.\"\n\n\"I shall have my shop all right before long,\" said Mr. Polly. \"Trust\nme. Canary bird and all.\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"I shall get a cat first,\" she said. \"You never\nmean anything you say.\"\n\n\"Might get \'em together,\" said Mr. Polly, with his sense of a neat\nthing outrunning his discretion.\n\n\"Why! \'ow d\'you mean?\" said Minnie, suddenly alert.\n\n\"Shop and cat thrown in,\" said Mr. Polly in spite of himself, and his\nhead swam and he broke out into a cold sweat as he said it.\n\nHe found her eyes fixed on him with an eager expression. \"Mean to\nsay--\" she began as if for verification. He sprang to his feet, and\nturned to the window. \"Little dog!\" he said, and moved doorward\nhastily. \"Eating my bicycle tire, I believe,\" he explained. And so\nescaped.\n\nHe saw his bicycle in the hall and cut it dead.\n\nHe heard Mrs. Larkins in the passage behind him as he opened the front\ndoor.\n\nHe turned to her. \"Thought my bicycle was on fire,\" he said. \"Outside.\nFunny fancy! All right, reely. Little dog outside.... Miriam ready?\"\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"To go and meet Annie.\"\n\nMrs. Larkins stared at him. \"You\'re stopping for a bit of supper?\"\n\n\"If I may,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"You\'re a rum un,\" said Mrs. Larkins, and called: \"Miriam!\"\n\nMinnie appeared at the door of the room looking infinitely perplexed.\n\"There ain\'t a little dog anywhere, Elfrid,\" she said.\n\nMr. Polly passed his hand over his brow. \"I had a most curious\nsensation. Felt exactly as though something was up somewhere. That\'s\nwhy I said Little Dog. All right now.\"\n\nHe bent down and pinched his bicycle tire.\n\n\"You was saying something about a cat, Elfrid,\" said Minnie.\n\n\"Give you one,\" he answered without looking up. \"The very day my shop\nis opened.\"\n\nHe straightened himself up and smiled reassuringly. \"Trust me,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\nII\n\nWhen, after imperceptible manoeuvres by Mrs. Larkins, he found himself\nstarting circuitously through the inevitable recreation ground with\nMiriam to meet Annie, he found himself quite unable to avoid the topic\nof the shop that had now taken such a grip upon him. A sense of danger\nonly increased the attraction. Minnie\'s persistent disposition to\naccompany them had been crushed by a novel and violent and urgently\nexpressed desire on the part of Mrs. Larkins to see her do something\nin the house sometimes....\n\n\"You really think you\'ll open a shop?\" asked Miriam.\n\n\"I hate cribs,\" said Mr. Polly, adopting a moderate tone. \"In a shop\nthere\'s this drawback and that, but one is one\'s own master.\"\n\n\"That wasn\'t all talk?\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it.\"\n\n\"After all,\" he went on, \"a little shop needn\'t be so bad.\"\n\n\"It\'s a \'ome,\" said Miriam.\n\n\"It\'s a home.\"\n\nPause.\n\n\"There\'s no need to keep accounts and that sort of thing if there\'s no\nassistant. I daresay I could run a shop all right if I wasn\'t\ninterfered with.\"\n\n\"I should like to see you in your shop,\" said Miriam. \"I expect you\'d\nkeep everything tremendously neat.\"\n\nThe conversation flagged.\n\n\"Let\'s sit down on one of those seats over there,\" said Miriam. \"Where\nwe can see those blue flowers.\"\n\nThey did as she suggested, and sat down in a corner where a triangular\nbed of stock and delphinium brightened the asphalted traceries of the\nRecreation Ground.\n\n\"I wonder what they call those flowers,\" she said. \"I always like\nthem. They\'re handsome.\"\n\n\"Delphicums and larkspurs,\" said Mr. Polly. \"They used to be in the\npark at Port Burdock.\n\n\"Floriferous corner,\" he added approvingly.\n\nHe put an arm over the back of the seat, and assumed a more\ncomfortable attitude. He glanced at Miriam, who was sitting in a lax,\nthoughtful pose with her eyes on the flowers. She was wearing her old\ndress, she had not had time to change, and the blue tones of her old\ndress brought out a certain warmth in her skin, and her pose\nexaggerated whatever was feminine in her rather lean and insufficient\nbody, and rounded her flat chest delusively. A little line of light\nlay along her profile. The afternoon was full of transfiguring\nsunshine, children were playing noisily in the adjacent sandpit, some\nJudas trees were brightly abloom in the villa gardens that bordered\nthe Recreation Ground, and all the place was bright with touches of\nyoung summer colour. It all merged with the effect of Miriam in Mr.\nPolly\'s mind.\n\nHer thoughts found speech. \"One did ought to be happy in a shop,\" she\nsaid with a note of unusual softness in her voice.\n\nIt seemed to him that she was right. One did ought to be happy in a\nshop. Folly not to banish dreams that made one ache of townless woods\nand bracken tangles and red-haired linen-clad figures sitting in\ndappled sunshine upon grey and crumbling walls and looking queenly\ndown on one with clear blue eyes. Cruel and foolish dreams they were,\nthat ended in one\'s being laughed at and made a mock of. There was no\nmockery here.\n\n\"A shop\'s such a respectable thing to be,\" said Miriam thoughtfully.\n\n\"_I_ could be happy in a shop,\" he said.\n\nHis sense of effect made him pause.\n\n\"If I had the right company,\" he added.\n\nShe became very still.\n\nMr. Polly swerved a little from the conversational ice-run upon which\nhe had embarked.\n\n\"I\'m not such a blooming Geezer,\" he said, \"as not to be able to sell\ngoods a bit. One has to be nosy over one\'s buying of course. But I\nshall do all right.\"\n\nHe stopped, and felt falling, falling through the aching silence that\nfollowed.\n\n\"If you get the right company,\" said Miriam.\n\n\"I shall get that all right.\"\n\n\"You don\'t mean you\'ve got someone--\"\n\nHe found himself plunging.\n\n\"I\'ve got someone in my eye, this minute,\" he said.\n\n\"Elfrid!\" she said, turning on him. \"You don\'t mean--\"\n\nWell, _did_ he mean? \"I do!\" he said.\n\n\"Not reely!\" She clenched her hands to keep still.\n\nHe took the conclusive step.\n\n\"Well, you and me, Miriam, in a little shop--with a cat and a\ncanary--\" He tried too late to get back to a hypothetical note. \"Just\nsuppose it!\"\n\n\"You mean,\" said Miriam, \"you\'re in love with me, Elfrid?\"\n\nWhat possible answer can a man give to such a question but \"Yes!\"\n\nRegardless of the public park, the children in the sandpit and\neveryone, she bent forward and seized his shoulder and kissed him on\nthe lips. Something lit up in Mr. Polly at the touch. He put an arm\nabout her and kissed her back, and felt an irrevocable act was sealed.\nHe had a curious feeling that it would be very satisfying to marry and\nhave a wife--only somehow he wished it wasn\'t Miriam. Her lips were\nvery pleasant to him, and the feel of her in his arm.\n\nThey recoiled a little from each other and sat for a moment, flushed\nand awkwardly silent. His mind was altogether incapable of controlling\nits confusion.\n\n\"I didn\'t dream,\" said Miriam, \"you cared--. Sometimes I thought it\nwas Annie, sometimes Minnie--\"\n\n\"Always liked you better than them,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"I loved you, Elfrid,\" said Miriam, \"since ever we met at your poor\nfather\'s funeral. Leastways I _would_ have done, if I had thought. You\ndidn\'t seem to mean anything you said.\n\n\"I _can\'t_ believe it!\" she added.\n\n\"Nor I,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"You mean to marry me and start that little shop--\"\n\n\"Soon as ever I find it,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"I had no more idea when I came out with you--\"\n\n\"Nor me!\"\n\n\"It\'s like a dream.\"\n\nThey said no more for a little while.\n\n\"I got to pinch myself to think it\'s real,\" said Miriam. \"What they\'ll\ndo without me at \'ome I can\'t imagine. When I tell them--\"\n\nFor the life of him Mr. Polly could not tell whether he was fullest of\ntender anticipations or regretful panic.\n\n\"Mother\'s no good at managing--not a bit. Annie don\'t care for \'ouse\nwork and Minnie\'s got no \'ed for it. What they\'ll do without me I\ncan\'t imagine.\"\n\n\"They\'ll have to do without you,\" said Mr. Polly, sticking to his\nguns.\n\nA clock in the town began striking.\n\n\"Lor\'!\" said Miriam, \"we shall miss Annie--sitting \'ere and\nlove-making!\"\n\nShe rose and made as if to take Mr. Polly\'s arm. But Mr. Polly felt\nthat their condition must be nakedly exposed to the ridicule of the\nworld by such a linking, and evaded her movement.\n\nAnnie was already in sight before a flood of hesitation and terrors\nassailed Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Don\'t tell anyone yet a bit,\" he said.\n\n\"Only mother,\" said Miriam firmly.\n\n\nIII\n\nFigures are the most shocking things in the world. The prettiest\nlittle squiggles of black--looked at in the right light, and yet\nconsider the blow they can give you upon the heart. You return from a\nlittle careless holiday abroad, and turn over the page of a newspaper,\nand against the name of that distant, vague-conceived railway in\nmortgages upon which you have embarked the bulk of your capital, you\nsee instead of the familiar, persistent 95-6 (varying at most to 93\n_ex. div._) this slightly richer arrangement of marks: 76 1\/2--78 1\/2.\n\nIt is like the opening of a pit just under your feet!\n\nSo, too, Mr. Polly\'s happy sense of limitless resources was\nobliterated suddenly by a vision of this tracery:\n\n\"298\"\n\ninstead of the\n\n\"350\"\n\nhe had come to regard as the fixed symbol of his affluence.\n\nIt gave him a disagreeable feeling about the diaphragm, akin in a\nremote degree to the sensation he had when the perfidy of the\nred-haired schoolgirl became plain to him. It made his brow moist.\n\n\"Going down a vortex!\" he whispered.\n\nBy a characteristic feat of subtraction he decided that he must have\nspent sixty-two pounds.\n\n\"Funererial baked meats,\" he said, recalling possible items.\n\nThe happy dream in which he had been living of long warm days, of open\nroads, of limitless unchecked hours, of infinite time to look about\nhim, vanished like a thing enchanted. He was suddenly back in the hard\nold economic world, that exacts work, that limits range, that\ndiscourages phrasing and dispels laughter. He saw Wood Street and its\nfearful suspenses yawning beneath his feet.\n\nAnd also he had promised to marry Miriam, and on the whole rather\nwanted to.\n\nHe was distraught at supper. Afterwards, when Mrs. Johnson had gone to\nbed with a slight headache, he opened a conversation with Johnson.\n\n\"It\'s about time, O\' Man, I saw about doing something,\" he said.\n\"Riding about and looking at shops, all very debonnairious, O\' Man,\nbut it\'s time I took one for keeps.\"\n\n\"What did I tell you?\" said Johnson.\n\n\"How do you think that corner shop of yours will figure out?\" Mr.\nPolly asked.\n\n\"You\'re really meaning it?\"\n\n\"If it\'s a practable proposition, O\' Man. Assuming it\'s practable.\nWhat\'s your idea of the figures?\"\n\nJohnson went to the chiffonier, got out a letter and tore off the back\nsheet. \"Let\'s figure it out,\" he said with solemn satisfaction. \"Let\'s\nsee the lowest you could do it on.\"\n\nHe squared himself to the task, and Mr. Polly sat beside him like a\npupil, watching the evolution of the grey, distasteful figures that\nwere to dispose of his little hoard.\n\n\"What running expenses have we got to provide for?\" said Johnson,\nwetting his pencil. \"Let\'s have them first. Rent?...\"\n\nAt the end of an hour of hideous speculations, Johnson decided: \"It\'s\nclose. But you\'ll have a chance.\"\n\n\"M\'m,\" said Mr. Polly. \"What more does a brave man want?\"\n\n\"One thing you can do quite easily. I\'ve asked about it.\"\n\n\"What\'s that, O\' Man?\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Take the shop without the house above it.\"\n\n\"I suppose I might put my head in to mind it,\" said Mr. Polly, \"and\nget a job with my body.\"\n\n\"Not exactly that. But I thought you\'d save a lot if you stayed on\nhere--being all alone as you are.\"\n\n\"Never thought of that, O\' Man,\" said Mr. Polly, and reflected\nsilently upon the needlessness of Miriam.\n\n\"We were talking of eighty pounds for stock,\" said Johnson. \"Of course\nseventy-five is five pounds less, isn\'t it? Not much else we can cut.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"It\'s very interesting, all this,\" said Johnson, folding up the half\nsheet of paper and unfolding it. \"I wish sometimes I had a business of\nmy own instead of a fixed salary. You\'ll have to keep books of\ncourse.\"\n\n\"One wants to know where one is.\"\n\n\"I should do it all by double entry,\" said Johnson. \"A little\ntroublesome at first, but far the best in the end.\"\n\n\"Lemme see that paper,\" said Mr. Polly, and took it with the feeling\nof a man who takes a nauseating medicine, and scrutinised his cousin\'s\nneat figures with listless eyes.\n\n\"Well,\" said Johnson, rising and stretching. \"Bed! Better sleep on it,\nO\' Man.\"\n\n\"Right O,\" said Mr. Polly without moving, but indeed he could as well\nhave slept upon a bed of thorns.\n\nHe had a dreadful night. It was like the end of the annual holiday,\nonly infinitely worse. It was like a newly arrived prisoner\'s backward\nglance at the trees and heather through the prison gates. He had to go\nback to harness, and he was as fitted to go in harness as the ordinary\ndomestic cat. All night, Fate, with the quiet complacency, and indeed\nat times the very face and gestures of Johnson, guided him towards\nthat undesired establishment at the corner near the station. \"Oh\nLord!\" he cried, \"I\'d rather go back to cribs. I _should_ keep my\nmoney anyhow.\" Fate never winced.\n\n\"Run away to sea,\" whispered Mr. Polly, but he knew he wasn\'t man\nenough.\n\n\"Cut my blooming throat.\"\n\nSome braver strain urged him to think of Miriam, and for a little\nwhile he lay still....\n\n\"Well, O\' Man?\" said Johnson, when Mr. Polly came down to breakfast,\nand Mrs. Johnson looked up brightly. Mr. Polly had never felt\nbreakfast so unattractive before.\n\n\"Just a day or so more, O\' Man--to turn it over in my mind,\" he said.\n\n\"You\'ll get the place snapped up,\" said Johnson.\n\nThere were times in those last few days of coyness with his destiny\nwhen his engagement seemed the most negligible of circumstances, and\ntimes--and these happened for the most part at nights after Mrs.\nJohnson had indulged everybody in a Welsh rarebit--when it assumed so\nsinister and portentous an appearance as to make him think of suicide.\nAnd there were times too when he very distinctly desired to be\nmarried, now that the idea had got into his head, at any cost. Also he\ntried to recall all the circumstances of his proposal, time after\ntime, and never quite succeeded in recalling what had brought the\nthing off. He went over to Stamton with a becoming frequency, and\nkissed all his cousins, and Miriam especially, a great deal, and found\nit very stirring and refreshing. They all appeared to know; and Minnie\nwas tearful, but resigned. Mrs. Larkins met him, and indeed enveloped\nhim, with unwonted warmth, and there was a big pot of household jam\nfor tea. And he could not make up his mind to sign his name to\nanything about the shop, though it crawled nearer and nearer to him,\nthough the project had materialised now to the extent of a draft\nagreement with the place for his signature indicated in pencil.\n\nOne morning, just after Mr. Johnson had gone to the station, Mr. Polly\nwheeled his bicycle out into the road, went up to his bedroom, packed\nhis long white nightdress, a comb, and a toothbrush in a manner that\nwas as offhand as he could make it, informed Mrs. Johnson, who was\nmanifestly curious, that he was \"off for a day or two to clear his\nhead,\" and fled forthright into the road, and mounting turned his\nwheel towards the tropics and the equator and the south coast of\nEngland, and indeed more particularly to where the little village of\nFishbourne slumbers and sleeps.\n\nWhen he returned four days later, he astonished Johnson beyond measure\nby remarking so soon as the shop project was reopened:\n\n\"I\'ve took a little contraption at Fishbourne, O\' Man, that I fancy\nsuits me better.\"\n\nHe paused, and then added in a manner, if possible, even more offhand:\n\n\"Oh! and I\'m going to have a bit of a nuptial over at Stamton with one\nof the Larkins cousins.\"\n\n\"Nuptial!\" said Johnson.\n\n\"Wedding bells, O\' Man. Benedictine collapse.\"\n\nOn the whole Johnson showed great self-control. \"It\'s your own affair,\nO\' Man,\" he said, when things had been more clearly explained, \"and I\nhope you won\'t feel sorry when it\'s too late.\"\n\nBut Mrs. Johnson was first of all angrily silent, and then\nreproachful. \"I don\'t see what we\'ve done to be made fools of like\nthis,\" she said. \"After all the trouble we\'ve \'ad to make you\ncomfortable and see after you. Out late and sitting up and everything.\nAnd then you go off as sly as sly without a word, and get a shop\nbehind our backs as though you thought we meant to steal your money. I\n\'aven\'t patience with such deceitfulness, and I didn\'t think it of\nyou, Elfrid. And now the letting season\'s \'arf gone by, and what I\nshall do with that room of yours I\'ve no idea. Frank is frank, and\nfair play fair play; so _I_ was told any\'ow when I was a girl. Just as\nlong as it suits you to stay \'ere you stay \'ere, and then it\'s off and\nno thank you whether we like it or not. Johnson\'s too easy with you.\n\'E sits there and doesn\'t say a word, and night after night \'e\'s been\naddin\' and thinkin\' for you, instead of seeing to his own affairs--\"\n\nShe paused for breath.\n\n\"Unfortunate amoor,\" said Mr. Polly, apologetically and indistinctly.\n\"Didn\'t expect it myself.\"\n\n\nIV\n\nMr. Polly\'s marriage followed with a certain inevitableness.\n\nHe tried to assure himself that he was acting upon his own forceful\ninitiative, but at the back of his mind was the completest realisation\nof his powerlessness to resist the gigantic social forces he had set\nin motion. He had got to marry under the will of society, even as in\ntimes past it has been appointed for other sunny souls under the will\nof society that they should be led out by serious and unavoidable\nfellow-creatures and ceremoniously drowned or burnt or hung. He would\nhave preferred infinitely a more observant and less conspicuous rôle,\nbut the choice was no longer open to him. He did his best to play his\npart, and he procured some particularly neat check trousers to do it\nin. The rest of his costume, except for some bright yellow gloves, a\ngrey and blue mixture tie, and that the broad crape hat-band was\nchanged for a livelier piece of silk, were the things he had worn at\nthe funeral of his father. So nearly akin are human joy and sorrow.\n\nThe Larkins sisters had done wonders with grey sateen. The idea of\norange blossom and white veils had been abandoned reluctantly on\naccount of the expense of cabs. A novelette in which the heroine had\nstood at the altar in \"a modest going-away dress\" had materially\nassisted this decision. Miriam was frankly tearful, and so indeed was\nAnnie, but with laughter as well to carry it off. Mr. Polly heard\nAnnie say something vague about never getting a chance because of\nMiriam always sticking about at home like a cat at a mouse-hole, that\nbecame, as people say, food for thought. Mrs. Larkins was from the\nfirst flushed, garrulous, and wet and smeared by copious weeping; an\nincredibly soaked and crumpled and used-up pocket handkerchief never\nleft the clutch of her plump red hand. \"Goo\' girls, all of them,\" she\nkept on saying in a tremulous voice; \"such-goo-goo-goo-girls!\" She\nwetted Mr. Polly dreadfully when she kissed him. Her emotion affected\nthe buttons down the back of her bodice, and almost the last filial\nduty Miriam did before entering on her new life was to close that\ngaping orifice for the eleventh time. Her bonnet was small and\nill-balanced, black adorned with red roses, and first it got over her\nright eye until Annie told her of it, and then she pushed it over her\nleft eye and looked ferocious for a space, and after that baptismal\nkissing of Mr. Polly the delicate millinery took fright and climbed\nright up to the back part of her head and hung on there by a pin, and\nflapped piteously at all the larger waves of emotion that filled the\ngathering. Mr. Polly became more and more aware of that bonnet as time\nwent on, until he felt for it like a thing alive. Towards the end it\nhad yawning fits.\n\nThe company did not include Mrs. Johnson, but Johnson came with a\nmanifest surreptitiousness and backed against walls and watched Mr.\nPolly with doubt and speculation in his large grey eyes and whistled\nnoiselessly and doubtful on the edge of things. He was, so to speak,\nto be best man, _sotto voce_. A sprinkling of girls in gay hats from\nMiriam\'s place of business appeared in church, great nudgers all of\nthem, but only two came on afterwards to the house. Mrs. Punt brought\nher son with his ever-widening mind, it was his first wedding, and a\nLarkins uncle, a Mr. Voules, a licenced victualler, very kindly drove\nover in a gig from Sommershill with a plump, well-dressed wife to give\nthe bride away. One or two total strangers drifted into the church and\nsat down observantly far away.\n\nThis sprinkling of people seemed only to enhance the cool brown\nemptiness of the church, the rows and rows of empty pews, disengaged\nprayerbooks and abandoned hassocks. It had the effect of a\npreposterous misfit. Johnson consulted with a thin-legged,\nshort-skirted verger about the disposition of the party. The\nofficiating clergy appeared distantly in the doorway of the vestry,\nputting on his surplice, and relapsed into a contemplative\ncheek-scratching that was manifestly habitual. Before the bride\narrived Mr. Polly\'s sense of the church found an outlet in whispered\ncriticisms of ecclesiastical architecture with Johnson. \"Early Norman\narches, eh?\" he said, \"or Perpendicular.\"\n\n\"Can\'t say,\" said Johnson.\n\n\"Telessated pavements, all right.\"\n\n\"It\'s well laid anyhow.\"\n\n\"Can\'t say I admire the altar. Scrappy rather with those flowers.\"\n\nHe coughed behind his hand and cleared his throat. At the back of his\nmind he was speculating whether flight at this eleventh hour would be\ncriminal or merely reprehensible bad taste. A murmur from the nudgers\nannounced the arrival of the bridal party.\n\nThe little procession from a remote door became one of the enduring\nmemories of Mr. Polly\'s life. The little verger had bustled to meet\nit, and arrange it according to tradition and morality. In spite of\nMrs. Larkins\' \"Don\'t take her from me yet!\" he made Miriam go first\nwith Mr. Voules, the bridesmaids followed and then himself hopelessly\nunable to disentangle himself from the whispering maternal anguish of\nMrs. Larkins. Mrs. Voules, a compact, rounded woman with a square,\nexpressionless face, imperturbable dignity, and a dress of\nconsiderable fashion, completed the procession.\n\nMr. Polly\'s eye fell first upon the bride; the sight of her filled him\nwith a curious stir of emotion. Alarm, desire, affection, respect--and\na queer element of reluctant dislike all played their part in that\ncomplex eddy. The grey dress made her a stranger to him, made her\nstiff and commonplace, she was not even the rather drooping form that\nhad caught his facile sense of beauty when he had proposed to her in\nthe Recreation Ground. There was something too that did not please him\nin the angle of her hat, it was indeed an ill-conceived hat with large\naimless rosettes of pink and grey. Then his mind passed to Mrs.\nLarkins and the bonnet that was to gain such a hold upon him; it\nseemed to be flag-signalling as she advanced, and to the two eager,\nunrefined sisters he was acquiring.\n\nA freak of fancy set him wondering where and when in the future a\nbeautiful girl with red hair might march along some splendid aisle.\nNever mind! He became aware of Mr. Voules.\n\nHe became aware of Mr. Voules as a watchful, blue eye of intense\nforcefulness. It was the eye of a man who has got hold of a situation.\nHe was a fat, short, red-faced man clad in a tight-fitting tail coat\nof black and white check with a coquettish bow tie under the lowest of\na number of crisp little red chins. He held the bride under his arm\nwith an air of invincible championship, and his free arm flourished a\ngrey top hat of an equestrian type. Mr. Polly instantly learnt from\nthe eye that Mr. Voules knew all about his longing for flight. Its\nazure pupil glowed with disciplined resolution. It said: \"I\'ve come to\ngive this girl away, and give her away I will. I\'m here now and things\nhave to go on all right. So don\'t think of it any more\"--and Mr. Polly\ndidn\'t. A faint phantom of a certain \"lill\' dog\" that had hovered just\nbeneath the threshold of consciousness vanished into black\nimpossibility. Until the conclusive moment of the service was attained\nthe eye of Mr. Voules watched Mr. Polly relentlessly, and then\ninstantly he relieved guard, and blew his nose into a voluminous and\nrichly patterned handkerchief, and sighed and looked round for the\napproval and sympathy of Mrs. Voules, and nodded to her brightly like\none who has always foretold a successful issue to things. Mr. Polly\nfelt then like a marionette that has just dropped off its wire. But it\nwas long before that release arrived.\n\nHe became aware of Miriam breathing close to him.\n\n\"Hullo!\" he said, and feeling that was clumsy and would meet the eye\'s\ndisapproval: \"Grey dress--suits you no end.\"\n\nMiriam\'s eyes shone under her hat-brim.\n\n\"Not reely!\" she whispered.\n\n\"You\'re all right,\" he said with the feeling of observation and\ncriticism stiffening his lips. He cleared his throat.\n\nThe verger\'s hand pushed at him from behind. Someone was driving\nMiriam towards the altar rail and the clergyman. \"We\'re in for it,\"\nsaid Mr. Polly to her sympathetically. \"Where? Here? Right O.\" He was\ninterested for a moment or so in something indescribably habitual in\nthe clergyman\'s pose. What a lot of weddings he must have seen! Sick\nhe must be of them!\n\n\"Don\'t let your attention wander,\" said the eye.\n\n\"Got the ring?\" whispered Johnson.\n\n\"Pawned it yesterday,\" answered Mr. Polly and then had a dreadful\nmoment under that pitiless scrutiny while he felt in the wrong\nwaistcoat pocket....\n\nThe officiating clergy sighed deeply, began, and married them wearily\nand without any hitch.\n\n\"_D\'b\'loved, we gath\'d \'gether sight o\' Gard \'n face this con\'gation\njoin \'gather Man, Worn\' Holy Mat\'my which is on\'bl state stooted by\nGard in times man\'s innocency_....\"\n\nMr. Polly\'s thoughts wandered wide and far, and once again something\nlike a cold hand touched his heart, and he saw a sweet face in\nsunshine under the shadow of trees.\n\nSomeone was nudging him. It was Johnson\'s finger diverted his eyes to\nthe crucial place in the prayer-book to which they had come.\n\n\"Wiltou lover, cumfer, oner, keeper sickness and health...\"\n\n\"Say \'I will.\'\"\n\nMr. Polly moistened his lips. \"I will,\" he said hoarsely.\n\nMiriam, nearly inaudible, answered some similar demand.\n\nThen the clergyman said: \"Who gifs Worn married to this man?\"\n\n\"Well, _I\'m_ doing that,\" said Mr. Voules in a refreshingly full voice\nand looking round the church. \"You see, me and Martha Larkins being\ncousins--\"\n\nHe was silenced by the clergyman\'s rapid grip directing the exchange\nof hands.\n\n\"Pete arf me,\" said the clergyman to Mr. Polly. \"Take thee Mirum wed\nwife--\"\n\n\"Take thee Mirum wed\' wife,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Have hold this day ford.\"\n\n\"Have hold this day ford.\"\n\n\"Betworse, richpoo\'--\"\n\n\"Bet worsh, richpoo\'....\"\n\nThen came Miriam\'s turn.\n\n\"Lego hands,\" said the clergyman; \"got the ring? No! On the book. So!\nHere! Pete arf me, \'withis ring Ivy wed.\'\"\n\n\"Withis ring Ivy wed--\"\n\nSo it went on, blurred and hurried, like the momentary vision of an\nutterly beautiful thing seen through the smoke of a passing train....\n\n\"Now, my boy,\" said Mr. Voules at last, gripping Mr. Polly\'s elbow\ntightly, \"you\'ve got to sign the registry, and there you are! Done!\"\n\nBefore him stood Miriam, a little stiffly, the hat with a slight rake\nacross her forehead, and a kind of questioning hesitation in her face.\nMr. Voules urged him past her.\n\nIt was astounding. She was his wife!\n\nAnd for some reason Miriam and Mrs. Larkins were sobbing, and Annie\nwas looking grave. Hadn\'t they after all wanted him to marry her?\nBecause if that was the case--!\n\nHe became aware for the first time of the presence of Uncle Pentstemon\nin the background, but approaching, wearing a tie of a light mineral\nblue colour, and grinning and sucking enigmatically and judiciously\nround his principal tooth.\n\n\nV\n\nIt was in the vestry that the force of Mr. Voules\' personality began\nto show at its true value. He seemed to open out and spread over\nthings directly the restraints of the ceremony were at an end.\n\n\"Everything,\" he said to the clergyman, \"excellent.\" He also shook\nhands with Mrs. Larkins, who clung to him for a space, and kissed\nMiriam on the cheek. \"First kiss for me,\" he said, \"anyhow.\"\n\nHe led Mr. Polly to the register by the arm, and then got chairs for\nMrs. Larkins and his wife. He then turned on Miriam. \"Now, young\npeople,\" he said. \"One! or _I_ shall again.\"\n\n\"That\'s right!\" said Mr. Voules. \"Same again, Miss.\"\n\nMr. Polly was overcome with modest confusion, and turning, found a\nrefuge from this publicity in the arms of Mrs. Larkins. Then in a\nstate of profuse moisture he was assaulted and kissed by Annie and\nMinnie, who were immediately kissed upon some indistinctly stated\ngrounds by Mr. Voules, who then kissed the entirely impassive Mrs.\nVoules and smacked his lips and remarked: \"Home again safe and sound!\"\nThen with a strange harrowing cry Mrs. Larkins seized upon and bedewed\nMiriam with kisses, Annie and Minnie kissed each other, and Johnson\nwent abruptly to the door of the vestry and stared into the church--no\ndoubt with ideas of sanctuary in his mind. \"Like a bit of a kiss round\nsometimes,\" said Mr. Voules, and made a kind of hissing noise with his\nteeth, and suddenly smacked his hands together with great _éclat_\nseveral times. Meanwhile the clergyman scratched his cheek with one\nhand and fiddled the pen with the other and the verger coughed\nprotestingly.\n\n\"The dog cart\'s just outside,\" said Mr. Voules. \"No walking home\nto-day for the bride, Mam.\"\n\n\"Not going to drive us?\" cried Annie.\n\n\"The happy pair, Miss. _Your_ turn soon.\"\n\n\"Get out!\" said Annie. \"I shan\'t marry--ever.\"\n\n\"You won\'t be able to help it. You\'ll have to do it--just to disperse\nthe crowd.\" Mr. Voules laid his hand on Mr. Polly\'s shoulder. \"The\nbridegroom gives his arm to the bride. Hands across and down the\nmiddle. Prump. Prump, Perump-pump-pump-pump.\"\n\nMr. Polly found himself and the bride leading the way towards the\nwestern door.\n\nMrs. Larkins passed close to Uncle Pentstemon, sobbing too earnestly\nto be aware of him. \"Such a goo-goo-goo-girl!\" she sobbed.\n\n\"Didn\'t think _I\'d_ come, did you?\" said Uncle Pentstemon, but she\nswept past him, too busy with the expression of her feelings to\nobserve him.\n\n\"She didn\'t think I\'d come, I lay,\" said Uncle Pentstemon, a little\nfoiled, but effecting an auditory lodgment upon Johnson.\n\n\"I don\'t know,\" said Johnson uncomfortably.\n\n\"I suppose you were asked. How are you getting on?\"\n\n\"I was _arst_,\" said Uncle Pentstemon, and brooded for a moment.\n\n\"I goes about seeing wonders,\" he added, and then in a sort of\nenhanced undertone: \"One of \'er girls gettin\' married. That\'s what I\nmean by wonders. Lord\'s goodness! Wow!\"\n\n\"Nothing the matter?\" asked Johnson.\n\n\"Got it in the back for a moment. Going to be a change of weather I\nsuppose,\" said Uncle Pentstemon. \"I brought \'er a nice present, too,\nwhat I got in this passel. Vallyble old tea caddy that uset\' be my\nmother\'s. What I kep\' my baccy in for years and years--till the hinge\nat the back got broke. It ain\'t been no use to me particular since, so\nthinks I, drat it! I may as well give it \'er as not....\"\n\nMr. Polly found himself emerging from the western door.\n\nOutside, a crowd of half-a-dozen adults and about fifty children had\ncollected, and hailed the approach of the newly wedded couple with a\nfaint, indeterminate cheer. All the children were holding something in\nlittle bags, and his attention was caught by the expression of\nvindictive concentration upon the face of a small big-eared boy in the\nforeground. He didn\'t for the moment realise what these things might\nimport. Then he received a stinging handful of rice in the ear, and a\ngreat light shone.\n\n\"Not yet, you young fool!\" he heard Mr. Voules saying behind him, and\nthen a second handful spoke against his hat.\n\n\"Not yet,\" said Mr. Voules with increasing emphasis, and Mr. Polly\nbecame aware that he and Miriam were the focus of two crescents of\nsmall boys, each with the light of massacre in his eyes and a grubby\nfist clutching into a paper bag for rice; and that Mr. Voules was\nwarding off probable discharges with a large red hand.\n\nThe dog cart was in charge of a loafer, and the horse and the whip\nwere adorned with white favours, and the back seat was confused but\nnot untenable with hampers. \"Up we go,\" said Mr. Voules, \"old birds in\nfront and young ones behind.\" An ominous group of ill-restrained\nrice-throwers followed them up as they mounted.\n\n\"Get your handkerchief for your face,\" said Mr. Polly to his bride,\nand took the place next the pavement with considerable heroism, held\non, gripped his hat, shut his eyes and prepared for the worst. \"Off!\"\nsaid Mr. Voules, and a concentrated fire came stinging Mr. Polly\'s\nface.\n\nThe horse shied, and when the bridegroom could look at the world again\nit was manifest the dog cart had just missed an electric tram by a\nhairsbreadth, and far away outside the church railings the verger and\nJohnson were battling with an active crowd of small boys for the life\nof the rest of the Larkins family. Mrs. Punt and her son had escaped\nacross the road, the son trailing and stumbling at the end of a\nremorseless arm, but Uncle Pentstemon, encumbered by the tea-caddy,\nwas the centre of a little circle of his own, and appeared to be\ndratting them all very heartily. Remoter, a policeman approached with\nan air of tranquil unconsciousness.\n\n\"Steady, you idiot. Stead-y!\" cried Mr. Voules, and then over his\nshoulder: \"I brought that rice! I like old customs! Whoa! Stead-y.\"\n\nThe dog cart swerved violently, and then, evoking a shout of\ngroundless alarm from a cyclist, took a corner, and the rest of the\nwedding party was hidden from Mr. Polly\'s eyes.\n\n\nVI\n\n\"We\'ll get the stuff into the house before the old gal comes along,\"\nsaid Mr. Voules, \"if you\'ll hold the hoss.\"\n\n\"How about the key?\" asked Mr. Polly.\n\n\"I got the key, coming.\"\n\nAnd while Mr. Polly held the sweating horse and dodged the foam that\ndripped from its bit, the house absorbed Miriam and Mr. Voules\naltogether. Mr. Voules carried in the various hampers he had brought\nwith him, and finally closed the door behind him.\n\nFor some time Mr. Polly remained alone with his charge in the little\nblind alley outside the Larkins\' house, while the neighbours\nscrutinised him from behind their blinds. He reflected that he was a\nmarried man, that he must look very like a fool, that the head of a\nhorse is a silly shape and its eye a bulger; he wondered what the\nhorse thought of him, and whether it really liked being held and\npatted on the neck or whether it only submitted out of contempt. Did\nit know he was married? Then he wondered if the clergyman had thought\nhim much of an ass, and then whether the individual lurking behind the\nlace curtains of the front room next door was a man or a woman. A door\nopened over the way, and an elderly gentleman in a kind of embroidered\nfez appeared smoking a pipe with a quiet satisfied expression. He\nregarded Mr. Polly for some time with mild but sustained curiosity.\nFinally he called: \"Hi!\"\n\n\"Hullo!\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"You needn\'t \'old that \'_orse_,\" said the old gentleman.\n\n\"Spirited beast,\" said Mr. Polly. \"And,\"--with some faint analogy to\nginger beer in his mind--\"he\'s up to-day.\"\n\n\"\'E won\'t turn \'isself round,\" said the old gentleman, \"anyow. And\nthere ain\'t no way through for \'im to go.\"\n\n\"_Verbum_ sap,\" said Mr. Polly, and abandoned the horse and turned, to\nthe door. It opened to him just as Mrs. Larkins on the arm of Johnson,\nfollowed by Annie, Minnie, two friends, Mrs. Punt and her son and at a\nslight distance Uncle Pentstemon, appeared round the corner.\n\n\"They\'re coming,\" he said to Miriam, and put an arm about her and gave\nher a kiss.\n\nShe was kissing him back when they were startled violently by the\nshying of two empty hampers into the passage. Then Mr. Voules appeared\nholding a third.\n\n\"Here! you\'ll \'_ave_ plenty of time for that presently,\" he said, \"get\nthese hampers away before the old girl comes. I got a cold collation\nhere to make her sit up. My eye!\"\n\nMiriam took the hampers, and Mr. Polly under compulsion from Mr.\nVoules went into the little front room. A profuse pie and a large ham\nhad been added to the modest provision of Mrs. Larkins, and a number\nof select-looking bottles shouldered the bottle of sherry and the\nbottle of port she had got to grace the feast. They certainly went\nbetter with the iced wedding cake in the middle. Mrs. Voules, still\nimpassive, stood by the window regarding these things with a faint\napproval.\n\n\"Makes it look a bit thicker, eh?\" said Mr. Voules, and blew out both\nhis cheeks and smacked his hands together violently several times.\n\"Surprise the old girl no end.\"\n\nHe stood back and smiled and bowed with arms extended as the others\ncame clustering at the door.\n\n\"Why, _Un_-_clé_ Voules!\" cried Annie, with a rising note.\n\nIt was his reward.\n\nAnd then came a great wedging and squeezing and crowding into the\nlittle room. Nearly everyone was hungry, and eyes brightened at the\nsight of the pie and the ham and the convivial array of bottles. \"Sit\ndown everyone,\" cried Mr. Voules, \"leaning against anything counts as\nsitting, and makes it easier to shake down the grub!\"\n\nThe two friends from Miriam\'s place of business came into the room\namong the first, and then wedged themselves so hopelessly against\nJohnson in an attempt to get out again and take off their things\nupstairs that they abandoned the attempt. Amid the struggle Mr. Polly\nsaw Uncle Pentstemon relieve himself of his parcel by giving it to the\nbride. \"Here!\" he said and handed it to her. \"Weddin\' present,\" he\nexplained, and added with a confidential chuckle, \"_I_ never thought\nI\'d \'_ave_ to give you one--ever.\"\n\n\"Who says steak and kidney pie?\" bawled Mr. Voules. \"Who says steak\nand kidney pie? You \'_ave_ a drop of old Tommy, Martha. That\'s what\nyou want to steady you.... Sit down everyone and don\'t all speak at\nonce. Who says steak and kidney pie?...\"\n\n\"Vocificeratious,\" whispered Mr. Polly. \"Convivial vocificerations.\"\n\n\"Bit of \'am with it,\" shouted Mr. Voules, poising a slice of ham on\nhis knife. \"Anyone \'_ave_ a bit of \'am with it? Won\'t that little man\nof yours, Mrs. Punt--won\'t \'e \'_ave_ a bit of \'am?...\"\n\n\"And now ladies and gentlemen,\" said Mr. Voules, still standing and\ndominating the crammed roomful, \"now you got your plates filled and\nsomething I can warrant you good in your glasses, wot about drinking\nthe \'ealth of the bride?\"\n\n\"Eat a bit fust,\" said Uncle Pentstemon, speaking with his mouth full,\namidst murmurs of applause. \"Eat a bit fust.\"\n\nSo they did, and the plates clattered and the glasses chinked.\n\nMr. Polly stood shoulder to shoulder with Johnson for a moment.\n\n\"In for it,\" said Mr. Polly cheeringly. \"Cheer up, O\' Man, and peck a\nbit. No reason why _you_ shouldn\'t eat, you know.\"\n\nThe Punt boy stood on Mr. Polly\'s boots for a minute, struggling\nviolently against the compunction of Mrs. Punt\'s grip.\n\n\"Pie,\" said the Punt boy, \"Pie!\"\n\n\"You sit \'ere and \'_ave_ \'am, my lord!\" said Mrs. Punt, prevailing.\n\"Pie you can\'t \'_ave_ and you won\'t.\"\n\n\"Lor bless my heart, Mrs. Punt!\" protested Mr. Voules, \"let the boy\n\'_ave_ a bit if he wants it--wedding and all!\"\n\n\"You \'aven\'t \'ad \'im sick on your \'ands, Uncle Voules,\" said Mrs.\nPunt. \"Else you wouldn\'t want to humour his fancies as you do....\"\n\n\"I can\'t help feeling it\'s a mistake, O\' Man,\" said Johnson, in a\nconfidential undertone. \"I can\'t help feeling you\'ve been Rash. Let\'s\nhope for the best.\"\n\n\"Always glad of good wishes, O\' Man,\" said Mr. Polly. \"You\'d better\nhave a drink of something. Anyhow, sit down to it.\"\n\nJohnson subsided gloomily, and Mr. Polly secured some ham and carried\nit off and sat himself down on the sewing machine on the floor in the\ncorner to devour it. He was hungry, and a little cut off from the rest\nof the company by Mrs. Voules\' hat and back, and he occupied himself\nfor a time with ham and his own thoughts. He became aware of a series\nof jangling concussions on the table. He craned his neck and\ndiscovered that Mr. Voules was standing up and leaning forward over\nthe table in the manner distinctive of after-dinner speeches, tapping\nupon the table with a black bottle. \"Ladies and gentlemen,\" said Mr.\nVoules, raising his glass solemnly in the empty desert of sound he had\nmade, and paused for a second or so. \"Ladies and gentlemen,--The\nBride.\" He searched his mind for some suitable wreath of speech, and\nbrightened at last with discovery. \"Here\'s Luck to her!\" he said at\nlast.\n\n\"Here\'s Luck!\" said Johnson hopelessly but resolutely, and raised his\nglass. Everybody murmured: \"Here\'s luck.\"\n\n\"Luck!\" said Mr. Polly, unseen in his corner, lifting a forkful of\nham.\n\n\"That\'s all right,\" said Mr. Voules with a sigh of relief at having\nbrought off a difficult operation. \"And now, who\'s for a bit more\npie?\"\n\nFor a time conversation was fragmentary again. But presently Mr.\nVoules rose from his chair again; he had subsided with a contented\nsmile after his first oratorical effort, and produced a silence by\nrenewed hammering. \"Ladies and gents,\" he said, \"fill up for the\nsecond toast:--the happy Bridegroom!\" He stood for half a minute\nsearching his mind for the apt phrase that came at last in a rush.\n\"Here\'s (hic) luck to _him_,\" said Mr. Voules.\n\n\"Luck to him!\" said everyone, and Mr. Polly, standing up behind Mrs.\nVoules, bowed amiably, amidst enthusiasm.\n\n\"He may say what he likes,\" said Mrs. Larkins, \"he\'s _got_ luck. That\ngirl\'s a treasure of treasures, and always has been ever since she\ntried to nurse her own little sister, being but three at the time, and\nfell the full flight of stairs from top to bottom, no hurt that any\noutward eye \'as even seen, but always ready and helpful, always\ntidying and busy. A treasure, I must say, and a treasure I will say,\ngiving no more than her due....\"\n\nShe was silenced altogether by a rapping sound that would not be\ndenied. Mr. Voules had been struck by a fresh idea and was standing up\nand hammering with the bottle again.\n\n\"The third Toast, ladies and gentlemen,\" he said; \"fill up, please.\nThe Mother of the bride. I--er.... Uoo.... Ere!... Ladies and gem,\n\'Ere\'s Luck to \'er!...\"\n\n\nVII\n\nThe dingy little room was stuffy and crowded to its utmost limit, and\nMr. Polly\'s skies were dark with the sense of irreparable acts.\nEverybody seemed noisy and greedy and doing foolish things. Miriam,\nstill in that unbecoming hat--for presently they had to start off to\nthe station together--sat just beyond Mrs. Punt and her son, doing her\nshare in the hospitalities, and ever and again glancing at him with a\ndeliberately encouraging smile. Once she leant over the back of the\nchair to him and whispered cheeringly: \"Soon be together now.\" Next to\nher sat Johnson, profoundly silent, and then Annie, talking vigorously\nto a friend. Uncle Pentstemon was eating voraciously opposite, but\nwith a kindling eye for Annie. Mrs. Larkins sat next to Mr. Voules.\nShe was unable to eat a mouthful, she declared, it would choke her,\nbut ever and again Mr. Voules wooed her to swallow a little drop of\nliquid refreshment.\n\nThere seemed a lot of rice upon everybody, in their hats and hair and\nthe folds of their garments.\n\nPresently Mr. Voules was hammering the table for the fourth time in\nthe interests of the Best Man....\n\nAll feasts come to an end at last, and the breakup of things was\nprecipitated by alarming symptoms on the part of Master Punt. He was\ntaken out hastily after a whispered consultation, and since he had got\ninto the corner between the fireplace and the cupboard, that meant\neveryone moving to make way for him. Johnson took the opportunity to\nsay, \"Well--so long,\" to anyone who might be listening, and disappear.\nMr. Polly found himself smoking a cigarette and walking up and down\noutside in the company of Uncle Pentstemon, while Mr. Voules replaced\nbottles in hampers and prepared for departure, and the womenkind of\nthe party crowded upstairs with the bride. Mr. Polly felt taciturn,\nbut the events of the day had stirred the mind of Uncle Pentstemon to\nspeech. And so he spoke, discursively and disconnectedly, a little\nheedless of his listener as wise old men will.\n\n\"They do say,\" said Uncle Pentstemon, \"one funeral makes many. This\ntime it\'s a wedding. But it\'s all very much of a muchness,\" said Uncle\nPentstemon....\n\n\"\'Am _do_ get in my teeth nowadays,\" said Uncle Pentstemon, \"I can\'t\nunderstand it. \'Tisn\'t like there was nubbicks or strings or such in\n\'am. It\'s a plain food.\n\n\"That\'s better,\" he said at last.\n\n\"You _got_ to get married,\" said Uncle Pentstemon. \"Some has. Some\nhain\'t. I done it long before I was your age. It hain\'t for me to\nblame you. You can\'t \'elp being the marrying sort any more than me.\nIt\'s nat\'ral-like poaching or drinking or wind on the stummik. You\ncan\'t \'elp it and there you are! As for the good of it, there ain\'t no\nparticular good in it as I can see. It\'s a toss up. The hotter come,\nthe sooner cold, but they all gets tired of it sooner or later.... I\nhain\'t no grounds to complain. Two I\'ve \'ad and berried, and might\n\'_ave_ \'_ad_ a third, and never no worrit with kids--never....\n\n\"You done well not to \'_ave_ the big gal. I will say that for ye.\nShe\'s a gad-about grinny, she is, if ever was. A gad-about grinny.\nMucked up my mushroom bed to rights, she did, and I \'aven\'t forgot it.\nGot the feet of a centipede, she \'as--ll over everything and neither\nwith your leave nor by your leave. Like a stray \'en in a pea patch.\nCluck! cluck! Trying to laugh it off. _I_ laughed \'er off, I did.\nDratted lumpin baggage!...\"\n\nFor a while he mused malevolently upon Annie, and routed out a\nreluctant crumb from some coy sitting-out place in his tooth.\n\n\"Wimmin\'s a toss up,\" said Uncle Pentstemon. \"Prize packets they are,\nand you can\'t tell what\'s in \'em till you took \'em \'ome and undone\n\'em. Never was a bachelor married yet that didn\'t buy a pig in a poke.\nNever. Marriage seems to change the very natures in \'em through and\nthrough. You can\'t tell what they won\'t turn into--nohow.\n\n\"I seen the nicest girls go wrong,\" said Uncle Pentstemon, and added\nwith unusual thoughtfulness, \"Not that I mean _you_ got one of that\nsort.\"\n\nHe sent another crumb on to its long home with a sucking, encouraging\nnoise.\n\n\"The _wust_ sort\'s the grizzler,\" Uncle Pentstemon resumed. \"If ever\nI\'d \'ad a grizzler I\'d up and \'it \'er on the \'ed with sumpthin\' pretty\nquick. I don\'t think I could abide a grizzler,\" said Uncle Pentstemon.\n\"I\'d liefer \'_ave_ a lump-about like that other gal. I would indeed. I\nlay I\'d make \'er stop laughing after a bit for all \'er airs. And mind\nwhere her clumsy great feet went....\n\n\"A man\'s got to tackle \'em, whatever they be,\" said Uncle Pentstemon,\nsumming up the shrewd observation of an old-world life time. \"Good or\nbad,\" said Uncle Pentstemon raising his voice fearlessly, \"a man\'s got\nto tackle \'em.\"\n\n\nVIII\n\nAt last it was time for the two young people to catch the train for\nWaterloo _en route_ for Fishbourne. They had to hurry, and as a\nconcluding glory of matrimony they travelled second-class, and were\nseen off by all the rest of the party except the Punts, Master Punt\nbeing now beyond any question unwell.\n\n\"Off!\" The train moved out of the station.\n\nMr. Polly remained waving his hat and Mrs. Polly her handkerchief\nuntil they were hidden under the bridge. The dominating figure to the\nlast was Mr. Voules. He had followed them along the platform waving\nthe equestrian grey hat and kissing his hand to the bride.\n\nThey subsided into their seats.\n\n\"Got a compartment to ourselves anyhow,\" said Mrs. Polly after a\npause.\n\nSilence for a moment.\n\n\"The rice \'e must \'_ave_ bought. Pounds and pounds!\"\n\nMr. Polly felt round his collar at the thought.\n\n\"Ain\'t you going to kiss me, Elfrid, now we\'re alone together?\"\n\nHe roused himself to sit forward hands on knees, cocked his hat over\none eye, and assumed an expression of avidity becoming to the\noccasion.\n\n\"Never!\" he said. \"Ever!\" and feigned to be selecting a place to kiss\nwith great discrimination.\n\n\"Come here,\" he said, and drew her to him.\n\n\"Be careful of my \'at,\" said Mrs. Polly, yielding awkwardly.\n\n\n\nChapter the Seventh\n\nThe Little Shop at Fishbourne\n\n\nI\n\nFor fifteen years Mr. Polly was a respectable shopkeeper in\nFishbourne.\n\nYears they were in which every day was tedious, and when they were\ngone it was as if they had gone in a flash. But now Mr. Polly had good\nlooks no more, he was as I have described him in the beginning of this\nstory, thirty-seven and fattish in a not very healthy way, dull and\nyellowish about the complexion, and with discontented wrinklings round\nhis eyes. He sat on the stile above Fishbourne and cried to the\nHeavens above him: \"Oh! Roo-o-o-tten Be-e-astly Silly Hole!\" And he\nwore a rather shabby black morning coat and vest, and his tie was\nrichly splendid, being from stock, and his golf cap aslant over one\neye.\n\nFifteen years ago, and it might have seemed to you that the queer\nlittle flower of Mr. Polly\'s imagination must be altogether withered\nand dead, and with no living seed left in any part of him. But indeed\nit still lived as an insatiable hunger for bright and delightful\nexperiences, for the gracious aspects of things, for beauty. He still\nread books when he had a chance, books that told of glorious places\nabroad and glorious times, that wrung a rich humour from life and\ncontained the delight of words freshly and expressively grouped. But\nalas! there are not many such books, and for the newspapers and the\ncheap fiction that abounded more and more in the world Mr. Polly had\nlittle taste. There was no epithet in them. And there was no one to\ntalk to, as he loved to talk. And he had to mind his shop.\n\nIt was a reluctant little shop from the beginning.\n\nHe had taken it to escape the doom of Johnson\'s choice and because\nFishbourne had a hold upon his imagination. He had disregarded the\nill-built cramped rooms behind it in which he would have to lurk and\nlive, the relentless limitations of its dimensions, the inconvenience\nof an underground kitchen that must necessarily be the living-room in\nwinter, the narrow yard behind giving upon the yard of the Royal\nFishbourne Hotel, the tiresome sitting and waiting for custom, the\nrestricted prospects of trade. He had visualised himself and Miriam\nfirst as at breakfast on a clear bright winter morning amidst a\ntremendous smell of bacon, and then as having muffins for tea. He had\nalso thought of sitting on the beach on Sunday afternoons and of going\nfor a walk in the country behind the town and picking _marguerites_\nand poppies. But, in fact, Miriam and he were extremely cross at\nbreakfast, and it didn\'t run to muffins at tea. And she didn\'t think\nit looked well, she said, to go trapesing about the country on\nSundays.\n\nIt was unfortunate that Miriam never took to the house from the first.\nShe did not like it when she saw it, and liked it less as she explored\nit. \"There\'s too many stairs,\" she said, \"and the coal being indoors\nwill make a lot of work.\"\n\n\"Didn\'t think of that,\" said Mr. Polly, following her round.\n\n\"It\'ll be a hard house to keep clean,\" said Miriam.\n\n\"White paint\'s all very well in its way,\" said Miriam, \"but it shows\nthe dirt something fearful. Better \'_ave_ \'_ad_ it nicely grained.\"\n\n\"There\'s a kind of place here,\" said Mr. Polly, \"where we might have\nsome flowers in pots.\"\n\n\"Not me,\" said Miriam. \"I\'ve \'ad trouble enough with Minnie and \'er\nmusk....\"\n\nThey stayed for a week in a cheap boarding house before they moved in.\nThey had bought some furniture in Stamton, mostly second-hand, but\nwith new cheap cutlery and china and linen, and they had supplemented\nthis from the Fishbourne shops. Miriam, relieved from the hilarious\nassociations of home, developed a meagre and serious quality of her\nown, and went about with knitted brows pursuing some ideal of \"\'aving\neverything right.\" Mr. Polly gave himself to the arrangement of the\nshop with a certain zest, and whistled a good deal until Miriam\nappeared and said that it went through her head. So soon as he had\ntaken the shop he had filled the window with aggressive posters\nannouncing in no measured terms that he was going to open, and now he\nwas getting his stuff put out he was resolved to show Fishbourne what\nwindow dressing could do. He meant to give them boater straws,\nimitation Panamas, bathing dresses with novelties in stripes, light\nflannel shirts, summer ties, and ready-made flannel trousers for men,\nyouths and boys. Incidentally he watched the small fishmonger over the\nway, and had a glimpse of the china dealer next door, and wondered if\na friendly nod would be out of place. And on the first Sunday in this\nnew life he and Miriam arrayed themselves with great care, he in his\nwedding-funeral hat and coat and she in her going-away dress, and went\nprocessionally to church, a more respectable looking couple you could\nhardly imagine, and looked about them.\n\nThings began to settle down next week into their places. A few\ncustomers came, chiefly for bathing suits and hat guards, and on\nSaturday night the cheapest straw hats and ties, and Mr. Polly found\nhimself more and more drawn towards the shop door and the social charm\nof the street. He found the china dealer unpacking a crate at the edge\nof the pavement, and remarked that it was a fine day. The china dealer\ngave a reluctant assent, and plunged into the crate in a manner that\npresented no encouragement to a loquacious neighbour.\n\n\"Zealacious commerciality,\" whispered Mr. Polly to that unfriendly\nback view....\n\n\nII\n\nMiriam combined earnestness of spirit with great practical incapacity.\nThe house was never clean nor tidy, but always being frightfully\ndisarranged for cleaning or tidying up, and she cooked because food\nhad to be cooked and with a sound moralist\'s entire disregard of the\nquality of the consequences. The food came from her hands done rather\nthan improved, and looking as uncomfortable as savages clothed under\nduress by a missionary with a stock of out-sizes. Such food is too apt\nto behave resentfully, rebel and work Obi. She ceased to listen to her\nhusband\'s talk from the day she married him, and ceased to unwrinkle\nthe kink in her brow at his presence, giving herself up to mental\nstates that had a quality of secret preoccupation. And she developed\nan idea for which perhaps there was legitimate excuse, that he was\nlazy. He seemed to stand about in the shop a great deal, to read--an\nindolent habit--and presently to seek company for talking. He began to\nattend the bar parlour of the God\'s Providence Inn with some\nfrequency, and would have done so regularly in the evening if cards,\nwhich bored him to death, had not arrested conversation. But the\nperpetual foolish variation of the permutations and combinations of\ntwo and fifty cards taken five at a time, and the meagre surprises and\nexcitements that ensue had no charms for Mr. Polly\'s mind, which was\nat once too vivid in its impressions and too easily fatigued.\n\nIt was soon manifest the shop paid only in the least exacting sense,\nand Miriam did not conceal her opinion that he ought to bestir himself\nand \"do things,\" though what he was to do was hard to say. You see,\nwhen you have once sunken your capital in a shop you do not very\neasily get it out again. If customers will not come to you cheerfully\nand freely the law sets limits upon the compulsion you may exercise.\nYou cannot pursue people about the streets of a watering place,\ncompelling them either by threats or importunity to buy flannel\ntrousers. Additional sources of income for a tradesman are not always\neasy to find. Wintershed at the bicycle and gramaphone shop to the\nright, played the organ in the church, and Clamp of the toy shop was\npew opener and so forth, Gambell, the greengrocer, waited at table and\nhis wife cooked, and Carter, the watchmaker, left things to his wife\nwhile he went about the world winding clocks, but Mr. Polly had none\nof these arts, and wouldn\'t, in spite of Miriam\'s quietly persistent\nprotests, get any other. And on summer evenings he would ride his\nbicycle about the country, and if he discovered a sale where there\nwere books he would as often as not waste half the next day in going\nagain to acquire a job lot of them haphazard, and bring them home tied\nabout with a string, and hide them from Miriam under the counter in\nthe shop. That is a heartbreaking thing for any wife with a serious\ninvestigatory turn of mind to discover. She was always thinking of\nburning these finds, but her natural turn for economy prevailed with\nher.\n\nThe books he read during those fifteen years! He read everything he\ngot except theology, and as he read his little unsuccessful\ncircumstances vanished and the wonder of life returned to him, the\nroutine of reluctant getting up, opening shop, pretending to dust it\nwith zest, breakfasting with a shop egg underdone or overdone or a\nherring raw or charred, and coffee made Miriam\'s way and full of\nlittle particles, the return to the shop, the morning paper, the\nstanding, standing at the door saying \"How do!\" to passers-by, or\ngetting a bit of gossip or watching unusual visitors, all these things\nvanished as the auditorium of a theatre vanishes when the stage is\nlit. He acquired hundreds of books at last, old dusty books, books\nwith torn covers and broken covers, fat books whose backs were naked\nstring and glue, an inimical litter to Miriam.\n\nThere was, for example, the voyages of La Perouse, with many careful,\nexplicit woodcuts and the frankest revelations of the ways of the\neighteenth century sailorman, homely, adventurous, drunken,\nincontinent and delightful, until he floated, smooth and slow, with\nall sails set and mirrored in the glassy water, until his head was\nfull of the thought of shining kindly brown-skinned women, who smiled\nat him and wreathed his head with unfamiliar flowers. He had, too, a\npiece of a book about the lost palaces of Yucatan, those vast terraces\nburied in primordial forest, of whose makers there is now no human\nmemory. With La Perouse he linked \"The Island Nights Entertainments,\"\nand it never palled upon him that in the dusky stabbing of the \"Island\nof Voices\" something poured over the stabber\'s hands \"like warm tea.\"\nQueer incommunicable joy it is, the joy of the vivid phrase that turns\nthe statement of the horridest fact to beauty!\n\nAnd another book which had no beginning for him was the second volume\nof the Travels of the _Abbés_ Hue and Gabet. He followed those two\nsweet souls from their lessons in Thibetan under Sandura the Bearded\n(who called them donkeys to their infinite benefit and stole their\nstore of butter) through a hundred misadventures to the very heart of\nLhassa, and it was a thirst in him that was never quenched to find the\nother volume and whence they came, and who in fact they were. He read\nFenimore Cooper and \"Tom Cringle\'s Log\" side by side with Joseph\nConrad, and dreamt of the many-hued humanity of the East and West\nIndies until his heart ached to see those sun-soaked lands before he\ndied. Conrad\'s prose had a pleasure for him that he was never able to\ndefine, a peculiar deep coloured effect. He found too one day among a\npile of soiled sixpenny books at Port Burdock, to which place he\nsometimes rode on his ageing bicycle, Bart Kennedy\'s \"A Sailor Tramp,\"\nall written in livid jerks, and had forever after a kindlier and more\nunderstanding eye for every burly rough who slouched through\nFishbourne High Street. Sterne he read with a wavering appreciation\nand some perplexity, but except for the Pickwick Papers, for some\nreason that I do not understand he never took at all kindly to\nDickens. Yet he liked Lever and Thackeray\'s \"Catherine,\" and all Dumas\nuntil he got to the Vicomte de Bragelonne. I am puzzled by his\ninsensibility to Dickens, and I record it as a good historian should,\nwith an admission of my perplexity. It is much more understandable\nthat he had no love for Scott. And I suppose it was because of his\nignorance of the proper pronunciation of words that he infinitely\npreferred any prose to any metrical writing.\n\nA book he browsed over with a recurrent pleasure was Waterton\'s\nWanderings in South America. He would even amuse himself by inventing\ndescriptions of other birds in the Watertonian manner, new birds that\nhe invented, birds with peculiarities that made him chuckle when they\noccurred to him. He tried to make Rusper, the ironmonger, share this\njoy with him. He read Bates, too, about the Amazon, but when he\ndiscovered that you could not see one bank from the other, he lost,\nthrough some mysterious action of the soul that again I cannot\nunderstand, at least a tithe of the pleasure he had taken in that\nriver. But he read all sorts of things; a book of old Keltic stories\ncollected by Joyce charmed him, and Mitford\'s Tales of Old Japan, and\na number of paper-covered volumes, _Tales from Blackwood_, he had\nacquired at Easewood, remained a stand-by. He developed a quite\nconsiderable acquaintance with the plays of William Shakespeare, and\nin his dreams he wore cinque cento or Elizabethan clothes, and walked\nabout a stormy, ruffling, taverning, teeming world. Great land of\nsublimated things, thou World of Books, happy asylum, refreshment and\nrefuge from the world of everyday!...\n\nThe essential thing of those fifteen long years of shopkeeping is Mr.\nPolly, well athwart the counter of his rather ill-lit shop, lost in a\nbook, or rousing himself with a sigh to attend to business.\n\nMeanwhile he got little exercise, indigestion grew with him until it\nruled all his moods, he fattened and deteriorated physically, moods of\ndistress invaded and darkened his skies, little things irritated him\nmore and more, and casual laughter ceased in him. His hair began to\ncome off until he had a large bald space at the back of his head.\nSuddenly one day it came to him--forgetful of those books and all he\nhad lived and seen through them--that he had been in his shop for\nexactly fifteen years, that he would soon be forty, and that his life\nduring that time had not been worth living, that it had been in\napathetic and feebly hostile and critical company, ugly in detail and\nmean in scope--and that it had brought him at last to an outlook\nutterly hopeless and grey.\n\n\nIII\n\nI have already had occasion to mention, indeed I have quoted, a\ncertain high-browed gentleman living at Highbury, wearing a _golden_\n_pince_-_nez_ and writing for the most part in that beautiful room,\nthe library of the Reform Club. There he wrestles with what he calls\n\"social problems\" in a bloodless but at times, I think one must admit,\nan extremely illuminating manner. He has a fixed idea that something\ncalled a \"collective intelligence\" is wanted in the world, which means\nin practice that you and I and everyone have to think about things\nfrightfully hard and pool the results, and oblige ourselves to be\nshamelessly and persistently clear and truthful and support and\nrespect (I suppose) a perfect horde of professors and writers and\nartists and ill-groomed difficult people, instead of using our brains\nin a moderate, sensible manner to play golf and bridge (pretending a\nsense of humour prevents our doing anything else with them) and\ngenerally taking life in a nice, easy, gentlemanly way, confound him!\nWell, this dome-headed monster of intellect alleges that Mr. Polly was\nunhappy entirely through that.\n\n\"A rapidly complicating society,\" he writes, \"which as a whole\ndeclines to contemplate its future or face the intricate problems of\nits organisation, is in exactly the position of a man who takes no\nthought of dietary or regimen, who abstains from baths and exercise\nand gives his appetites free play. It accumulates useless and aimless\nlives as a man accumulates fat and morbid products in his blood, it\ndeclines in its collective efficiency and vigour and secretes\ndiscomfort and misery. Every phase of its evolution is accompanied by\na maximum of avoidable distress and inconvenience and human waste....\n\n\"Nothing can better demonstrate the collective dulness of our\ncommunity, the crying need for a strenuous intellectual renewal than\nthe consideration of that vast mass of useless, uncomfortable,\nunder-educated, under-trained and altogether pitiable people we\ncontemplate when we use that inaccurate and misleading term, the Lower\nMiddle Class. A great proportion of the lower middle class should\nproperly be assigned to the unemployed and the unemployable. They are\nonly not that, because the possession of some small hoard of money,\nsavings during a period of wage earning, an insurance policy or\nsuchlike capital, prevents a direct appeal to the rates. But they are\ndoing little or nothing for the community in return for what they\nconsume; they have no understanding of any relation of service to the\ncommunity, they have never been trained nor their imaginations touched\nto any social purpose. A great proportion of small shopkeepers, for\nexample, are people who have, through the inefficiency that comes from\ninadequate training and sheer aimlessness, or improvements in\nmachinery or the drift of trade, been thrown out of employment, and\nwho set up in needless shops as a method of eking out the savings upon\nwhich they count. They contrive to make sixty or seventy per cent, of\ntheir expenditure, the rest is drawn from the shrinking capital.\nEssentially their lives are failures, not the sharp and tragic failure\nof the labourer who gets out of work and starves, but a slow, chronic\nprocess of consecutive small losses which may end if the individual is\nexceptionally fortunate in an impoverished death bed before actual\nbankruptcy or destitution supervenes. Their chances of ascendant means\nare less in their shops than in any lottery that was ever planned. The\nsecular development of transit and communications has made the\norganisation of distributing businesses upon large and economical\nlines, inevitable; except in the chaotic confusions of newly opened\ncountries, the day when a man might earn an independent living by\nunskilled or practically unskilled retailing has gone for ever. Yet\nevery year sees the melancholy procession towards petty bankruptcy and\nimprisonment for debt go on, and there is no statesmanship in us to\navert it. Every issue of every trade journal has its four or five\ncolumns of abridged bankruptcy proceedings, nearly every item in which\nmeans the final collapse of another struggling family upon the\nresources of the community, and continually a fresh supply of\nsuperfluous artisans and shop assistants, coming out of employment\nwith savings or \'help\' from relations, of widows with a husband\'s\ninsurance money, of the ill-trained sons of parsimonious fathers,\nreplaces the fallen in the ill-equipped, jerry-built shops that\neverywhere abound....\"\n\nI quote these fragments from a gifted, if unpleasant, contemporary for\nwhat they are worth. I feel this has come in here as the broad aspect\nof this History. I come back to Mr. Polly sitting upon his gate and\nswearing in the east wind, and I so returning have a sense of floating\nacross unbridged abysses between the General and the Particular.\nThere, on the one hand, is the man of understanding, seeing clearly--I\nsuppose he sees clearly--the big process that dooms millions of lives\nto thwarting and discomfort and unhappy circumstances, and giving us\nno help, no hint, by which we may get that better \"collective will and\nintelligence\" which would dam the stream of human failure, and, on the\nother hand, Mr. Polly sitting on his gate, untrained, unwarned,\nconfused, distressed, angry, seeing nothing except that he is, as it\nwere, nettled in greyness and discomfort--with life dancing all about\nhim; Mr. Polly with a capacity for joy and beauty at least as keen and\nsubtle as yours or mine.\n\n\nIV\n\nI have hinted that our Mother England had equipped Mr. Polly for the\nmanagement of his internal concerns no whit better than she had for\nthe direction of his external affairs. With a careless generosity she\naffords her children a variety of foods unparalleled in the world\'s\nhistory, and including many condiments and preserved preparations\nnovel to the human economy. And Miriam did the cooking. Mr. Polly\'s\nsystem, like a confused and ill-governed democracy, had been brought\nto a state of perpetual clamour and disorder, demanding now evil and\nunsuitable internal satisfactions, such as pickles and vinegar and the\ncrackling on pork, and now vindictive external expression, war and\nbloodshed throughout the world. So that Mr. Polly had been led into\nhatred and a series of disagreeable quarrels with his landlord, his\nwholesalers, and most of his neighbours.\n\nRumbold, the china dealer next door, seemed hostile from the first for\nno apparent reason, and always unpacked his crates with a full back to\nhis new neighbour, and from the first Mr. Polly resented and hated\nthat uncivil breadth of expressionless humanity, wanted to prod it,\nkick it, satirise it. But you cannot satirise a hack, if you have no\nfriend to nudge while you do it.\n\nAt last Mr. Polly could stand it no longer. He approached and prodded\nRumbold.\n\n\"Ello!\" said Rumbold, suddenly erect and turned about.\n\n\"Can\'t we have some other point of view?\" said Mr. Polly. \"I\'m tired\nof the end elevation.\"\n\n\"Eh?\" said Mr. Rumbold, frankly puzzled.\n\n\"Of all the vertebracious animals man alone raises his face to the\nsky, O\' Man. Well,--why invert it?\"\n\nRumbold shook his head with a helpless expression.\n\n\"Don\'t like so much Arreary Pensy.\"\n\nRumbold distressed in utter obscurity.\n\n\"In fact, I\'m sick of your turning your back on me, see?\"\n\nA great light shone on Rumbold. \"That\'s what you\'re talking about!\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"That\'s it,\" said Polly.\n\nRumbold scratched his ear with the three strawy jampots he held in his\nhand. \"Way the wind blows, I expect,\" he said. \"But what\'s the fuss?\"\n\n\"No fuss!\" said Mr. Polly. \"Passing Remark. I don\'t like it, O\' Man,\nthat\'s all.\"\n\n\"Can\'t help it, if the wind blows my stror,\" said Mr. Rumbold, still\nfar from clear about it....\n\n\"It isn\'t ordinary civility,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Got to unpack \'ow it suits me. Can\'t unpack with the stror blowing\ninto one\'s eyes.\"\n\n\"Needn\'t unpack like a pig rooting for truffles, need you?\"\n\n\"Truffles?\"\n\n\"Needn\'t unpack like a pig.\"\n\nMr. Rumbold apprehended something.\n\n\"Pig!\" he said, impressed. \"You calling me a pig?\"\n\n\"It\'s the side I seem to get of you.\"\n\n\"\'Ere,\" said Mr. Rumbold, suddenly fierce and shouting and marking his\npoint with gesticulated jampots, \"you go indoors. I don\'t want no row\nwith you, and I don\'t want you to row with me. I don\'t know what\nyou\'re after, but I\'m a peaceable man--teetotaller, too, and a good\nthing if _you_ was. See? You go indoors!\"\n\n\"You mean to say--I\'m asking you civilly to stop unpacking--with your\nback to me.\"\n\n\"Pig ain\'t civil, and you ain\'t sober. You go indoors and _lemme_ _go_\non unpacking. You--you\'re excited.\"\n\n\"D\'you mean--!\" Mr. Polly was foiled.\n\nHe perceived an immense solidity about Rumbold.\n\n\"Get back to your shop and _lemme_ get on with my business,\" said Mr.\nRumbold. \"Stop calling me pigs. See? Sweep your pavemint.\"\n\n\"I came here to make a civil request.\"\n\n\"You came \'ere to make a row. I don\'t want no truck with you. See? I\ndon\'t like the looks of you. See? And I can\'t stand \'ere all day\narguing. See?\"\n\nPause of mutual inspection.\n\nIt occurred to Mr. Polly that probably he was to some extent in the\nwrong.\n\nMr. Rumbold, blowing heavily, walked past him, deposited the jampots\nin his shop with an immense affectation that there was no Mr. Polly in\nthe world, returned, turned a scornful back on Mr. Polly and dived to\nthe interior of the crate. Mr. Polly stood baffled. Should he kick\nthis solid mass before him? Should he administer a resounding kick?\n\nNo!\n\nHe plunged his hands deeply into his trowser pockets, began to whistle\nand returned to his own doorstep with an air of profound unconcern.\nThere for a time, to the tune of \"Men of Harlech,\" he contemplated the\nreceding possibility of kicking Mr. Rumbold hard. It would be\nsplendid--and for the moment satisfying. But he decided not to do it.\nFor indefinable reasons he could not do it. He went indoors and\nstraightened up his dress ties very slowly and thoughtfully. Presently\nhe went to the window and regarded Mr. Rumbold obliquely. Mr. Rumbold\nwas still unpacking....\n\nMr. Polly had no human intercourse thereafter with Rumbold for fifteen\nyears. He kept up a Hate.\n\nThere was a time when it seemed as if Rumbold might go, but he had a\nmeeting of his creditors and then went on unpacking as obtusely as\never.\n\n\nV\n\nHinks, the saddler, two shops further down the street, was a different\ncase. Hinks was the aggressor--practically.\n\nHinks was a sporting man in his way, with that taste for checks in\ncostume and tight trousers which is, under Providence, so mysteriously\nand invariably associated with equestrian proclivities. At first Mr.\nPolly took to him as a character, became frequent in the God\'s\nProvidence Inn under his guidance, stood and was stood drinks and\nconcealed a great ignorance of horses until Hinks became urgent for\nhim to play billiards or bet.\n\nThen Mr. Polly took to evading him, and Hinks ceased to conceal his\nopinion that Mr. Polly was in reality a softish sort of flat.\n\nHe did not, however, discontinue conversation with Mr. Polly; he would\ncome along to him whenever he appeared at his door, and converse about\nsport and women and fisticuffs and the pride of life with an air of\nextreme initiation, until Mr. Polly felt himself the faintest\nunderdeveloped intimation of a man that had ever hovered on the verge\nof non-existence.\n\nSo he invented phrases for Hinks\' clothes and took Rusper, the\nironmonger, into his confidence upon the weaknesses of Hinks. He\ncalled him the \"Chequered Careerist,\" and spoke of his patterned legs\nas \"shivery shakys.\" Good things of this sort are apt to get round to\npeople.\n\nHe was standing at his door one day, feeling bored, when Hinks\nappeared down the street, stood still and regarded him with a strange\nmalignant expression for a space.\n\nMr. Polly waved a hand in a rather belated salutation.\n\nMr. Hinks spat on the pavement and appeared to reflect. Then he came\ntowards Mr. Polly portentously and paused, and spoke between his teeth\nin an earnest confidential tone.\n\n\"You been flapping your mouth about me, I\'m told,\" he said.\n\nMr. Polly felt suddenly spiritless. \"Not that I know of,\" he answered.\n\n\"Not that you know of, be blowed! You been flapping your mouth.\"\n\n\"Don\'t see it,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Don\'t see it, be blowed! You go flapping your silly mouth about me\nand I\'ll give you a poke in the eye. See?\"\n\nMr. Hinks regarded the effect of this coldly but firmly, and spat\nagain.\n\n\"Understand me?\" he enquired.\n\n\"Don\'t recollect,\" began Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Don\'t recollect, be blowed! You flap your mouth a dam sight too much.\nThis place gets more of your mouth than it wants.... Seen this?\"\n\nAnd Mr. Hinks, having displayed a freckled fist of extraordinary size\nand pugginess in an ostentatiously familiar manner to Mr. Polly\'s\nclose inspection by sight and smell, turned it about this way and that\nand shaken it gently for a moment or so, replaced it carefully in his\npocket as if for future use, receded slowly and watchfully for a pace,\nand then turned away as if to other matters, and ceased to be even in\noutward seeming a friend....\n\n\nVI\n\nMr. Polly\'s intercourse with all his fellow tradesmen was tarnished\nsooner or later by some such adverse incident, until not a friend\nremained to him, and loneliness made even the shop door terrible.\nShops bankrupted all about him and fresh people came and new\nacquaintances sprang up, but sooner or later a discord was inevitable,\nthe tension under which these badly fed, poorly housed, bored and\nbothered neighbours lived, made it inevitable. The mere fact that Mr.\nPolly had to see them every day, that there was no getting away from\nthem, was in itself sufficient to make them almost unendurable to his\nfrettingly active mind.\n\nAmong other shopkeepers in the High Street there was Chuffles, the\ngrocer, a small, hairy, silently intent polygamist, who was given\nrough music by the youth of the neighbourhood because of a scandal\nabout his wife\'s sister, and who was nevertheless totally\nuninteresting, and Tonks, the second grocer, an old man with an older,\nvery enfeebled wife, both submerged by piety. Tonks went bankrupt, and\nwas succeeded by a branch of the National Provision Company, with a\nyoung manager exactly like a fox, except that he barked. The toy and\nsweetstuff shop was kept by an old woman of repellent manners, and so\nwas the little fish shop at the end of the street. The Berlin-wool\nshop having gone bankrupt, became a newspaper shop, then fell to a\nhaberdasher in consumption, and finally to a stationer; the three\nshops at the end of the street wallowed in and out of insolvency in\nthe hands of a bicycle repairer and dealer, a gramaphone dealer, a\ntobacconist, a sixpenny-halfpenny bazaar-keeper, a shoemaker, a\ngreengrocer, and the exploiter of a cinematograph peep-show--but none\nof them supplied friendship to Mr. Polly.\n\nThese adventurers in commerce were all more or less distraught souls,\ndriving without intelligible comment before the gale of fate. The two\nmilkmen of Fishbourne were brothers who had quarrelled about their\nfather\'s will, and started in opposition to each other; one was stone\ndeaf and no use to Mr. Polly, and the other was a sporting man with a\nnatural dread of epithet who sided with Hinks. So it was all about\nhim, on every hand it seemed were uncongenial people, uninteresting\npeople, or people who conceived the deepest distrust and hostility\ntowards him, a magic circle of suspicious, preoccupied and dehumanised\nhumanity. So the poison in his system poisoned the world without.\n\n(But Boomer, the wine merchant, and Tashingford, the chemist, be it\nnoted, were fraught with pride, and held themselves to be a cut above\nMr. Polly. They never quarrelled with him, preferring to bear\nthemselves from the outset as though they had already done so.)\n\nAs his internal malady grew upon Mr. Polly and he became more and more\na battle-ground of fermenting foods and warring juices, he came to\nhate the very sight, as people say, of every one of these neighbours.\nThere they were, every day and all the days, just the same, echoing\nhis own stagnation. They pained him all round the top and back of his\nhead; they made his legs and arms weary and spiritless. The air was\ntasteless by reason of them. He lost his human kindliness.\n\nIn the afternoons he would hover in the shop bored to death with his\nbusiness and his home and Miriam, and yet afraid to go out because of\nhis inflamed and magnified dislike and dread of these neighbours. He\ncould not bring himself to go out and run the gauntlet of the\nobservant windows and the cold estranged eyes.\n\nOne of his last friendships was with Rusper, the ironmonger. Rusper\ntook over Worthington\'s shop about three years after Mr. Polly opened.\nHe was a tall, lean, nervous, convulsive man with an upturned,\nback-thrown, oval head, who read newspapers and the _Review of\nReviews_ assiduously, had belonged to a Literary Society somewhere\nonce, and had some defect of the palate that at first gave his\nlightest word a charm and interest for Mr. Polly. It caused a peculiar\nclicking sound, as though he had something between a giggle and a\ngas-meter at work in his neck.\n\nHis literary admirations were not precisely Mr. Polly\'s literary\nadmirations; he thought books were written to enshrine Great Thoughts,\nand that art was pedagogy in fancy dress, he had no sense of phrase or\nepithet or richness of texture, but still he knew there were books, he\ndid know there were books and he was full of large windy ideas of the\nsort he called \"Modern (kik) Thought,\" and seemed needlessly and\nhelplessly concerned about \"(kik) the Welfare of the Race.\"\n\nMr. Polly would dream about that (kik) at nights.\n\nIt seemed to that undesirable mind of his that Rusper\'s head was the\nmost egg-shaped head he had ever seen; the similarity weighed upon\nhim; and when he found an argument growing warm with Rusper he would\nsay: \"Boil it some more, O\' Man; boil it harder!\" or \"Six minutes at\nleast,\" allusions Rusper could never make head or tail of, and got at\nlast to disregard as a part of Mr. Polly\'s general eccentricity. For a\nlong time that little tendency threw no shadow over their intercourse,\nbut it contained within it the seeds of an ultimate disruption.\n\nOften during the days of this friendship Mr. Polly would leave his\nshop and walk over to Mr. Rusper\'s establishment, and stand in his\ndoorway and enquire: \"Well, O\' Man, how\'s the Mind of the Age\nworking?\" and get quite an hour of it, and sometimes Mr. Rusper would\ncome into the outfitter\'s shop with \"Heard the (kik) latest?\" and\nspend the rest of the morning.\n\nThen Mr. Rusper married, and he married very inconsiderately a woman\nwho was totally uninteresting to Mr. Polly. A coolness grew between\nthem from the first intimation of her advent. Mr. Polly couldn\'t help\nthinking when he saw her that she drew her hair back from her forehead\na great deal too tightly, and that her elbows were angular. His desire\nnot to mention these things in the apt terms that welled up so richly\nin his mind, made him awkward in her presence, and that gave her an\nimpression that he was hiding some guilty secret from her. She decided\nhe must have a bad influence upon her husband, and she made it a point\nto appear whenever she heard him talking to Rusper.\n\nOne day they became a little heated about the German peril.\n\n\"I lay (kik) they\'ll invade us,\" said Rusper.\n\n\"Not a bit of it. William\'s not the Zerxiacious sort.\"\n\n\"You\'ll see, O\' Man.\"\n\n\"Just what I shan\'t do.\"\n\n\"Before (kik) five years are out.\"\n\n\"Not it.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Oh! Boil it hard!\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nThen he looked up and saw Mrs. Rusper standing behind the counter half\nhidden by a trophy of spades and garden shears and a knife-cleaning\nmachine, and by her expression he knew instantly that she understood.\n\nThe conversation paled and presently Mr. Polly withdrew.\n\nAfter that, estrangement increased steadily.\n\nMr. Rusper ceased altogether to come over to the outfitter\'s, and Mr.\nPolly called upon the ironmonger only with the completest air of\ncasuality. And everything they said to each other led now to flat\ncontradiction and raised voices. Rusper had been warned in vague and\nalarming terms that Mr. Polly insulted and made game of him; he\ncouldn\'t discover exactly where; and so it appeared to him now that\nevery word of Mr. Polly\'s might be an insult meriting his resentment,\nmeriting it none the less because it was masked and cloaked.\n\nSoon Mr. Polly\'s calls upon Mr. Rusper ceased also, and then Mr.\nRusper, pursuing incomprehensible lines of thought, became afflicted\nwith a specialised shortsightedness that applied only to Mr. Polly. He\nwould look in other directions when Mr. Polly appeared, and his large\noval face assumed an expression of conscious serenity and deliberate\nhappy unawareness that would have maddened a far less irritable person\nthan Mr. Polly. It evoked a strong desire to mock and ape, and\nproduced in his throat a cough of singular scornfulness, more\nparticularly when Mr. Rusper also assisted, with an assumed\nunconsciousness that was all his own.\n\nThen one day Mr. Polly had a bicycle accident.\n\nHis bicycle was now very old, and it is one of the concomitants of a\nbicycle\'s senility that its free wheel should one day obstinately\ncease to be free. It corresponds to that epoch in human decay when an\nold gentleman loses an incisor tooth. It happened just as Mr. Polly\nwas approaching Mr. Rusper\'s shop, and the untoward chance of a motor\ncar trying to pass a waggon on the wrong side gave Mr. Polly no choice\nbut to get on to the pavement and dismount. He was always accustomed\nto take his time and step off his left pedal at its lowest point, but\nthe jamming of the free wheel gear made that lowest moment a\ntransitory one, and the pedal was lifting his foot for another\nrevolution before he realised what had happened. Before he could\ndismount according to his habit the pedal had to make a revolution,\nand before it could make a revolution Mr. Polly found himself among\nthe various sonorous things with which Mr. Rusper adorned the front of\nhis shop, zinc dustbins, household pails, lawn mowers, rakes, spades\nand all manner of clattering things. Before he got among them he had\none of those agonising moments of helpless wrath and suspense that\nseem to last ages, in which one seems to perceive everything and think\nof nothing but words that are better forgotten. He sent a column of\npails thundering across the doorway and dismounted with one foot in a\nsanitary dustbin amidst an enormous uproar of falling ironmongery.\n\n\"Put all over the place!\" he cried, and found Mr. Rusper emerging from\nhis shop with the large tranquillities of his countenance puckered to\nanger, like the frowns in the brow of a reefing sail. He gesticulated\nspeechlessly for a moment.\n\n\"Kik--jer doing?\" he said at last.\n\n\"Tin mantraps!\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Jer (kik) doing?\"\n\n\"Dressing all over the pavement as though the blessed town belonged to\nyou! Ugh!\"\n\nAnd Mr. Polly in attempting a dignified movement realised his\nentanglement with the dustbin for the first time. With a low\nembittering expression he kicked his foot about in it for a moment\nvery noisily, and finally sent it thundering to the curb. On its way\nit struck a pail or so. Then Mr. Polly picked up his bicycle and\nproposed to resume his homeward way. But the hand of Mr. Rusper\narrested him.\n\n\"Put it (kik) all (kik kik) back (kik).\"\n\n\"Put it (kik) back yourself.\"\n\n\"You got (kik) put it back.\"\n\n\"Get out of the (kik) way.\"\n\nMr. Rusper laid one hand on the bicycle handle, and the other gripped\nMr. Polly\'s collar urgently. Whereupon Mr. Polly said: \"Leggo!\" and\nagain, \"D\'you _hear_! Leggo!\" and then drove his elbow with\nconsiderable force into the region of Mr. Rusper\'s midriff. Whereupon\nMr. Rusper, with a loud impassioned cry, resembling \"Woo kik\" more\nthan any other combination of letters, released the bicycle handle,\nseized Mr. Polly by the cap and hair and bore his head and shoulders\ndownward. Thereat Mr. Polly, emitting such words as everyone knows and\nnobody prints, butted his utmost into the concavity of Mr. Rusper,\nentwined a leg about him and after terrific moments of swaying\ninstability, fell headlong beneath him amidst the bicycles and pails.\nThere on the pavement these inexpert children of a pacific age,\nuntrained in arms and uninured to violence, abandoned themselves to\namateurish and absurd efforts to hurt and injure one another--of which\nthe most palpable consequences were dusty backs, ruffled hair and torn\nand twisted collars. Mr. Polly, by accident, got his finger into Mr.\nRusper\'s mouth, and strove earnestly for some time to prolong that\naperture in the direction of Mr. Rusper\'s ear before it occurred to\nMr. Rusper to bite him (and even then he didn\'t bite very hard), while\nMr. Rusper concentrated his mind almost entirely on an effort to rub\nMr. Polly\'s face on the pavement. (And their positions bristled with\nchances of the deadliest sort!) They didn\'t from first to last draw\nblood.\n\nThen it seemed to each of them that the other had become endowed with\nmany hands and several voices and great accessions of strength. They\nsubmitted to fate and ceased to struggle. They found themselves torn\napart and held up by outwardly scandalised and inwardly delighted\nneighbours, and invited to explain what it was all about.\n\n\"Got to (kik) puttem all back!\" panted Mr. Rusper in the expert grasp\nof Hinks. \"Merely asked him to (kik) puttem all back.\"\n\nMr. Polly was under restraint of little Clamp, of the toy shop, who\nwas holding his hands in a complex and uncomfortable manner that he\nafterwards explained to Wintershed was a combination of something\nromantic called \"Ju-jitsu\" and something else still more romantic\ncalled the \"Police Grip.\"\n\n\"Pails,\" explained Mr. Polly in breathless fragments. \"All over the\nroad. Pails. Bungs up the street with his pails. Look at them!\"\n\n\"Deliber (kik) lib (kik) liberately rode into my goods (kik).\nConstantly (kik) annoying me (kik)!\" said Mr. Rusper....\n\nThey were both tremendously earnest and reasonable in their manner.\nThey wished everyone to regard them as responsible and intellectual\nmen acting for the love of right and the enduring good of the world.\nThey felt they must treat this business as a profound and publicly\nsignificant affair. They wanted to explain and orate and show the\nentire necessity of everything they had done. Mr. Polly was convinced\nhe had never been so absolutely correct in all his life as when he\nplanted his foot in the sanitary dustbin, and Mr. Rusper considered\nhis clutch at Mr. Polly\'s hair as the one faultless impulse in an\notherwise undistinguished career. But it was clear in their minds they\nmight easily become ridiculous if they were not careful, if for a\nsecond they stepped over the edge of the high spirit and pitiless\ndignity they had hitherto maintained. At any cost they perceived they\nmust not become ridiculous.\n\nMr. Chuffles, the scandalous grocer, joined the throng about the\nprincipal combatants, mutely as became an outcast, and with a sad,\ndistressed helpful expression picked up Mr. Polly\'s bicycle. Gambell\'s\nsummer errand boy, moved by example, restored the dustbin and pails to\ntheir self-respect.\n\n\"\'_E_ ought--\'_e_ ought (kik) pick them up,\" protested Mr. Rusper.\n\n\"What\'s it all about?\" said Mr. Hinks for the third time, shaking Mr.\nRusper gently. \"As \'e been calling you names?\"\n\n\"Simply ran into his pails--as anyone might,\" said Mr. Polly, \"and out\nhe comes and scrags me!\"\n\n\"(Kik) Assault!\" said Mr. Rusper.\n\n\"He assaulted _me_,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Jumped (kik) into my dus\'bin!\" said Mr. Rusper. \"That assault? Or\nisn\'t it?\"\n\n\"You better drop it,\" said Mr. Hinks.\n\n\"Great pity they can\'t be\'ave better, both of \'em,\" said Mr. Chuffles,\nglad for once to find himself morally unassailable.\n\n\"Anyone see it begin?\" said Mr. Wintershed.\n\n\"_I_ was in the shop,\" said Mrs. Rusper suddenly from the doorstep,\npiercing the little group of men and boys with the sharp horror of an\nunexpected woman\'s voice. \"If a witness is wanted I suppose I\'ve got a\ntongue. I suppose I got a voice in seeing my own \'usband injured. My\nhusband went out and spoke to Mr. Polly, who was jumping off his\nbicycle all among our pails and things, and immediately \'e butted him\nin the stomach--immediately--most savagely--butted him. Just after his\ndinner too and him far from strong. I could have screamed. But Rusper\ncaught hold of him right away, I will say that for Rusper....\"\n\n\"I\'m going,\" said Mr. Polly suddenly, releasing himself from the\nAnglo-Japanese grip and holding out his hands for his bicycle.\n\n\"Teach you (kik) to leave things alone,\" said Mr. Rusper with an air\nof one who has given a lesson.\n\nThe testimony of Mrs. Rusper continued relentlessly in the background.\n\n\"You\'ll hear of me through a summons,\" said Mr. Polly, preparing to\nwheel his bicycle.\n\n\"(Kik) Me too,\" said Mr. Rusper.\n\nSomeone handed Mr. Polly a collar. \"This yours?\"\n\nMr. Polly investigated his neck. \"I suppose it is. Anyone seen a tie?\"\n\nA small boy produced a grimy strip of spotted blue silk.\n\n\"Human life isn\'t safe with you,\" said Mr. Polly as a parting shot.\n\n\"(Kik) Yours isn\'t,\" said Mr. Rusper....\n\nAnd they got small satisfaction out of the Bench, which refused\naltogether to perceive the relentless correctitude of the behaviour of\neither party, and reproved the eagerness of Mrs. Rusper--speaking to\nher gently, firmly but exasperatingly as \"My Good Woman\" and telling\nher to \"Answer the Question! Answer the Question!\"\n\n\"Seems a Pity,\" said the chairman, when binding them over to keep the\npeace, \"you can\'t behave like Respectable Tradesmen. Seems a Great\nPity. Bad Example to the Young and all that. Don\'t do any Good to the\ntown, don\'t do any Good to yourselves, don\'t do any manner of Good, to\nhave all the Tradesmen in the Place scrapping about the Pavement of an\nAfternoon. Think we\'re letting you off very easily this time, and hope\nit will be a Warning to you. Don\'t expect Men of your Position to come\nup before us. Very Regrettable Affair. Eh?\"\n\nHe addressed the latter enquiry to his two colleagues.\n\n\"Exactly, exactly,\" said the colleague to the right.\n\n\"Er--(kik),\" said Mr. Rusper.\n\n\nVII\n\nBut the disgust that overshadowed Mr. Polly\'s being as he sat upon the\nstile, had other and profounder justification than his quarrel with\nRusper and the indignity of appearing before the county bench. He was\nfor the first time in his business career short with his rent for the\napproaching quarter day, and so far as he could trust his own handling\nof figures he was sixty or seventy pounds on the wrong side of\nsolvency. And that was the outcome of fifteen years of passive\nendurance of dulness throughout the best years of his life! What would\nMiriam say when she learnt this, and was invited to face the prospect\nof exile--heaven knows what sort of exile!--from their present home?\nShe would grumble and scold and become limply unhelpful, he knew, and\nnone the less so because he could not help things. She would say he\nought to have worked harder, and a hundred such exasperating pointless\nthings. Such thoughts as these require no aid from undigested cold\npork and cold potatoes and pickles to darken the soul, and with these\naids his soul was black indeed.\n\n\"May as well have a bit of a walk,\" said Mr. Polly at last, after\nnearly intolerable meditations, and sat round and put a leg over the\nstile.\n\nHe remained still for some time before he brought over the other leg.\n\n\"Kill myself,\" he murmured at last.\n\nIt was an idea that came back to his mind nowadays with a continually\nincreasing attractiveness--more particularly after meals. Life he felt\nhad no further happiness to offer him. He hated Miriam, and there was\nno getting away from her whatever might betide. And for the rest there\nwas toil and struggle, toil and struggle with a failing heart and\ndwindling courage, to sustain that dreary duologue. \"Life\'s insured,\"\nsaid Mr. Polly; \"place is insured. I don\'t see it does any harm to her\nor anyone.\"\n\nHe stuck his hands in his pockets. \"Needn\'t hurt much,\" he said. He\nbegan to elaborate a plan.\n\nHe found it quite interesting elaborating his plan. His countenance\nbecame less miserable and his pace quickened.\n\nThere is nothing so good in all the world for melancholia as walking,\nand the exercise of the imagination in planning something presently to\nbe done, and soon the wrathful wretchedness had vanished from Mr.\nPolly\'s face. He would have to do the thing secretly and elaborately,\nbecause otherwise there might be difficulties about the life\ninsurance. He began to scheme how he could circumvent that\ndifficulty....\n\nHe took a long walk, for after all what is the good of hurrying back\nto shop when you are not only insolvent but very soon to die? His\ndinner and the east wind lost their sinister hold upon his soul, and\nwhen at last he came back along the Fishbourne High Street, his face\nwas unusually bright and the craving hunger of the dyspeptic was\nreturning. So he went into the grocer\'s and bought a ruddily decorated\ntin of a brightly pink fishlike substance known as \"Deep Sea Salmon.\"\nThis he was resolved to consume regardless of cost with vinegar and\nsalt and pepper as a relish to his supper.\n\nHe did, and since he and Miriam rarely talked and Miriam thought\nhonour and his recent behaviour demanded a hostile silence, he ate\nfast, and copiously and soon gloomily. He ate alone, for she\nrefrained, to mark her sense of his extravagance. Then he prowled into\nthe High Street for a time, thought it an infernal place, tried his\npipe and found it foul and bitter, and retired wearily to bed.\n\nHe slept for an hour or so and then woke up to the contemplation of\nMiriam\'s hunched back and the riddle of life, and this bright\nattractive idea of ending for ever and ever and ever all the things\nthat were locking him in, this bright idea that shone like a baleful\nstar above all the reek and darkness of his misery....\n\n\n\nChapter the Eighth\n\nMaking an End to Things\n\n\nI\n\nMr. Polly designed his suicide with considerable care, and a quite\nremarkable altruism. His passionate hatred for Miriam vanished\ndirectly the idea of getting away from her for ever became clear in\nhis mind. He found himself full of solicitude then for her welfare. He\ndid not want to buy his release at her expense. He had not the\nremotest intention of leaving her unprotected with a painfully dead\nhusband and a bankrupt shop on her hands. It seemed to him that he\ncould contrive to secure for her the full benefit of both his life\ninsurance and his fire insurance if he managed things in a tactful\nmanner. He felt happier than he had done for years scheming out this\nundertaking, albeit it was perhaps a larger and somberer kind of\nhappiness than had fallen to his lot before. It amazed him to think he\nhad endured his monotony of misery and failure for so long.\n\nBut there were some queer doubts and questions in the dim, half-lit\nbackground of his mind that he had very resolutely to ignore. \"Sick of\nit,\" he had to repeat to himself aloud, to keep his determination\nclear and firm. His life was a failure, there was nothing more to\nhope for but unhappiness. Why shouldn\'t he?\n\nHis project was to begin the fire with the stairs that led from the\nground floor to the underground kitchen and scullery. This he would\nsoak with _paraffine_, and assist with firewood and paper, and a brisk\nfire in the coal cellar underneath. He would smash a hole or so in the\nstairs to ventilate the blaze, and have a good pile of boxes and\npaper, and a convenient chair or so in the shop above. He would have\nthe _paraffine_ can upset and the shop lamp, as if awaiting refilling,\nat a convenient distance in the scullery ready to catch. Then he would\nsmash the house lamp on the staircase, a fall with that in his hand\nwas to be the ostensible cause of the blaze, and then he would cut his\nthroat at the top of the kitchen stairs, which would then become his\nfuneral pyre. He would do all this on Sunday evening while Miriam was\nat church, and it would appear that he had fallen downstairs with the\nlamp, and been burnt to death. There was really no flaw whatever that\nhe could see in the scheme. He was quite sure he knew how to cut his\nthroat, deep at the side and not to saw at the windpipe, and he was\nreasonably sure it wouldn\'t hurt him very much. And then everything\nwould be at an end.\n\nThere was no particular hurry to get the thing done, of course, and\nmeanwhile he occupied his mind with possible variations of the\nscheme....\n\nIt needed a particularly dry and dusty east wind, a Sunday dinner of\nexceptional virulence, a conclusive letter from Konk, Maybrick, Ghool\nand Gabbitas, his principal and most urgent creditors, and a\nconversation with Miriam arising out of arrears of rent and leading on\nto mutual character sketching, before Mr. Polly could be brought to\nthe necessary pitch of despair to carry out his plans. He went for an\nembittering walk, and came back to find Miriam in a bad temper over\nthe tea things, with the brewings of three-quarters of an hour in the\npot, and hot buttered muffin gone leathery. He sat eating in silence\nwith his resolution made.\n\n\"Coming to church?\" said Miriam after she had cleared away.\n\n\"Rather. I got a lot to be grateful for,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"You got what you deserve,\" said Miriam.\n\n\"Suppose I have,\" said Mr. Polly, and went and stared out of the back\nwindow at a despondent horse in the hotel yard.\n\nHe was still standing there when Miriam came downstairs dressed for\nchurch. Something in his immobility struck home to her. \"You\'d better\ncome to church than mope,\" she said.\n\n\"I shan\'t mope,\" he answered.\n\nShe remained still for a moment. Her presence irritated him. He felt\nthat in another moment he should say something absurd to her, make\nsome last appeal for that understanding she had never been able to\ngive. \"Oh! _go_ to church!\" he said.\n\nIn another moment the outer door slammed upon her. \"Good riddance!\"\nsaid Mr. Polly.\n\nHe turned about. \"I\'ve had my whack,\" he said.\n\nHe reflected. \"I don\'t see she\'ll have any cause to holler,\" he\nsaid. \"Beastly Home! Beastly Life!\"\n\nFor a space he remained thoughtful. \"Here goes!\" he said at last.\n\n\nII\n\nFor twenty minutes Mr. Polly busied himself about the house, making\nhis preparations very neatly and methodically.\n\nHe opened the attic windows in order to make sure of a good draught\nthrough the house, and drew down the blinds at the back and shut the\nkitchen door to conceal his arrangements from casual observation. At\nthe end he would open the door on the yard and so make a clean clear\ndraught right through the house. He hacked at, and wedged off, the\ntread of a stair. He cleared out the coals from under the staircase,\nand built a neat fire of firewood and paper there, he splashed about\n_paraffine_ and arranged the lamps and can even as he had designed,\nand made a fine inflammable pile of things in the little parlour\nbehind the shop. \"Looks pretty arsonical,\" he said as he surveyed it\nall. \"Wouldn\'t do to have a caller now. Now for the stairs!\"\n\n\"Plenty of time,\" he assured himself, and took the lamp which was to\nexplain the whole affair, and went to the head of the staircase\nbetween the scullery and the parlour. He sat down in the twilight with\nthe unlit lamp beside him and surveyed things. He must light the fire\nin the coal cellar under the stairs, open the back door, then come up\nthem very quickly and light the _paraffine_ puddles on each step, then\nsit down here again and cut his throat.\n\nHe drew his razor from his pocket and felt the edge. It wouldn\'t hurt\nmuch, and in ten minutes he would be indistinguishable ashes in the\nblaze.\n\nAnd this was the end of life for him!\n\nThe end! And it seemed to him now that life had never begun for him,\nnever! It was as if his soul had been cramped and his eyes bandaged\nfrom the hour of his birth. Why had he lived such a life? Why had he\nsubmitted to things, blundered into things? Why had he never insisted\non the things he thought beautiful and the things he desired, never\nsought them, fought for them, taken any risk for them, died rather\nthan abandon them? They were the things that mattered. Safety did not\nmatter. A living did not matter unless there were things to live\nfor....\n\nHe had been a fool, a coward and a fool, he had been fooled too, for\nno one had ever warned him to take a firm hold upon life, no one had\never told him of the littleness of fear, or pain, or death; but what\nwas the good of going through it now again? It was over and done with.\n\nThe clock in the back parlour pinged the half hour.\n\n\"Time!\" said Mr. Polly, and stood up.\n\nFor an instant he battled with an impulse to put it all back, hastily,\nguiltily, and abandon this desperate plan of suicide for ever.\n\nBut Miriam would smell the _paraffine_!\n\n\"No way out this time, O\' Man,\" said Mr. Polly; and he went slowly\ndownstairs, matchbox in hand.\n\nHe paused for five seconds, perhaps, to listen to noises in the yard\nof the Royal Fishbourne Hotel before he struck his match. It trembled\na little in his hand. The paper blackened, and an edge of blue flame\nran outward and spread. The fire burnt up readily, and in an instant\nthe wood was crackling cheerfully.\n\nSomeone might hear. He must hurry.\n\nHe lit a pool of _paraffine_ on the scullery floor, and instantly a\nnest of snaky, wavering blue flame became agog for prey. He went up\nthe stairs three steps at a time with one eager blue flicker in\npursuit of him. He seized the lamp at the top. \"Now!\" he said and\nflung it smashing. The chimney broke, but the glass receiver stood the\nshock and rolled to the bottom, a potential bomb. Old Rumbold would\nhear that and wonder what it was!... He\'d know soon enough!\n\nThen Mr. Polly stood hesitating, razor in hand, and then sat down. He\nwas trembling violently, but quite unafraid.\n\nHe drew the blade lightly under one ear. \"Lord!\" but it stung like a\nnettle!\n\nThen he perceived a little blue thread of flame running up his leg. It\narrested his attention, and for a moment he sat, razor in hand,\nstaring at it. It must be _paraffine_ on his trousers that had caught\nfire on the stairs. Of course his legs were wet with _paraffine_! He\nsmacked the flicker with his hand to put it out, and felt his leg burn\nas he did so. But his trousers still charred and glowed. It seemed to\nhim necessary that he must put this out before he cut his throat. He\nput down the razor beside him to smack with both hands very eagerly.\nAnd as he did so a thin tall red flame came up through the hole in the\nstairs he had made and stood still, quite still as it seemed, and\nlooked at him. It was a strange-looking flame, a flattish salmon\ncolour, redly streaked. It was so queer and quiet mannered that the\nsight of it held Mr. Polly agape.\n\n\"Whuff!\" went the can of _paraffine_ below, and boiled over with\nstinking white fire. At the outbreak the salmon-coloured flames\nshivered and ducked and then doubled and vanished, and instantly all\nthe staircase was noisily ablaze.\n\nMr. Polly sprang up and backwards, as though the uprushing tongues of\nfire were a pack of eager wolves.\n\n\"Good Lord!\" he cried like a man who wakes up from a dream.\n\nHe swore sharply and slapped again at a recrudescent flame upon his\nleg.\n\n\"What the Deuce shall I do? I\'m soaked with the confounded stuff!\"\n\nHe had nerved himself for throat-cutting, but this was fire!\n\nHe wanted to delay things, to put them out for a moment while he did\nhis business. The idea of arresting all this hurry with water occurred\nto him.\n\nThere was no water in the little parlour and none in the shop. He\nhesitated for a moment whether he should not run upstairs to the\nbedrooms and get a ewer of water to throw on the flames. At this rate\nRumbold\'s would be ablaze in five minutes! Things were going all too\nfast for Mr. Polly. He ran towards the staircase door, and its hot\nbreath pulled him up sharply. Then he dashed out through his shop. The\ncatch of the front door was sometimes obstinate; it was now, and\ninstantly he became frantic. He rattled and stormed and felt the\nparlour already ablaze behind him. In another moment he was in the\nHigh Street with the door wide open.\n\nThe staircase behind him was crackling now like horsewhips and pistol\nshots.\n\nHe had a vague sense that he wasn\'t doing as he had proposed, but the\nchief thing was his sense of that uncontrolled fire within. What was\nhe going to do? There was the fire brigade station next door but one.\n\nThe Fishbourne High Street had never seemed so empty.\n\nFar off at the corner by the God\'s Providence Inn a group of three\nstiff hobbledehoys in their black, best clothes, conversed\nintermittently with Taplow, the policeman.\n\n\"Hi!\" bawled Mr. Polly to them. \"Fire! Fire!\" and struck by a horrible\nthought, the thought of Rumbold\'s deaf mother-in-law upstairs, began\nto bang and kick and rattle with the utmost fury at Rumbold\'s shop\ndoor.\n\n\"Hi!\" he repeated, \"_Fire!_\"\n\n\nIII\n\nThat was the beginning of the great Fishbourne fire, which burnt its\nway sideways into Mr. Rusper\'s piles of crates and straw, and\nbackwards to the petrol and stabling of the Royal Fishbourne Hotel,\nand spread from that basis until it seemed half Fishbourne would be\nablaze. The east wind, which had been gathering in strength all that\nday, fanned the flame; everything was dry and ready, and the little\nshed beyond Rumbold\'s in which the local Fire Brigade kept its manual,\nwas alight before the Fishbourne fire hose could be saved from\ndisaster. In marvellously little time a great column of black smoke,\nshot with red streamers, rose out of the middle of the High Street,\nand all Fishbourne was alive with excitement.\n\nMuch of the more respectable elements of Fishbourne society was in\nchurch or chapel; many, however, had been tempted by the blue sky and\nthe hard freshness of spring to take walks inland, and there had been\nthe usual disappearance of loungers and conversationalists from the\nbeach and the back streets when at the hour of six the shooting of\nbolts and the turning of keys had ended the British Ramadan, that\nweekly interlude of drought our law imposes. The youth of the place\nwere scattered on the beach or playing in back yards, under threat if\ntheir clothes were dirtied, and the adolescent were disposed in pairs\namong the more secluded corners to be found upon the outskirts of the\nplace. Several godless youths, seasick but fishing steadily, were\ntossing upon the sea in old Tarbold\'s, the infidel\'s, boat, and the\nClamps were entertaining cousins from Port Burdock. Such few visitors\nas Fishbourne could boast in the spring were at church or on the\nbeach. To all these that column of smoke did in a manner address\nitself. \"Look here!\" it said, \"this, within limits, is your affair;\nwhat are you going to do?\"\n\nThe three hobbledehoys, had it been a weekday and they in working\nclothes, might have felt free to act, but the stiffness of black was\nupon them and they simply moved to the corner by Rusper\'s to take a\nbetter view of Mr. Polly beating at the door. The policeman was a\nyoung, inexpert constable with far too lively a sense of the public\nhouse. He put his head inside the Private Bar to the horror of\neveryone there. But there was no breach of the law, thank Heaven!\n\"Polly\'s and Rumbold\'s on fire!\" he said, and vanished again. A window\nin the top story over Boomer\'s shop opened, and Boomer, captain of the\nFire Brigade, appeared, staring out with a blank expression. Still\nstaring, he began to fumble with his collar and tie; manifestly he had\nto put on his uniform. Hinks\' dog, which had been lying on the\npavement outside Wintershed\'s, woke up, and having regarded Mr. Polly\nsuspiciously for some time, growled nervously and went round the\ncorner into Granville Alley. Mr. Polly continued to beat and kick at\nRumbold\'s door.\n\nThen the public houses began to vomit forth the less desirable\nelements of Fishbourne society, boys and men were moved to run and\nshout, and more windows went up as the stir increased. Tashingford,\nthe chemist, appeared at his door, in shirt sleeves and an apron, with\nhis photographic plate holders in his hand. And then like a vision of\npurpose came Mr. Gambell, the greengrocer, running out of Clayford\'s\nAlley and buttoning on his jacket as he ran. His great brass fireman\'s\nhelmet was on his head, hiding it all but the sharp nose, the firm\nmouth, the intrepid chin. He ran straight to the fire station and\ntried the door, and turned about and met the eye of Boomer still at\nhis upper window. \"The key!\" cried Mr. Gambell, \"the key!\"\n\nMr. Boomer made some inaudible explanation about his trousers and half\na minute.\n\n\"Seen old Rumbold?\" cried Mr. Polly, approaching Mr. Gambell.\n\n\"Gone over Downford for a walk,\" said Mr. Gambell. \"He told me! But\nlook \'ere! We \'aven\'t got the key!\"\n\n\"Lord!\" said Mr. Polly, and regarded the china shop with open eyes. He\n_knew_ the old woman must be there alone. He went back to the shop\nfront and stood surveying it in infinite perplexity. The other\nactivities in the street did not interest him. A deaf old lady\nsomewhere upstairs there! Precious moments passing! Suddenly he was\nstruck by an idea and vanished from public vision into the open door\nof the Royal Fishbourne Tap.\n\nAnd now the street was getting crowded and people were laying their\nhands to this and that.\n\nMr. Rusper had been at home reading a number of tracts upon Tariff\nReform, during the quiet of his wife\'s absence in church, and trying\nto work out the application of the whole question to ironmongery. He\nheard a clattering in the street and for a time disregarded it, until\na cry of Fire! drew him to the window. He pencilled-marked the tract\nof Chiozza Money\'s that he was reading side by side with one by Mr.\nHolt Schooling, made a hasty note \"Bal. of Trade say 12,000,000\" and\nwent to look out. Instantly he opened the window and ceased to believe\nthe Fiscal Question the most urgent of human affairs.\n\n\"Good (kik) Gud!\" said Mr. Rusper.\n\nFor now the rapidly spreading blaze had forced the partition into Mr.\nRumbold\'s premises, swept across his cellar, clambered his garden wall\nby means of his well-tarred mushroom shed, and assailed the engine\nhouse. It stayed not to consume, but ran as a thing that seeks a\nquarry. Polly\'s shop and upper parts were already a furnace, and black\nsmoke was coming out of Rumbold\'s cellar gratings. The fire in the\nengine house showed only as a sudden rush of smoke from the back, like\nsomething suddenly blown up. The fire brigade, still much under\nstrength, were now hard at work in the front of the latter building;\nthey had got the door open all too late, they had rescued the fire\nescape and some buckets, and were now lugging out their manual, with\nthe hose already a dripping mass of molten, flaring, stinking rubber.\nBoomer was dancing about and swearing and shouting; this direct attack\nupon his apparatus outraged his sense of chivalry. The rest of the\nbrigade hovered in a disheartened state about the rescued fire escape,\nand tried to piece Boomer\'s comments into some tangible instructions.\n\n\"Hi!\" said Rusper from the window. \"Kik! What\'s up?\"\n\nGambell answered him out of his helmet. \"Hose!\" he cried. \"Hose gone!\"\n\n\"I (kik) got hose!\" cried Rusper.\n\nHe had. He had a stock of several thousand feet of garden hose, of\nvarious qualities and calibres, and now he felt was the time to use\nit. In another moment his shop door was open and he was hurling pails,\ngarden syringes, and rolls of garden hose out upon the pavement.\n\"(Kik),\" he cried, \"undo it!\" to the gathering crowd in the roadway.\n\nThey did. Presently a hundred ready hands were unrolling and spreading\nand tangling up and twisting and hopelessly involving Mr. Rusper\'s\nstock of hose, sustained by an unquenchable assurance that presently\nit would in some manner contain and convey water, and Mr. Rusper, on\nhis knees, (kiking) violently, became incredibly busy with wire and\nbrass junctions and all sorts of mysteries.\n\n\"Fix it to the (kik) bathroom tap!\" said Mr. Rusper.\n\nNext door to the fire station was Mantell and Throbson\'s, the little\nFishbourne branch of that celebrated firm, and Mr. Boomer, seeking in\na teeming mind for a plan of action, had determined to save this\nbuilding. \"Someone telephone to the Port Burdock and Hampstead-on-Sea\nfire brigades,\" he cried to the crowd and then to his fellows: \"Cut\naway the woodwork of the fire station!\" and so led the way into the\nblaze with a whirling hatchet that effected wonders in no time in\nventilation.\n\nBut it was not, after all, such a bad idea of his. Mantell and\nThrobsons was separated from the fire station in front by a covered\nglass passage, and at the back the roof of a big outhouse sloped down\nto the fire station leads. The sturdy \'longshoremen, who made up the\nbulk of the fire brigade, assailed the glass roof of the passage with\nextraordinary gusto, and made a smashing of glass that drowned for a\ntime the rising uproar of the flames.\n\nA number of willing volunteers started off to the new telephone office\nin obedience to Mr. Boomer\'s request, only to be told with cold\nofficial politeness by the young lady at the exchange that all that\nhad been done on her own initiative ten minutes ago. She parleyed with\nthese heated enthusiasts for a space, and then returned to the window.\n\nAnd indeed the spectacle was well worth looking at. The dusk was\nfalling, and the flames were showing brilliantly at half a dozen\npoints. The Royal Fishbourne Hotel Tap, which adjoined Mr. Polly to\nthe west, was being kept wet by the enthusiastic efforts of a string\nof volunteers with buckets of water, and above at a bathroom window\nthe little German waiter was busy with the garden hose. But Mr.\nPolly\'s establishment looked more like a house afire than most houses\non fire contrive to look from start to finish. Every window showed\neager flickering flames, and flames like serpents\' tongues were\nlicking out of three large holes in the roof, which was already\nbeginning to fall in. Behind, larger and abundantly spark-shot gusts\nof fire rose from the fodder that was now getting alight in the Royal\nFishbourne Hotel stables. Next door to Mr. Polly, Mr. Rumbold\'s house\nwas disgorging black smoke from the gratings that protected its\nunderground windows, and smoke and occasional shivers of flame were\nalso coming out of its first-floor windows. The fire station was\nbetter alight at the back than in front, and its woodwork burnt pretty\nbriskly with peculiar greenish flickerings, and a pungent flavour. In\nthe street an inaggressively disorderly crowd clambered over the\nrescued fire escape and resisted the attempts of the three local\nconstables to get it away from the danger of Mr. Polly\'s tottering\nfaçade, a cluster of busy forms danced and shouted and advised on the\nnoisy and smashing attempt to cut off Mantell and Throbson\'s from the\nfire station that was still in ineffectual progress. Further a number\nof people appeared to be destroying interminable red and grey snakes\nunder the heated direction of Mr. Rusper; it was as if the High Street\nhad a plague of worms, and beyond again the more timid and less active\ncrowded in front of an accumulation of arrested traffic. Most of the\nmen were in Sabbatical black, and this and the white and starched\nquality of the women and children in their best clothes gave a note of\nceremony to the whole affair.\n\nFor a moment the attention of the telephone clerk was held by the\nactivities of Mr. Tashingford, the chemist, who, regardless of\neveryone else, was rushing across the road hurling fire grenades into\nthe fire station and running back for more, and then her eyes lifted\nto the slanting outhouse roof that went up to a ridge behind the\nparapet of Mantell and Throbson\'s. An expression of incredulity came\ninto the telephone operator\'s eyes and gave place to hard activity.\nShe flung up the window and screamed out: \"Two people on the roof up\nthere! Two people on the roof!\"\n\n\nIV\n\nHer eyes had not deceived her. Two figures which had emerged from the\nupper staircase window of Mr. Rumbold\'s and had got after a perilous\npaddle in his cistern, on to the fire station, were now slowly but\nresolutely clambering up the outhouse roof towards the back of the\nmain premises of Messrs. Mantell and Throbson\'s. They clambered slowly\nand one urged and helped the other, slipping and pausing ever and\nagain, amidst a constant trickle of fragments of broken tile.\n\nOne was Mr. Polly, with his hair wildly disordered, his face covered\nwith black smudges and streaked with perspiration, and his trouser\nlegs scorched and blackened; the other was an elderly lady, quietly\nbut becomingly dressed in black, with small white frills at her neck\nand wrists and a Sunday cap of ecru lace enlivened with a black velvet\nbow. Her hair was brushed back from her wrinkled brow and plastered\ndown tightly, meeting in a small knob behind; her wrinkled mouth bore\nthat expression of supreme resolution common with the toothless aged.\nShe was shaky, not with fear, but with the vibrations natural to her\nyears, and she spoke with the slow quavering firmness of the very\naged.\n\n\"I don\'t mind scrambling,\" she said with piping inflexibility, \"but I\ncan\'t jump and I _wunt_ jump.\"\n\n\"Scramble, old lady, then--scramble!\" said Mr. Polly, pulling her arm.\n\"It\'s one up and two down on these blessed tiles.\"\n\n\"It\'s not what I\'m used to,\" she said.\n\n\"Stick to it!\" said Mr. Polly, \"live and learn,\" and got to the ridge\nand grasped at her arm to pull her after him.\n\n\"I can\'t jump, mind ye,\" she repeated, pressing her lips together.\n\"And old ladies like me mustn\'t be hurried.\"\n\n\"Well, let\'s get as high as possible anyhow!\" said Mr. Polly, urging\nher gently upward. \"Shinning up a water-spout in your line? Near as\nyou\'ll get to Heaven.\"\n\n\"I _can\'t_ jump,\" she said. \"I can do anything but jump.\"\n\n\"Hold on!\" said Mr. Polly, \"while I give you a boost.\nThat\'s--wonderful.\"\n\n\"So long as it isn\'t jumping....\"\n\nThe old lady grasped the parapet above, and there was a moment of\nintense struggle.\n\n\"Urup!\" said Mr. Polly. \"Hold on! Gollys! where\'s she gone to?...\"\n\nThen an ill-mended, wavering, yet very reassuring spring side boot\nappeared for an instant.\n\n\"Thought perhaps there wasn\'t any roof there!\" he explained,\nscrambling up over the parapet beside her.\n\n\"I\'ve never been out on a roof before,\" said the old lady. \"I\'m all\ndisconnected. It\'s very bumpy. Especially that last bit. Can\'t we sit\nhere for a bit and rest? I\'m not the girl I use to be.\"\n\n\"You sit here ten minutes,\" shouted Mr. Polly, \"and you\'ll pop like a\nroast chestnut. Don\'t understand me? _Roast chestnut!_ Roast chestnut!\nPOP! There ought to be a limit to deafness. Come on round to the\nfront and see if we can find an attic window. Look at this smoke!\"\n\n\"Nasty!\" said the old lady, her eyes following his gesture, puckering\nher face into an expression of great distaste.\n\n\"Come on!\"\n\n\"Can\'t hear a word you say.\"\n\nHe pulled her arm. \"Come on!\"\n\nShe paused for a moment to relieve herself of a series of entirely\nunexpected chuckles. \"_Sich_ goings on!\" she said, \"I never did!\nWhere\'s he going now?\" and came along behind the parapet to the front\nof the drapery establishment.\n\nBelow, the street was now fully alive to their presence, and\nencouraged the appearance of their heads by shouts and cheers. A sort\nof free fight was going on round the fire escape, order represented by\nMr. Boomer and the very young policeman, and disorder by some\npartially intoxicated volunteers with views of their own about the\nmanipulation of the apparatus. Two or three lengths of Mr. Rusper\'s\ngarden hose appeared to have twined themselves round the ladder. Mr.\nPolly watched the struggle with a certain impatience, and glanced ever\nand again over his shoulder at the increasing volume of smoke and\nsteam that was pouring up from the burning fire station. He decided to\nbreak an attic window and get in, and so try and get down through the\nshop. He found himself in a little bedroom, and returned to fetch his\ncharge. For some time he could not make her understand his purpose.\n\n\"Got to come at once!\" he shouted.\n\n\"I hain\'t \'_ad_ _sich_ a time for years!\" said the old lady.\n\n\"We\'ll have to get down through the house!\"\n\n\"Can\'t do no jumpin\',\" said the old lady. \"No!\"\n\nShe yielded reluctantly to his grasp.\n\nShe stared over the parapet. \"Runnin\' and scurrying about like black\nbeetles in a kitchin,\" she said.\n\n\"We\'ve got to hurry.\"\n\n\"Mr. Rumbold \'E\'s a very Quiet man. \'E likes everything Quiet. He\'ll\nbe surprised to see me \'ere! Why!--there \'e is!\" She fumbled in her\ngarments mysteriously and at last produced a wrinkled pocket\nhandkerchief and began to wave it.\n\n\"Oh, come ON!\" cried Mr. Polly, and seized her.\n\nHe got her into the attic, but the staircase, he found, was full of\nsuffocating smoke, and he dared not venture below the next floor. He\ntook her into a long dormitory, shut the door on those pungent and\npervasive fumes, and opened the window to discover the fire escape was\nnow against the house, and all Fishbourne boiling with excitement as\nan immensely helmeted and active and resolute little figure ascended.\nIn another moment the rescuer stared over the windowsill, heroic, but\njust a trifle self-conscious and grotesque.\n\n\"Lawks a mussy!\" said the old lady. \"Wonders and Wonders! Why! it\'s\nMr. Gambell! \'Iding \'is \'ed in that thing! I _never_ did!\"\n\n\"Can we get her out?\" said Mr. Gambell. \"There\'s not much time.\"\n\n\"He might git stuck in it.\"\n\n\"_You\'ll_ get stuck in it,\" said Mr. Polly, \"come along!\"\n\n\"Not for jumpin\' I don\'t,\" said the old lady, understanding his\ngestures rather than his words. \"Not a bit of it. I bain\'t no good at\njumping and I _wunt_.\"\n\nThey urged her gently but firmly towards the window.\n\n\"You _lemme_ do it my own way,\" said the old lady at the sill....\n\n\"I could do it better if e\'d take it off.\"\n\n\"Oh! _carm_ on!\"\n\n\"It\'s wuss than Carter\'s stile,\" she said, \"before they mended it.\nWith a cow a-looking at you.\"\n\nMr. Gambell hovered protectingly below. Mr. Polly steered her aged\nlimbs from above. An anxious crowd below babbled advice and did its\nbest to upset the fire escape. Within, streamers of black smoke were\npouring up through the cracks in the floor. For some seconds the world\nwaited while the old lady gave herself up to reckless mirth again.\n\"_Sich_ times!\" she said, and \"_Poor_ Rumbold!\"\n\nSlowly they descended, and Mr. Polly remained at the post of danger\nsteadying the long ladder until the old lady was in safety below and\nsheltered by Mr. Rumbold (who was in tears) and the young policeman\nfrom the urgent congratulations of the crowd. The crowd was full of an\nimpotent passion to participate. Those nearest wanted to shake her\nhand, those remoter cheered.\n\n\"The fust fire I was ever in and likely to be my last. It\'s a\nscurryin\', \'urryin\' business, but I\'m real glad I haven\'t missed it,\"\nsaid the old lady as she was borne rather than led towards the refuge\nof the Temperance Hotel.\n\nAlso she was heard to remark: \"\'E was saying something about \'ot\nchestnuts. _I_ \'aven\'t \'ad no \'ot chestnuts.\"\n\nThen the crowd became aware of Mr. Polly awkwardly negotiating the top\nrungs of the fire escape. \"\'Ere \'e comes!\" cried a voice, and Mr.\nPolly descended into the world again out of the conflagration he had\nlit to be his funeral pyre, moist, excited, and tremendously alive,\namidst a tempest of applause. As he got lower and lower the crowd\nhowled like a pack of dogs at him. Impatient men unable to wait for\nhim seized and shook his descending boots, and so brought him to earth\nwith a run. He was rescued with difficulty from an enthusiast who\nwished to slake at his own expense and to his own accompaniment a\nthirst altogether heroic. He was hauled into the Temperance Hotel and\nflung like a sack, breathless and helpless, into the tear-wet embrace\nof Miriam.\n\n\nV\n\nWith the dusk and the arrival of some county constabulary, and first\none and presently two other fire engines from Port Burdock and\nHampstead-on-Sea, the local talent of Fishbourne found itself forced\nback into a secondary, less responsible and more observant rôle. I\nwill not pursue the story of the fire to its ashes, nor will I do more\nthan glance at the unfortunate Mr. Rusper, a modern Laocoon, vainly\ntrying to retrieve his scattered hose amidst the tramplings and\nrushings of the Port Burdock experts.\n\nIn a small sitting-room of the Fishbourne Temperance Hotel a little\ngroup of Fishbourne tradesmen sat and conversed in fragments and anon\nwent to the window and looked out upon the smoking desolation of their\nhomes across the way, and anon sat down again. They and their families\nwere the guests of old Lady Bargrave, who had displayed the utmost\nsympathy and interest in their misfortunes. She had taken several\npeople into her own house at Everdean, had engaged the Temperance\nHotel as a temporary refuge, and personally superintended the housing\nof Mantell and Throbson\'s homeless assistants. The Temperance Hotel\nbecame and remained extremely noisy and congested, with people sitting\nabout anywhere, conversing in fragments and totally unable to get\nthemselves to bed. The manager was an old soldier, and following the\nbest traditions of the service saw that everyone had hot cocoa. Hot\ncocoa seemed to be about everywhere, and it was no doubt very\nheartening and sustaining to everyone. When the manager detected\nanyone disposed to be drooping or pensive he exhorted that person at\nonce to drink further hot cocoa and maintain a stout heart.\n\nThe hero of the occasion, the centre of interest, was Mr. Polly. For\nhe had not only caused the fire by upsetting a lighted lamp, scorching\nhis trousers and narrowly escaping death, as indeed he had now\nexplained in detail about twenty times, but he had further thought at\nonce of that amiable but helpless old lady next door, had shown the\nutmost decision in making his way to her over the yard wall of the\nRoyal Fishbourne Hotel, and had rescued her with persistence and\nvigour in spite of the levity natural to her years. Everyone thought\nwell of him and was anxious to show it, more especially by shaking his\nhand painfully and repeatedly. Mr. Rumbold, breaking a silence of\nnearly fifteen years, thanked him profusely, said he had never\nunderstood him properly and declared he ought to have a medal. There\nseemed to be a widely diffused idea that Mr. Polly ought to have a\nmedal. Hinks thought so. He declared, moreover, and with the utmost\nemphasis, that Mr. Polly had a crowded and richly decorated\ninterior--or words to that effect. There was something apologetic in\nthis persistence; it was as if he regretted past intimations that Mr.\nPolly was internally defective and hollow. He also said that Mr. Polly\nwas a \"white man,\" albeit, as he developed it, with a liver of the\ndeepest chromatic satisfactions.\n\nMr. Polly wandered centrally through it all, with his face washed and\nhis hair carefully brushed and parted, looking modest and more than a\nlittle absent-minded, and wearing a pair of black dress trousers\nbelonging to the manager of the Temperance Hotel,--a larger man than\nhimself in every way.\n\nHe drifted upstairs to his fellow-tradesmen, and stood for a time\nstaring into the littered street, with its pools of water and\nextinguished gas lamps. His companions in misfortune resumed a\nfragmentary disconnected conversation. They touched now on one aspect\nof the disaster and now on another, and there were intervals of\nsilence. More or less empty cocoa cups were distributed over the\ntable, mantelshelf and piano, and in the middle of the table was a tin\nof biscuits, into which Mr. Rumbold, sitting round-shoulderedly,\ndipped ever and again in an absent-minded way, and munched like a\ndistant shooting of coals. It added to the solemnity of the affair\nthat nearly all of them were in their black Sunday clothes; little\nClamp was particularly impressive and dignified in a wide open frock\ncoat, a Gladstone-shaped paper collar, and a large white and blue tie.\nThey felt that they were in the presence of a great disaster, the sort\nof disaster that gets into the papers, and is even illustrated by\nblurred photographs of the crumbling ruins. In the presence of that\nsort of disaster all honourable men are lugubrious and sententious.\n\nAnd yet it is impossible to deny a certain element of elation. Not one\nof those excellent men but was already realising that a great door had\nopened, as it were, in the opaque fabric of destiny, that they were to\nget their money again that had seemed sunken for ever beyond any hope\nin the deeps of retail trade. Life was already in their imagination\nrising like a Phoenix from the flames.\n\n\"I suppose there\'ll be a public subscription,\" said Mr. Clamp.\n\n\"Not for those who\'re insured,\" said Mr. Wintershed.\n\n\"I was thinking of them assistants from Mantell and Throbson\'s. They\nmust have lost nearly everything.\"\n\n\"They\'ll be looked after all right,\" said Mr. Rumbold. \"Never fear.\"\n\nPause.\n\n\"_I\'m_ insured,\" said Mr. Clamp, with unconcealed satisfaction. \"Royal\nSalamander.\"\n\n\"Same here,\" said Mr. Wintershed.\n\n\"Mine\'s the Glasgow Sun,\" Mr. Hinks remarked. \"Very good company.\"\n\n\"You insured, Mr. Polly?\"\n\n\"He deserves to be,\" said Rumbold.\n\n\"Ra-ther,\" said Hinks. \"Blowed if he don\'t. Hard lines it _would_\nbe--if there wasn\'t something for him.\"\n\n\"Commercial and General,\" answered Mr. Polly over his shoulder, still\nstaring out of the window. \"Oh! I\'m all right.\"\n\nThe topic dropped for a time, though manifestly it continued to\nexercise their minds.\n\n\"It\'s cleared me out of a lot of old stock,\" said Mr. Wintershed;\n\"that\'s one good thing.\"\n\nThe remark was felt to be in rather questionable taste, and still more\nso was his next comment.\n\n\"Rusper\'s a bit sick it didn\'t reach \'_im_.\"\n\nEveryone looked uncomfortable, and no one was willing to point the\nreason why Rusper should be a bit sick.\n\n\"Rusper\'s been playing a game of his own,\" said Hinks. \"Wonder what he\nthought he was up to! Sittin\' in the middle of the road with a pair of\ntweezers he was, and about a yard of wire--mending somethin\'. Wonder\nhe warn\'t run over by the Port Burdock engine.\"\n\nPresently a little chat sprang up upon the causes of fires, and Mr.\nPolly was moved to tell how it had happened for the one and twentieth\ntime. His story had now become as circumstantial and exact as the\nevidence of a police witness. \"Upset the lamp,\" he said. \"I\'d just\nlighted it, I was going upstairs, and my foot slipped against where\none of the treads was a bit rotten, and down I went. Thing was aflare\nin a moment!...\"\n\nHe yawned at the end of the discussion, and moved doorward.\n\n\"So long,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Good night,\" said Mr. Rumbold. \"You played a brave man\'s part! If you\ndon\'t get a medal--\"\n\nHe left an eloquent pause.\n\n\"\'Ear, \'ear!\" said Mr. Wintershed and Mr. Clamp. \"Goo\'night, O\' Man,\"\nsaid Mr. Hinks.\n\n\"Goo\'night All,\" said Mr. Polly ...\n\nHe went slowly upstairs. The vague perplexity common to popular heroes\npervaded his mind. He entered the bedroom and turned up the electric\nlight. It was quite a pleasant room, one of the best in the Temperance\nHotel, with a nice clean flowered wallpaper, and a very large\nlooking-glass. Miriam appeared to be asleep, and her shoulders were\nhumped up under the clothes in a shapeless, forbidding lump that Mr.\nPolly had found utterly loathsome for fifteen years. He went softly\nover to the dressing-table and surveyed himself thoughtfully.\nPresently he hitched up the trousers. \"Miles too big for me,\" he\nremarked. \"Funny not to have a pair of breeches of one\'s own.... Like\nbeing born again. Naked came I into the world....\"\n\nMiriam stirred and rolled over, and stared at him.\n\n\"Hello!\" she said.\n\n\"Hello.\"\n\n\"Come to bed?\"\n\n\"It\'s three.\"\n\nPause, while Mr. Polly disrobed slowly.\n\n\"I been thinking,\" said Miriam, \"It isn\'t going to be so bad after\nall. We shall get your insurance. We can easy begin all over again.\"\n\n\"H\'m,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nShe turned her face away from him and reflected.\n\n\"Get a better house,\" said Miriam, regarding the wallpaper pattern.\n\"I\'ve always \'ated them stairs.\"\n\nMr. Polly removed a boot.\n\n\"Choose a better position where there\'s more doing,\" murmured\nMiriam....\n\n\"Not half so bad,\" she whispered....\n\n\"You _wanted_ stirring up,\" she said, half asleep....\n\nIt dawned upon Mr. Polly for the first time that he had forgotten\nsomething.\n\nHe ought to have cut his throat!\n\nThe fact struck him as remarkable, but as now no longer of any\nparticular urgency. It seemed a thing far off in the past, and he\nwondered why he had not thought of it before. Odd thing life is! If he\nhad done it he would never have seen this clean and agreeable\napartment with the electric light.... His thoughts wandered into a\nquestion of detail. Where could he have put the razor down? Somewhere\nin the little room behind the shop, he supposed, but he could not\nthink where more precisely. Anyhow it didn\'t matter now.\n\nHe undressed himself calmly, got into bed, and fell asleep almost\nimmediately.\n\n\n\nChapter the Ninth\n\nThe Potwell Inn\n\n\nI\n\nBut when a man has once broken through the paper walls of everyday\ncircumstance, those unsubstantial walls that hold so many of us\nsecurely prisoned from the cradle to the grave, he has made a\ndiscovery. If the world does not please you _you can change it_.\nDetermine to alter it at any price, and you can change it altogether.\nYou may change it to something sinister and angry, to something\nappalling, but it may be you will change it to something brighter,\nsomething more agreeable, and at the worst something much more\ninteresting. There is only one sort of man who is absolutely to blame\nfor his own misery, and that is the man who finds life dull and\ndreary. There are no circumstances in the world that determined action\ncannot alter, unless perhaps they are the walls of a prison cell, and\neven those will dissolve and change, I am told, into the infirmary\ncompartment at any rate, for the man who can fast with resolution. I\ngive these things as facts and information, and with no moral\nintimations. And Mr. Polly lying awake at nights, with a renewed\nindigestion, with Miriam sleeping sonorously beside him and a general\nair of inevitableness about his situation, saw through it, understood\nthere was no inevitable any more, and escaped his former despair.\n\nHe could, for example, \"clear out.\"\n\nIt became a wonderful and alluring phrase to him: \"clear out!\"\n\nWhy had he never thought of clearing out before?\n\nHe was amazed and a little shocked at the unimaginative and\nsuperfluous criminality in him that had turned old cramped and\nstagnant Fishbourne into a blaze and new beginnings. (I wish from the\nbottom of my heart I could add that he was properly sorry.) But\nsomething constricting and restrained seemed to have been destroyed by\nthat flare. _Fishbourne wasn\'t the world_. That was the new, the\nessential fact of which he had lived so lamentably in ignorance.\nFishbourne as he had known it and hated it, so that he wanted to kill\nhimself to get out of it, _wasn\'t the world_.\n\nThe insurance money he was to receive made everything humane and\nkindly and practicable. He would \"clear out,\" with justice and\nhumanity. He would take exactly twenty-one pounds, and all the rest he\nwould leave to Miriam. That seemed to him absolutely fair. Without\nhim, she could do all sorts of things--all the sorts of things she was\nconstantly urging him to do.\n\nAnd he would go off along the white road that led to Garchester, and\non to Crogate and so to Tunbridge Wells, where there was a Toad Rock\nhe had heard of, but never seen. (It seemed to him this must needs be\na marvel.) And so to other towns and cities. He would walk and loiter\nby the way, and sleep in inns at night, and get an odd job here and\nthere and talk to strange people. Perhaps he would get quite a lot of\nwork and prosper, and if he did not do so he would lie down in front\nof a train, or wait for a warm night, and then fall into some smooth,\nbroad river. Not so bad as sitting down to a dentist, not nearly so\nbad. And he would never open a shop any more. Never!\n\nSo the possibilities of the future presented themselves to Mr. Polly\nas he lay awake at nights.\n\nIt was springtime, and in the woods so soon as one got out of reach of\nthe sea wind, there would be anémones and primroses.\n\n\nII\n\nA month later a leisurely and dusty tramp, plump equatorially and\nslightly bald, with his hands in his pockets and his lips puckered to\na contemplative whistle, strolled along the river bank between\nUppingdon and Potwell. It was a profusely budding spring day and\ngreens such as God had never permitted in the world before in human\nmemory (though indeed they come every year), were mirrored vividly in\na mirror of equally unprecedented brown. For a time the wanderer\nstopped and stood still, and even the thin whistle died away from his\nlips as he watched a water vole run to and fro upon a little headland\nacross the stream. The vole plopped into the water and swam and dived\nand only when the last ring of its disturbance had vanished did Mr.\nPolly resume his thoughtful course to nowhere in particular.\n\nFor the first time in many years he had been leading a healthy human\nlife, living constantly in the open air, walking every day for eight\nor nine hours, eating sparingly, accepting every conversational\nopportunity, not even disdaining the discussion of possible work. And\nbeyond mending a hole in his coat that he had made while negotiating\nbarbed wire, with a borrowed needle and thread in a lodging house, he\nhad done no work at all. Neither had he worried about business nor\nabout time and seasons. And for the first time in his life he had seen\nthe Aurora Borealis.\n\nSo far the holiday had cost him very little. He had arranged it on a\nplan that was entirely his own. He had started with four five-pound\nnotes and a pound divided into silver, and he had gone by train from\nFishbourne to Ashington. At Ashington he had gone to the post-office,\nobtained a registered letter, and sent his four five-pound notes with\na short brotherly note addressed to himself at Gilhampton Post-office.\nHe sent this letter to Gilhampton for no other reason in the world\nthan that he liked the name of Gilhampton and the rural suggestion of\nits containing county, which was Sussex, and having so despatched it,\nhe set himself to discover, mark down and walk to Gilhampton, and so\nrecover his resources. And having got to Gilhampton at last, he\nchanged his five-pound note, bought four pound postal orders, and\nrepeated his manoeuvre with nineteen pounds.\n\nAfter a lapse of fifteen years he rediscovered this interesting world,\nabout which so many people go incredibly blind and bored. He went\nalong country roads while all the birds were piping and chirruping and\ncheeping and singing, and looked at fresh new things, and felt as\nhappy and irresponsible as a boy with an unexpected half-holiday. And\nif ever the thought of Miriam returned to him he controlled his mind.\nHe came to country inns and sat for unmeasured hours talking of this\nand that to those sage carters who rest for ever in the taps of\ncountry inns, while the big sleek brass jingling horses wait patiently\noutside with their waggons; he got a job with some van people who were\nwandering about the country with swings and a steam roundabout and\nremained with them for three days, until one of their dogs took a\nviolent dislike to him and made his duties unpleasant; he talked to\ntramps and wayside labourers, he snoozed under hedges by day and in\nouthouses and hayricks at night, and once, but only once, he slept in\na casual ward. He felt as the etiolated grass and daisies must do when\nyou move the garden roller away to a new place.\n\nHe gathered a quantity of strange and interesting memories.\n\nHe crossed some misty meadows by moonlight and the mist lay low on the\ngrass, so low that it scarcely reached above his waist, and houses and\nclumps of trees stood out like islands in a milky sea, so sharply\ndenned was the upper surface of the mistbank. He came nearer and\nnearer to a strange thing that floated like a boat upon this magic\nlake, and behold! something moved at the stern and a rope was whisked\nat the prow, and it had changed into a pensive cow, drowsy-eyed,\nregarding him....\n\nHe saw a remarkable sunset in a new valley near Maidstone, a very red\nand clear sunset, a wide redness under a pale cloudless heaven, and\nwith the hills all round the edge of the sky a deep purple blue and\nclear and flat, looking exactly as he had seen mountains painted in\npictures. He seemed transported to some strange country, and would\nhave felt no surprise if the old labourer he came upon leaning\nsilently over a gate had addressed him in an unfamiliar tongue....\n\nThen one night, just towards dawn, his sleep upon a pile of brushwood\nwas broken by the distant rattle of a racing motor car breaking all\nthe speed regulations, and as he could not sleep again, he got up and\nwalked into Maidstone as the day came. He had never been abroad in a\ntown at half-past two in his life before, and the stillness of\neverything in the bright sunrise impressed him profoundly. At one\ncorner was a startling policeman, standing in a doorway quite\nmotionless, like a waxen image. Mr. Polly wished him \"good morning\"\nunanswered, and went down to the bridge over the Medway and sat on the\nparapet very still and thoughtful, watching the town awaken, and\nwondering what he should do if it didn\'t, if the world of men never\nwoke again....\n\nOne day he found himself going along a road, with a wide space of\nsprouting bracken and occasional trees on either side, and suddenly\nthis road became strangely, perplexingly familiar. \"Lord!\" he said,\nand turned about and stood. \"It can\'t be.\"\n\nHe was incredulous, then left the road and walked along a scarcely\nperceptible track to the left, and came in half a minute to an old\nlichenous stone wall. It seemed exactly the bit of wall he had known\nso well. It might have been but yesterday he was in that place; there\nremained even a little pile of wood. It became absurdly the same wood.\nThe bracken perhaps was not so high, and most of its fronds still\nuncoiled; that was all. Here he had stood, it seemed, and there she\nhad sat and looked down upon him. Where was she now, and what had\nbecome of her? He counted the years back and marvelled that beauty\nshould have called to him with so imperious a voice--and signified\nnothing.\n\nHe hoisted himself with some little difficulty to the top of the wall,\nand saw off under the beech trees two schoolgirls--small,\ninsignificant, pig-tailed creatures, with heads of blond and black,\nwith their arms twined about each other\'s necks, no doubt telling each\nother the silliest secrets.\n\nBut that girl with the red hair--was she a countess? was she a queen?\nChildren perhaps? Had sorrow dared to touch her?\n\nHad she forgotten altogether?...\n\nA tramp sat by the roadside thinking, and it seemed to the man in the\npassing motor car he must needs be plotting for another pot of beer.\nBut as a matter of fact what the tramp was saying to himself over and\nover again was a variant upon a well-known Hebrew word.\n\n\"Itchabod,\" the tramp was saying in the voice of one who reasons on\nthe side of the inevitable. \"It\'s Fair Itchabod, O\' Man. There\'s no\ngoing back to it.\"\n\n\nIII\n\nIt was about two o\'clock in the afternoon one hot day in high May when\nMr. Polly, unhurrying and serene, came to that broad bend of the river\nto which the little lawn and garden of the Potwell Inn run down. He\nstopped at the sight of the place with its deep tiled roof, nestling\nunder big trees--you never get a decently big, decently shaped tree by\nthe seaside--its sign towards the roadway, its sun-blistered green\nbench and tables, its shapely white windows and its row of upshooting\nhollyhock plants in the garden. A hedge separated it from a\nbuttercup-yellow meadow, and beyond stood three poplars in a group\nagainst the sky, three exceptionally tall, graceful and harmonious\npoplars. It is hard to say what there was about them that made them so\nbeautiful to Mr. Polly; but they seemed to him to touch a pleasant\nscene to a distinction almost divine. He remained admiring them for a\nlong time. At last the need for coarser aesthetic satisfactions arose\nin him.\n\n\"Provinder,\" he whispered, drawing near to the Inn. \"Cold sirloin for\nchoice. And nut-brown brew and wheaten bread.\"\n\nThe nearer he came to the place the more he liked it. The windows on\nthe ground floor were long and low, and they had pleasing red blinds.\nThe green tables outside were agreeably ringed with memories of former\ndrinks, and an extensive grape vine spread level branches across the\nwhole front of the place. Against the wall was a broken oar, two\nboat-hooks and the stained and faded red cushions of a pleasure boat.\nOne went up three steps to the glass-panelled door and peeped into a\nbroad, low room with a bar and beer engine, behind which were many\nbright and helpful looking bottles against mirrors, and great and\nlittle pewter measures, and bottles fastened in brass wire upside down\nwith their corks replaced by taps, and a white china cask labelled\n\"Shrub,\" and cigar boxes and boxes of cigarettes, and a couple of Toby\njugs and a beautifully coloured hunting scene framed and glazed,\nshowing the most elegant and beautiful people taking Piper\'s Cherry\nBrandy, and cards such as the law requires about the dilution of\nspirits and the illegality of bringing children into bars, and\nsatirical verses about swearing and asking for credit, and three very\nbright red-cheeked wax apples and a round-shaped clock.\n\nBut these were the mere background to the really pleasant thing in the\nspectacle, which was quite the plumpest woman Mr. Polly had ever seen,\nseated in an armchair in the midst of all these bottles and glasses\nand glittering things, peacefully and tranquilly, and without the\nslightest loss of dignity, asleep. Many people would have called her\na fat woman, but Mr. Polly\'s innate sense of epithet told him from the\noutset that plump was the word. She had shapely brows and a straight,\nwell-shaped nose, kind lines and contentment about her mouth, and\nbeneath it the jolly chins clustered like chubby little cherubim about\nthe feet of an Assumptioning-Madonna. Her plumpness was firm and pink\nand wholesome, and her hands, dimpled at every joint, were clasped in\nfront of her; she seemed as it were to embrace herself with infinite\nconfidence and kindliness as one who knew herself good in substance,\ngood in essence, and would show her gratitude to God by that ready\nacceptance of all that he had given her. Her head was a little on one\nside, not much, but just enough to speak of trustfulness, and rob her\nof the stiff effect of self-reliance. And she slept.\n\n\"_My_ sort,\" said Mr. Polly, and opened the door very softly, divided\nbetween the desire to enter and come nearer and an instinctive\nindisposition to break slumbers so manifestly sweet and satisfying.\n\nShe awoke with a start, and it amazed Mr. Polly to see swift terror\nflash into her eyes. Instantly it had gone again.\n\n\"Law!\" she said, her face softening with relief, \"I thought you were\nJim.\"\n\n\"I\'m never Jim,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"You\'ve got his sort of hat.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Mr. Polly, and leant over the bar.\n\n\"It just came into my head you was Jim,\" said the plump lady,\ndismissed the topic and stood up. \"I believe I was having forty\nwinks,\" she said, \"if all the truth was told. What can I do for you?\"\n\n\"Cold meat?\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"There _is_ cold meat,\" the plump woman admitted.\n\n\"And room for it.\"\n\nThe plump woman came and leant over the bar and regarded him\njudicially, but kindly. \"There\'s some cold boiled beef,\" she said, and\nadded: \"A bit of crisp lettuce?\"\n\n\"New mustard,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"And a tankard!\"\n\n\"A tankard.\"\n\nThey understood each other perfectly.\n\n\"Looking for work?\" asked the plump woman.\n\n\"In a way,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nThey smiled like old friends.\n\nWhatever the truth may be about love, there is certainly such a thing\nas friendship at first sight. They liked each other\'s voices, they\nliked each other\'s way of smiling and speaking.\n\n\"It\'s such beautiful weather this spring,\" said Mr. Polly, explaining\neverything.\n\n\"What sort of work do you want?\" she asked.\n\n\"I\'ve never properly thought that out,\" said Mr. Polly. \"I\'ve been\nlooking round--for Ideas.\"\n\n\"Will you have your beef in the tap or outside? That\'s the tap.\"\n\nMr. Polly had a glimpse of an oaken settle. \"In the tap will be\nhandier for you,\" he said.\n\n\"Hear that?\" said the plump lady.\n\n\"Hear what?\"\n\n\"Listen.\"\n\nPresently the silence was broken by a distant howl. \"Oooooo-_ver_!\"\n\"Eh?\" she said.\n\nHe nodded.\n\n\"That\'s the ferry. And there isn\'t a ferryman.\"\n\n\"Could I?\"\n\n\"Can you punt?\"\n\n\"Never tried.\"\n\n\"Well--pull the pole out before you reach the end of the punt, that\'s\nall. Try.\"\n\nMr. Polly went out again into the sunshine.\n\nAt times one can tell so much so briefly. Here are the facts\nthen--bare. He found a punt and a pole, got across to the steps on the\nopposite side, picked up an elderly gentleman in an alpaca jacket and\na pith helmet, cruised with him vaguely for twenty minutes, conveyed\nhim tortuously into the midst of a thicket of forget-me-not spangled\nsedges, splashed some water-weed over him, hit him twice with the punt\npole, and finally landed him, alarmed but abusive, in treacherous soil\nat the edge of a hay meadow about forty yards down stream, where he\nimmediately got into difficulties with a noisy, aggressive little\nwhite dog, which was guardian of a jacket.\n\nMr. Polly returned in a complicated manner to his moorings.\n\nHe found the plump woman rather flushed and tearful, and seated at one\nof the green tables outside.\n\n\"I been laughing at you,\" she said.\n\n\"What for?\" asked Mr. Polly.\n\n\"I ain\'t \'ad such a laugh since Jim come \'ome. When you \'it \'is \'ed,\nit \'urt my side.\"\n\n\"It didn\'t hurt his head--not particularly.\"\n\nShe waved her head. \"Did you charge him anything?\"\n\n\"Gratis,\" said Mr. Polly. \"I never thought of it.\"\n\nThe plump woman pressed her hands to her sides and laughed silently\nfor a space. \"You ought to have charged him sumpthing,\" she said. \"You\nbetter come and have your cold meat, before you do any more puntin\'.\nYou and me\'ll get on together.\"\n\nPresently she came and stood watching him eat. \"You eat better than\nyou punt,\" she said, and then, \"I dessay you could learn to punt.\"\n\n\"Wax to receive and marble to retain,\" said Mr. Polly. \"This beef is a\nBit of All Right, Ma\'m. I could have done differently if I hadn\'t been\npunting on an empty stomach. There\'s a lear feeling as the pole goes\nin--\"\n\n\"I\'ve never held with fasting,\" said the plump woman.\n\n\"You want a ferryman?\"\n\n\"I want an odd man about the place.\"\n\n\"I\'m odd, all right. What\'s your wages?\"\n\n\"Not much, but you get tips and pickings. I\'ve a sort of feeling it\nwould suit you.\"\n\n\"I\'ve a sort of feeling it would. What\'s the duties? Fetch and carry?\nFerry? Garden? Wash bottles? _Ceteris paribus?_\"\n\n\"That\'s about it,\" said the fat woman.\n\n\"Give me a trial.\"\n\n\"I\'ve more than half a mind. Or I wouldn\'t have said anything about\nit. I suppose you\'re all right. You\'ve got a sort of half-respectable\nlook about you. I suppose you \'aven\'t _done_ anything.\"\n\n\"Bit of Arson,\" said Mr. Polly, as if he jested.\n\n\"So long as you haven\'t the habit,\" said the plump woman.\n\n\"My first time, M\'am,\" said Mr. Polly, munching his way through an\nexcellent big leaf of lettuce. \"And my last.\"\n\n\"It\'s all right if you haven\'t been to prison,\" said the plump woman.\n\"It isn\'t what a man\'s happened to do makes \'im bad. We all happen to\ndo things at times. It\'s bringing it home to him, and spoiling his\nself-respect does the mischief. You don\'t _look_ a wrong \'un. \'Ave you\nbeen to prison?\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"Nor a reformatory? Nor any institution?\"\n\n\"Not me. Do I _look_ reformed?\"\n\n\"Can you paint and carpenter a bit?\"\n\n\"Well, I\'m ripe for it.\"\n\n\"Have a bit of cheese?\"\n\n\"If I might.\"\n\nAnd the way she brought the cheese showed Mr. Polly that the business\nwas settled in her mind.\n\nHe spent the afternoon exploring the premises of the Potwell Inn and\nlearning the duties that might be expected of him, such as Stockholm\ntarring fences, digging potatoes, swabbing out boats, helping people\nland, embarking, landing and time-keeping for the hirers of two rowing\nboats and one Canadian canoe, baling out the said vessels and\nconcealing their leaks and defects from prospective hirers, persuading\ninexperienced hirers to start down stream rather than up, repairing\nrowlocks and taking inventories of returning boats with a view to\nsupplementary charges, cleaning boots, sweeping chimneys,\nhouse-painting, cleaning windows, sweeping out and sanding the tap and\nbar, cleaning pewter, washing glasses, turpentining woodwork,\nwhitewashing generally, plumbing and engineering, repairing locks and\nclocks, waiting and tapster\'s work generally, beating carpets and\nmats, cleaning bottles and saving corks, taking into the cellar,\nmoving, tapping and connecting beer casks with their engines, blocking\nand destroying wasps\' nests, doing forestry with several trees,\ndrowning superfluous kittens, and dog-fancying as required, assisting\nin the rearing of ducklings and the care of various poultry,\nbee-keeping, stabling, baiting and grooming horses and asses, cleaning\nand \"garing\" motor cars and bicycles, inflating tires and repairing\npunctures, recovering the bodies of drowned persons from the river as\nrequired, and assisting people in trouble in the water, first-aid and\nsympathy, improvising and superintending a bathing station for\nvisitors, attending inquests and funerals in the interests of the\nestablishment, scrubbing floors and all the ordinary duties of a\nscullion, the ferry, chasing hens and goats from the adjacent cottages\nout of the garden, making up paths and superintending drainage,\ngardening generally, delivering bottled beer and soda water syphons in\nthe neighbourhood, running miscellaneous errands, removing drunken and\noffensive persons from the premises by tact or muscle as occasion\nrequired, keeping in with the local policemen, defending the premises\nin general and the orchard in particular from depredators....\n\n\"Can but try it,\" said Mr. Polly towards tea time. \"When there\'s\nnothing else on hand I suppose I might do a bit of fishing.\"\n\n\nIV\n\nMr. Polly was particularly charmed by the ducklings.\n\nThey were piping about among the vegetables in the company of their\nfoster mother, and as he and the plump woman came down the garden path\nthe little creatures mobbed them, and ran over their boots and in\nbetween Mr. Polly\'s legs, and did their best to be trodden upon and\nkilled after the manner of ducklings all the world over. Mr. Polly had\nnever been near young ducklings before, and their extreme blondness\nand the delicate completeness of their feet and beaks filled him with\nadmiration. It is open to question whether there is anything more\nfriendly in the world than a very young duckling. It was with the\nutmost difficulty that he tore himself away to practise punting, with\nthe plump woman coaching from the bank. Punting he found was\ndifficult, but not impossible, and towards four o\'clock he succeeded\nin conveying a second passenger across the sundering flood from the\ninn to the unknown.\n\nAs he returned, slowly indeed, but now one might almost say surely, to\nthe peg to which the punt was moored, he became aware of a singularly\ndelightful human being awaiting him on the bank. She stood with her\nlegs very wide apart, her hands behind her back, and her head a little\non one side, watching his gestures with an expression of disdainful\ninterest. She had black hair and brown legs and a buff short frock and\nvery intelligent eyes. And when he had reached a sufficient proximity\nshe remarked: \"Hello!\"\n\n\"Hello,\" said Mr. Polly, and saved himself in the nick of time from\ndisaster.\n\n\"Silly,\" said the young lady, and Mr. Polly lunged nearer.\n\n\"What are you called?\"\n\n\"Polly.\"\n\n\"Liar!\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"I\'m Polly.\"\n\n\"Then I\'m Alfred. But I meant to be Polly.\"\n\n\"I was first.\"\n\n\"All right. I\'m going to be the ferryman.\"\n\n\"I see. You\'ll have to punt better.\"\n\n\"You should have seen me early in the afternoon.\"\n\n\"I can imagine it.... I\'ve seen the others.\"\n\n\"What others?\" Mr. Polly had landed now and was fastening up the punt.\n\n\"What Uncle Jim has scooted.\"\n\n\"Scooted?\"\n\n\"He comes and scoots them. He\'ll scoot you too, I expect.\"\n\nA mysterious shadow seemed to fall athwart the sunshine and\npleasantness of the Potwell Inn.\n\n\"I\'m not a scooter,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Uncle Jim is.\"\n\nShe whistled a little flatly for a moment, and threw small stones at a\nclump of meadow-sweet that sprang from the bank. Then she remarked:\n\n\"When Uncle Jim comes back he\'ll cut your insides out.... P\'raps, very\nlikely, he\'ll let me see.\"\n\nThere was a pause.\n\n\"_Who\'s_ Uncle Jim?\" Mr. Polly asked in a faded voice.\n\n\"Don\'t you know who Uncle Jim is? He\'ll show you. He\'s a scorcher, is\nUncle Jim. He only came back just a little time ago, and he\'s scooted\nthree men. He don\'t like strangers about, don\'t Uncle Jim. He _can_\nswear. He\'s going to teach me, soon as I can whissle properly.\"\n\n\"Teach you to swear!\" cried Mr. Polly, horrified.\n\n\"_And_ spit,\" said the little girl proudly. \"He says I\'m the gamest\nlittle beast he ever came across--ever.\"\n\nFor the first time in his life it seemed to Mr. Polly that he had come\nacross something sheerly dreadful. He stared at the pretty thing of\nflesh and spirit in front of him, lightly balanced on its stout little\nlegs and looking at him with eyes that had still to learn the\nexpression of either disgust or fear.\n\n\"I say,\" said Mr. Polly, \"how old are you?\"\n\n\"Nine,\" said the little girl.\n\nShe turned away and reflected. Truth compelled her to add one other\nstatement.\n\n\"He\'s not what I should call handsome, not Uncle Jim,\" she said. \"But\nhe\'s a scorcher and no mistake.... Gramma don\'t like him.\"\n\n\nV\n\nMr. Polly found the plump woman in the big bricked kitchen lighting a\nfire for tea. He went to the root of the matter at once.\n\n\"I say,\" he asked, \"who\'s Uncle Jim?\"\n\nThe plump woman blanched and stood still for a moment. A stick fell\nout of the bundle in her hand unheeded.\n\n\"That little granddaughter of mine been saying things?\" she asked\nfaintly.\n\n\"Bits of things,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Well, I suppose I must tell you sooner or later. He\'s--. It\'s Jim.\nHe\'s the Drorback to this place, that\'s what he is. The Drorback. I\nhoped you mightn\'t hear so soon.... Very likely he\'s gone.\"\n\n\"_She_ don\'t seem to think so.\"\n\n\"\'E \'asn\'t been near the place these two weeks and more,\" said the\nplump woman.\n\n\"But who is he?\"\n\n\"I suppose I got to tell you,\" said the plump woman.\n\n\"She says he scoots people,\" Mr. Polly remarked after a pause.\n\n\"He\'s my own sister\'s son.\" The plump woman watched the crackling fire\nfor a space. \"I suppose I got to tell you,\" she repeated.\n\nShe softened towards tears. \"I try not to think of it, and night and\nday he\'s haunting me. I try not to think of it. I\'ve been for\neasy-going all my life. But I\'m that worried and afraid, with death\nand ruin threatened and evil all about me! I don\'t know what to do! My\nown sister\'s son, and me a widow woman and \'elpless against his\ndoin\'s!\"\n\nShe put down the sticks she held upon the fender, and felt for her\nhandkerchief. She began to sob and talk quickly.\n\n\"I wouldn\'t mind nothing else half so much if he\'d leave that child\nalone. But he goes talking to her--if I leave her a moment he\'s\ntalking to her, teaching her words and giving her ideas!\"\n\n\"That\'s a Bit Thick,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Thick!\" cried the plump woman; \"it\'s \'orrible! And what am I to do?\nHe\'s been here three times now, six days and a week and a part of a\nweek, and I pray to God night and day he may never come again.\nPraying! Back he\'s come sure as fate. He takes my money and he takes\nmy things. He won\'t let no man stay here to protect me or do the boats\nor work the ferry. The ferry\'s getting a scandal. They stand and shout\nand scream and use language.... If I complain they\'ll say I\'m helpless\nto manage here, they\'ll take away my license, out I shall go--and it\'s\nall the living I can get--and he knows it, and he plays on it, and he\ndon\'t care. And here I am. I\'d send the child away, but I got nowhere\nto send the child. I buys him off when it comes to that, and back he\ncomes, worse than ever, prowling round and doing evil. And not a soul\nto help me. Not a soul! I just hoped there might be a day or so.\nBefore he comes back again. I was just hoping--I\'m the sort that\nhopes.\"\n\nMr. Polly was reflecting on the flaws and drawbacks that seem to be\ninseparable from all the more agreeable things in life.\n\n\"Biggish sort of man, I expect?\" asked Mr. Polly, trying to get the\nsituation in all its bearings.\n\nBut the plump woman did not heed him. She was going on with her\nfire-making, and retailing in disconnected fragments the fearfulness\nof Uncle Jim.\n\n\"There was always something a bit wrong with him,\" she said, \"but\nnothing you mightn\'t have hoped for, not till they took him and\ncarried him off and reformed him....\n\n\"He was cruel to the hens and chickings, it\'s true, and stuck a knife\ninto another boy, but then I\'ve seen him that nice to a cat, nobody\ncould have been kinder. I\'m sure he didn\'t do no \'arm to that cat\nwhatever anyone tries to make out of it. I\'d never listen to that....\nIt was that reformatory ruined him. They put him along of a lot of\nLondon boys full of ideas of wickedness, and because he didn\'t mind\npain--and he don\'t, I will admit, try as I would--they made him think\nhimself a hero. Them boys laughed at the teachers they set over them,\nlaughed and mocked at them--and I don\'t suppose they was the best\nteachers in the world; I don\'t suppose, and I don\'t suppose anyone\nsensible does suppose that everyone who goes to be a teacher or a\nchapl\'in or a warder in a Reformatory Home goes and changes right away\ninto an Angel of Grace from Heaven--and Oh, Lord! where was I?\"\n\n\"What did they send him to the Reformatory for?\"\n\n\"Playing truant and stealing. He stole right enough--stole the money\nfrom an old woman, and what was I to do when it came to the trial but\nsay what I knew. And him like a viper a-looking at me--more like a\nviper than a human boy. He leans on the bar and looks at me. \'All\nright, Aunt Flo,\' he says, just that and nothing more. Time after\ntime, I\'ve dreamt of it, and now he\'s come. \'They\'ve Reformed me,\' he\nsays, \'and made me a devil, and devil I mean to be to you. So out with\nit,\' he says.\"\n\n\"What did you give him last time?\" asked Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Three golden pounds,\" said the plump woman.\n\n\"\'That won\'t last very long,\' he says. \'But there ain\'t no hurry. I\'ll\nbe back in a week about.\' If I wasn\'t one of the hoping sort--\"\n\nShe left the sentence unfinished.\n\nMr. Polly reflected. \"What sort of a size is he?\" he asked. \"I\'m not\none of your Herculaceous sort, if you mean that. Nothing very\nwonderful bicepitally.\"\n\n\"You\'ll scoot,\" said the plump woman with conviction rather than\nbitterness. \"You\'d better scoot now, and I\'ll try and find some money\nfor him to go away again when he comes. It ain\'t reasonable to expect\nyou to do anything but scoot. But I suppose it\'s the way of a woman in\ntrouble to try and get help from a man, and hope and hope. I\'m the\nhoping sort.\"\n\n\"How long\'s he been about?\" asked Mr. Polly, ignoring his own outlook.\n\n\"Three months it is come the seventh since he come in by that very\nback door--and I hadn\'t set eyes on him for seven long years. He stood\nin the door watchin\' me, and suddenly he let off a yelp--like a dog,\nand there he was grinning at the fright he\'d given me. \'Good old Aunty\nFlo,\' he says, \'ain\'t you dee-lighted to see me?\' he says, \'now I\'m\nReformed.\'\"\n\nThe plump lady went to the sink and filled the kettle.\n\n\"I never did like \'im,\" she said, standing at the sink. \"And seeing\nhim there, with his teeth all black and broken--. P\'raps I didn\'t give\nhim much of a welcome at first. Not what would have been kind to him.\n\'Lord!\' I said, \'it\'s Jim.\'\"\n\n\"\'It\'s Jim,\' he said. \'Like a bad shillin\'--like a damned bad\nshilling. Jim and trouble. You all of you wanted me Reformed and now\nyou got me Reformed. I\'m a Reformatory Reformed Character, warranted\nall right and turned out as such. Ain\'t you going to ask me in, Aunty\ndear?\'\n\n\"\'Come in,\' I said, \'I won\'t have it said I wasn\'t ready to be kind to\nyou!\'\n\n\"He comes in and shuts the door. Down he sits in that chair. \'I come\nto torment you!\' he says, \'you Old Sumpthing!\' and begins at me.... No\nhuman being could ever have been called such things before. It made me\ncry out. \'And now,\' he says, \'just to show I ain\'t afraid of \'urting\nyou,\' he says, and ups and twists my wrist.\"\n\nMr. Polly gasped.\n\n\"I could stand even his vi\'lence,\" said the plump woman, \"if it wasn\'t\nfor the child.\"\n\nMr. Polly went to the kitchen window and surveyed his namesake, who\nwas away up the garden path with her hands behind her back, and whisps\nof black hair in disorder about her little face, thinking, thinking\nprofoundly, about ducklings.\n\n\"You two oughtn\'t to be left,\" he said.\n\nThe plump woman stared at his back with hard hope in her eyes.\n\n\"I don\'t see that it\'s _my_ affair,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nThe plump woman resumed her business with the kettle.\n\n\"I\'d like to have a look at him before I go,\" said Mr. Polly, thinking\naloud. And added, \"somehow. Not my business, of course.\"\n\n\"Lord!\" he cried with a start at a noise in the bar, \"who\'s that?\"\n\n\"Only a customer,\" said the plump woman.\n\n\nVI\n\nMr. Polly made no rash promises, and thought a great deal.\n\n\"It seems a good sort of Crib,\" he said, and added, \"for a chap who\'s\nlooking for trouble.\"\n\nBut he stayed on and did various things out of the list I have already\ngiven, and worked the ferry, and it was four days before he saw anything\nof Uncle Jim. And so _resistent_ is the human mind to things not yet\nexperienced that he could easily have believed in that time that there\nwas no such person in the world as Uncle Jim. The plump woman, after\nher one outbreak of confidence, ignored the subject, and little Polly\nseemed to have exhausted her impressions in her first communication,\nand engaged her mind now with a simple directness in the study and\nsubjugation of the new human being Heaven had sent into her world. The\nfirst unfavourable impression of his punting was soon effaced; he could\nnickname ducklings very amusingly, create boats out of wooden splinters,\nand stalk and fly from imaginary tigers in the orchard with a convincing\nearnestness that was surely beyond the power of any other human being.\nShe conceded at last that he should be called Mr. Polly, in honour of\nher, Miss Polly, even as he desired.\n\nUncle Jim turned up in the twilight.\n\nUncle Jim appeared with none of the disruptive violence Mr. Polly had\ndreaded. He came quite softly. Mr. Polly was going down the lane\nbehind the church that led to the Potwell Inn after posting a letter\nto the lime-juice people at the post-office. He was walking slowly,\nafter his habit, and thinking discursively. With a sudden tightening\nof the muscles he became aware of a figure walking noiselessly beside\nhim. His first impression was of a face singularly broad above and\nwith a wide empty grin as its chief feature below, of a slouching body\nand dragging feet.\n\n\"Arf a mo\',\" said the figure, as if in response to his start, and\nspeaking in a hoarse whisper. \"Arf a mo\', mister. You the noo bloke at\nthe Potwell Inn?\"\n\nMr. Polly felt evasive. \"\'Spose I am,\" he replied hoarsely, and\nquickened his pace.\n\n\"Arf a mo\',\" said Uncle Jim, taking his arm. \"We ain\'t doing a\n(sanguinary) Marathon. It ain\'t a (decorated) cinder track. I want a\nword with you, mister. See?\"\n\nMr. Polly wriggled his arm free and stopped. \"What is it?\" he asked,\nand faced the terror.\n\n\"I jest want a (decorated) word wiv you. See?--just a friendly word or\ntwo. Just to clear up any blooming errors. That\'s all I want. No need\nto be so (richly decorated) proud, if you _are_ the noo bloke at\nPotwell Inn. Not a bit of it. See?\"\n\nUncle Jim was certainly not a handsome person. He was short, shorter\nthan Mr. Polly, with long arms and lean big hands, a thin and wiry\nneck stuck out of his grey flannel shirt and supported a big head that\nhad something of the snake in the convergent lines of its broad knotty\nbrow, meanly proportioned face and pointed chin. His almost toothless\nmouth seemed a cavern in the twilight. Some accident had left him with\none small and active and one large and expressionless reddish eye, and\nwisps of straight hair strayed from under the blue cricket cap he wore\npulled down obliquely over the latter. He spat between his teeth and\nwiped his mouth untidily with the soft side of his fist.\n\n\"You got to blurry well shift,\" he said. \"See?\"\n\n\"Shift!\" said Mr. Polly. \"How?\"\n\n\"\'Cos the Potwell Inn\'s _my_ beat. See?\"\n\nMr. Polly had never felt less witty. \"How\'s it your beat?\" he asked.\n\nUncle Jim thrust his face forward and shook his open hand, bent like a\nclaw, under Mr. Polly\'s nose. \"Not your blooming business,\" he said.\n \"You got to shift.\"\n\n\"S\'pose I don\'t,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"You got to shift.\"\n\nThe tone of Uncle Jim\'s voice became urgent and confidential.\n\n\"You don\'t know who you\'re up against,\" he said. \"It\'s a kindness I\'m\ndoing to warn you. See? I\'m just one of those blokes who don\'t stick\nat things, see? I don\'t stick at nuffin\'.\"\n\nMr. Polly\'s manner became detached and confidential--as though the\nmatter and the speaker interested him greatly, but didn\'t concern him\nover-much. \"What do you think you\'ll do?\" he asked.\n\n\"If you don\'t clear out?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"_Gaw!_\" said Uncle Jim. \"You\'d better. \'_Ere!_\"\n\nHe gripped Mr. Polly\'s wrist with a grip of steel, and in an instant\nMr. Polly understood the relative quality of their muscles. He\nbreathed, an uninspiring breath, into Mr. Polly\'s face.\n\n\"What _won\'t_ I do?\" he said. \"Once I start in on you.\"\n\nHe paused, and the night about them seemed to be listening. \"I\'ll make\na mess of you,\" he said in his hoarse whisper. \"I\'ll do you--injuries.\nI\'ll \'urt you. I\'ll kick you ugly, see? I\'ll \'urt you in \'orrible\nways--\'orrible, ugly ways....\"\n\nHe scrutinised Mr. Polly\'s face.\n\n\"You\'ll cry,\" he said, \"to see yourself. See? Cry you will.\"\n\n\"You got no right,\" began Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Right!\" His note was fierce. \"Ain\'t the old woman me aunt?\"\n\nHe spoke still closer. \"I\'ll make a gory mess of you. I\'ll cut bits\norf you--\"\n\nHe receded a little. \"I got no quarrel with _you_,\" he said.\n\n\"It\'s too late to go to-night,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"I\'ll be round to-morrer--\'bout eleven. See? And if I finds you--\"\n\nHe produced a blood-curdling oath.\n\n\"H\'m,\" said Mr. Polly, trying to keep things light. \"We\'ll consider\nyour suggestions.\"\n\n\"You better,\" said Uncle Jim, and suddenly, noiselessly, was going.\n\nHis whispering voice sank until Mr. Polly could hear only the dim\nfragments of sentences. \"Orrible things to you--\'orrible things....\nKick yer ugly.... Cut yer--liver out... spread it all about, I\nwill.... Outing doos. See? I don\'t care a dead rat one way or the\nuvver.\"\n\nAnd with a curious twisting gesture of the arm Uncle Jim receded until\nhis face was a still, dim thing that watched, and the black shadows of\nthe hedge seemed to have swallowed up his body altogether.\n\n\nVII\n\nNext morning about half-past ten Mr. Polly found himself seated under\na clump of fir trees by the roadside and about three miles and a half\nfrom the Potwell Inn. He was by no means sure whether he was taking a\nwalk to clear his mind or leaving that threat-marred Paradise for good\nand all. His reason pointed a lean, unhesitating finger along the\nlatter course.\n\nFor after all, the thing was not _his_ quarrel.\n\nThat agreeable plump woman, agreeable, motherly, comfortable as she\nmight be, wasn\'t his affair; that child with the mop of black hair who\ncombined so magically the charm of mouse and butterfly and flitting\nbird, who was daintier than a flower and softer than a peach, was no\nconcern of his. Good heavens! what were they to him? Nothing!...\n\nUncle Jim, of course, _had_ a claim, a sort of claim.\n\nIf it came to duty and chucking up this attractive, indolent,\nobservant, humorous, tramping life, there were those who had a right\nto him, a legitimate right, a prior claim on his protection and\nchivalry.\n\nWhy not listen to the call of duty and go back to Miriam now?...\n\nHe had had a very agreeable holiday....\n\nAnd while Mr. Polly sat thinking these things as well as he could, he\nknew that if only he dared to look up the heavens had opened and the\nclear judgment on his case was written across the sky.\n\nHe knew--he knew now as much as a man can know of life. He knew he had\nto fight or perish.\n\nLife had never been so clear to him before. It had always been a\nconfused, entertaining spectacle, he had responded to this impulse and\nthat, seeking agreeable and entertaining things, evading difficult and\npainful things. Such is the way of those who grow up to a life that\nhas neither danger nor honour in its texture. He had been muddled and\nwrapped about and entangled like a creature born in the jungle who has\nnever seen sea or sky. Now he had come out of it suddenly into a great\nexposed place. It was as if God and Heaven waited over him and all the\nearth was expectation.\n\n\"Not my business,\" said Mr. Polly, speaking aloud. \"Where the devil do\n_I_ come in?\"\n\nAnd again, with something between a whine and a snarl in his voice,\n\"not my blasted business!\"\n\nHis mind seemed to have divided itself into several compartments, each\nwith its own particular discussion busily in progress, and quite\nregardless of the others. One was busy with the detailed\ninterpretation of the phrase \"Kick you ugly.\" There\'s a sort of French\nwrestling in which you use and guard against feet. Watch the man\'s\neye, and as his foot comes up, grip and over he goes--at your mercy if\nyou use the advantage right. But how do you use the advantage rightly?\n\nWhen he thought of Uncle Jim the inside feeling of his body faded away\nrapidly to a blank discomfort....\n\n\"Old cadger! She hadn\'t no business to drag me into her quarrels.\nOught to go to the police and ask for help! Dragging me into a quarrel\nthat don\'t concern me.\"\n\n\"Wish I\'d never set eyes on the rotten inn!\"\n\nThe reality of the case arched over him like the vault of the sky, as\nplain as the sweet blue heavens above and the wide spread of hill and\nvalley about him. Man comes into life to seek and find his sufficient\nbeauty, to serve it, to win and increase it, to fight for it, to face\nanything and dare anything for it, counting death as nothing so long\nas the dying eyes still turn to it. And fear, and dulness and\nindolence and appetite, which indeed are no more than fear\'s three\ncrippled brothers who make ambushes and creep by night, are against\nhim, to delay him, to hold him off, to hamper and beguile and kill him\nin that quest. He had but to lift his eyes to see all that, as much a\npart of his world as the driving clouds and the bending grass, but he\nkept himself downcast, a grumbling, inglorious, dirty, fattish little\ntramp, full of dreads and quivering excuses.\n\n\"Why the hell was I ever born?\" he said, with the truth almost winning\nhim.\n\nWhat do you do when a dirty man who smells, gets you down and under in\nthe dirt and dust with a knee below your diaphragm and a large hairy\nhand squeezing your windpipe tighter and tighter in a quarrel that\nisn\'t, properly speaking, yours?\n\n\"If I had a chance against him--\" protested Mr. Polly.\n\n\"It\'s no Good, you see,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nHe stood up as though his decision was made, and was for an instant\nstruck still by doubt.\n\nThere lay the road before him going this way to the east and that to\nthe west.\n\nWestward, one hour away now, was the Potwell Inn. Already things might\nbe happening there....\n\nEastward was the wise man\'s course, a road dipping between hedges to a\nhop garden and a wood and presently no doubt reaching an inn, a\npicturesque church, perhaps, a village and fresh company. The wise\nman\'s course. Mr. Polly saw himself going along it, and tried to see\nhimself going along it with all the self-applause a wise man feels.\nBut somehow it wouldn\'t come like that. The wise man fell short of\nhappiness for all his wisdom. The wise man had a paunch and round\nshoulders and red ears and excuses. It was a pleasant road, and why\nthe wise man should not go along it merry and singing, full of summer\nhappiness, was a miracle to Mr. Polly\'s mind, but confound it! the\nfact remained, the figure went slinking--slinking was the only word\nfor it--and would not go otherwise than slinking. He turned his eyes\nwestward as if for an explanation, and if the figure was no longer\nignoble, the prospect was appalling.\n\n\"One kick in the stummick would settle a chap like me,\" said Mr.\nPolly.\n\n\"Oh, God!\" cried Mr. Polly, and lifted his eyes to heaven, and said\nfor the last time in that struggle, \"It isn\'t my affair!\"\n\nAnd so saying he turned his face towards the Potwell Inn.\n\nHe went back neither halting nor hastening in his pace after this last\ndecision, but with a mind feverishly busy.\n\n\"If I get killed, I get killed, and if he gets killed I get hung.\nDon\'t seem just somehow.\n\n\"Don\'t suppose I shall _frighten_ him off.\"\n\n\nVIII\n\nThe private war between Mr. Polly and Uncle Jim for the possession of\nthe Potwell Inn fell naturally into three chief campaigns. There was\nfirst of all the great campaign which ended in the triumphant eviction\nof Uncle Jim from the inn premises, there came next after a brief\ninterval the futile invasions of the premises by Uncle Jim that\nculminated in the Battle of the Dead Eel, and after some months of\ninvoluntary truce there was the last supreme conflict of the Night\nSurprise. Each of these campaigns merits a section to itself.\n\nMr. Polly re-entered the inn discreetly. He found the plump woman\nseated in her bar, her eyes a-stare, her face white and wet with\ntears. \"O God!\" she was saying over and over again. \"O God!\" The air\nwas full of a spirituous reek, and on the sanded boards in front of\nthe bar were the fragments of a broken bottle and an overturned glass.\n\nShe turned her despair at the sound of his entry, and despair gave\nplace to astonishment.\n\n\"You come back!\" she said.\n\n\"Ra-ther,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"He\'s--he\'s mad drunk and looking for her.\"\n\n\"Where is she?\"\n\n\"Locked upstairs.\"\n\n\"Haven\'t you sent to the police?\"\n\n\"No one to send.\"\n\n\"I\'ll see to it,\" said Mr. Polly. \"Out this way?\"\n\nShe nodded.\n\nHe went to the crinkly paned window and peered out. Uncle Jim was\ncoming down the garden path towards the house, his hands in his\npockets and singing hoarsely. Mr. Polly remembered afterwards with\npride and amazement that he felt neither faint nor rigid. He glanced\nround him, seized a bottle of beer by the neck as an improvised club,\nand went out by the garden door. Uncle Jim stopped amazed. His brain\ndid not instantly rise to the new posture of things. \"You!\" he cried,\nand stopped for a moment. \"You--_scoot!_\"\n\n\"_Your_ job,\" said Mr. Polly, and advanced some paces.\n\nUncle Jim stood swaying with wrathful astonishment and then darted\nforward with clutching hands. Mr. Polly felt that if his antagonist\nclosed he was lost, and smote with all his force at the ugly head\nbefore him. Smash went the bottle, and Uncle Jim staggered,\nhalf-stunned by the blow and blinded with beer.\n\nThe lapses and leaps of the human mind are for ever mysterious. Mr.\nPolly had never expected that bottle to break. In the instant he felt\ndisarmed and helpless. Before him was Uncle Jim, infuriated and\nevidently still coming on, and for defence was nothing but the neck of\na bottle.\n\nFor a time our Mr. Polly has figured heroic. Now comes the fall again;\nhe sounded abject terror; he dropped that ineffectual scrap of glass\nand turned and fled round the corner of the house.\n\n\"Bolls!\" came the thick voice of the enemy behind him as one who\naccepts a challenge, and bleeding, but indomitable, Uncle Jim entered\nthe house.\n\n\"Bolls!\" he said, surveying the bar. \"Fightin\' with bolls! I\'ll show\n\'im fightin\' with bolls!\"\n\nUncle Jim had learnt all about fighting with bottles in the\nReformatory Home. Regardless of his terror-stricken aunt he ranged\namong the bottled beer and succeeded after one or two failures in\npreparing two bottles to his satisfaction by knocking off the bottoms,\nand gripping them dagger-wise by the necks. So prepared, he went forth\nagain to destroy Mr. Polly.\n\nMr. Polly, freed from the sense of urgent pursuit, had halted beyond\nthe raspberry canes and rallied his courage. The sense of Uncle Jim\nvictorious in the house restored his manhood. He went round by the\nouthouses to the riverside, seeking a weapon, and found an old paddle\nboat hook. With this he smote Uncle Jim as he emerged by the door of\nthe tap. Uncle Jim, blaspheming dreadfully and with dire stabbing\nintimations in either hand, came through the splintering paddle like a\ncircus rider through a paper hoop, and once more Mr. Polly dropped his\nweapon and fled.\n\nA careless observer watching him sprint round and round the inn in\nfront of the lumbering and reproachful pursuit of Uncle Jim might have\nformed an altogether erroneous estimate of the issue of the campaign.\nCertain compensating qualities of the very greatest military value\nwere appearing in Mr. Polly even as he ran; if Uncle Jim had strength\nand brute courage and the rich toughening experience a Reformatory\nHome affords, Mr. Polly was nevertheless sober, more mobile and with a\nmind now stimulated to an almost incredible nimbleness. So that he not\nonly gained on Uncle Jim, but thought what use he might make of this\nadvantage. The word \"strategious\" flamed red across the tumult of his\nmind. As he came round the house for the third time, he darted\nsuddenly into the yard, swung the door to behind himself and bolted\nit, seized the zinc pig\'s pail that stood by the entrance to the\nkitchen and had it neatly and resonantly over Uncle Jim\'s head as he\ncame belatedly in round the outhouse on the other side. One of the\nsplintered bottles jabbed Mr. Polly\'s ear--at the time it seemed of no\nimportance--and then Uncle Jim was down and writhing dangerously and\nnoisily upon the yard tiles, with his head still in the pig pail and\nhis bottles gone to splinters, and Mr. Polly was fastening the kitchen\ndoor against him.\n\n\"Can\'t go on like this for ever,\" said Mr. Polly, whooping for breath,\nand selecting a weapon from among the brooms that stood behind the\nkitchen door.\n\nUncle Jim was losing his head. He was up and kicking the door and\nbellowing unamiable proposals and invitations, so that a strategist\nemerging silently by the tap door could locate him without difficulty,\nsteal upon him unawares and--!\n\nBut before that felling blow could be delivered Uncle Jim\'s ear had\ncaught a footfall, and he turned. Mr. Polly quailed and lowered his\nbroom,--a fatal hesitation.\n\n\"_Now_ I got you!\" cried Uncle Jim, dancing forward in a disconcerting\nzigzag.\n\nHe rushed to close, and Mr. Polly stopped him neatly, as it were a\nmiracle, with the head of the broom across his chest. Uncle Jim seized\nthe broom with both hands. \"Lea-go!\" he said, and tugged. Mr. Polly\nshook his head, tugged, and showed pale, compressed lips. Both tugged.\nThen Uncle Jim tried to get round the end of the broom; Mr. Polly\ncircled away. They began to circle about one another, both tugging\nhard, both intensely watchful of the slightest initiative on the part\nof the other. Mr. Polly wished brooms were longer, twelve or thirteen\nfeet, for example; Uncle Jim was clearly for shortness in brooms. He\nwasted breath in saying what was to happen shortly, sanguinary,\noriental soul-blenching things, when the broom no longer separated\nthem. Mr. Polly thought he had never seen an uglier person. Suddenly\nUncle Jim flashed into violent activity, but alcohol slows movement,\nand Mr. Polly was equal to him. Then Uncle Jim tried jerks, and for a\nterrible instant seemed to have the broom out of Mr. Polly\'s hands.\nBut Mr. Polly recovered it with the clutch of a drowning man. Then\nUncle Jim drove suddenly at Mr. Polly\'s midriff, but again Mr. Polly\nwas ready and swept him round in a circle. Then suddenly a wild hope\nfilled Mr. Polly. He saw the river was very near, the post to which\nthe punt was tied not three yards away. With a wild yell, he sent the\nbroom home into his antagonist\'s ribs.\n\n\"Woosh!\" he cried, as the resistance gave.\n\n\"Oh! _Gaw_!\" said Uncle Jim, going backward helplessly, and Mr. Polly\nthrust hard and abandoned the broom to the enemy\'s despairing clutch.\n\nSplash! Uncle Jim was in the water and Mr. Polly had leapt like a cat\naboard the ferry punt and grasped the pole.\n\nUp came Uncle Jim spluttering and dripping. \"You (unprofitable matter,\nand printing it would lead to a censorship of novels)! You know I got\na weak _chess_!\"\n\nThe pole took him in the throat and drove him backward and downwards.\n\n\"Lea go!\" cried Uncle Jim, staggering and with real terror in his once\nawful eyes.\n\nSplash! Down he fell backwards into a frothing mass of water with Mr.\nPolly jabbing at him. Under water he turned round and came up again as\nif in flight towards the middle of the river. Directly his head\nreappeared Mr. Polly had him between the shoulders and under again,\nbubbling thickly. A hand clutched and disappeared.\n\nIt was stupendous! Mr. Polly had discovered the heel of Achilles.\nUncle Jim had no stomach for cold water. The broom floated away,\npitching gently on the swell. Mr. Polly, infuriated with victory,\nthrust Uncle Jim under again, and drove the punt round on its chain in\nsuch a manner that when Uncle Jim came up for the fourth time--and now\nhe was nearly out of his depth, too buoyed up to walk and apparently\nnearly helpless,--Mr. Polly, fortunately for them both, could not\nreach him. Uncle Jim made the clumsy gestures of those who struggle\ninsecurely in the water. \"Keep out,\" said Mr. Polly. Uncle Jim with a\ngreat effort got a footing, emerged until his arm-pits were out of\nwater, until his waistcoat buttons showed, one by one, till scarcely\ntwo remained, and made for the camp sheeting.\n\n\"Keep out!\" cried Mr. Polly, and leapt off the punt and followed the\nmovements of his victim along the shore.\n\n\"I tell you I got a weak chess,\" said Uncle Jim, moistly. \"This ain\'t\nfair fightin\'.\"\n\n\"Keep out!\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"This ain\'t fair fightin\',\" said Uncle Jim, almost weeping, and all\nhis terrors had gone.\n\n\"Keep out!\" said Mr. Polly, with an accurately poised pole.\n\n\"I tell you I got to land, you Fool,\" said Uncle Jim, with a sort of\ndespairing wrathfulness, and began moving down-stream.\n\n\"You keep out,\" said Mr. Polly in parallel movement. \"Don\'t you ever\nland on this place again!...\"\n\nSlowly, argumentatively, and reluctantly, Uncle Jim waded down-stream.\nHe tried threats, he tried persuasion, he even tried a belated note of\npathos; Mr. Polly remained inexorable, if in secret a little perplexed\nas to the outcome of the situation. \"This cold\'s getting to my\n_marrer_!\" said Uncle Jim.\n\n\"You want cooling. You keep out in it,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nThey came round the bend into sight of Nicholson\'s ait, where the\nbackwater runs down to the Potwell Mill. And there, after much parley\nand several feints, Uncle Jim made a desperate effort and struggled\ninto clutch of the overhanging _osiers_ on the island, and so got out\nof the water with the millstream between them. He emerged dripping and\nmuddy and vindictive. \"By _Gaw_!\" he said. \"I\'ll skin you for this!\"\n\n\"You keep off or I\'ll do worse to you,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nThe spirit was out of Uncle Jim for the time, and he turned away to\nstruggle through the _osiers_ towards the mill, leaving a shining\ntrail of water among the green-grey stems.\n\nMr. Polly returned slowly and thoughtfully to the inn, and suddenly\nhis mind began to bubble with phrases. The plump woman stood at the\ntop of the steps that led up to the inn door to greet him.\n\n\"Law!\" she cried as he drew near, \"\'asn\'t \'e killed you?\"\n\n\"Do I look like it?\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"But where\'s Jim?\"\n\n\"Gone off.\"\n\n\"\'E was mad drunk and dangerous!\"\n\n\"I put him in the river,\" said Mr. Polly. \"That toned down his\nalcolaceous frenzy! I gave him a bit of a doing altogether.\"\n\n\"Hain\'t he \'urt you?\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it!\"\n\n\"Then what\'s all that blood beside your ear?\"\n\nMr. Polly felt. \"Quite a cut! Funny how one overlooks things! Heated\nmoments! He must have done that when he jabbed about with those\nbottles. Hullo, Kiddy! You venturing downstairs again?\"\n\n\"Ain\'t he killed you?\" asked the little girl.\n\n\"Well!\"\n\n\"I wish I\'d seen more of the fighting.\"\n\n\"Didn\'t you?\"\n\n\"All I saw was you running round the house and Uncle Jim after you.\"\n\nThere was a little pause. \"I was leading him on,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Someone\'s shouting at the ferry,\" she said.\n\n\"Right O. But you won\'t see any more of Uncle Jim for a bit. We\'ve\nbeen having a _conversazione_ about that.\"\n\n\"I believe it _is_ Uncle Jim,\" said the little girl.\n\n\"Then he can wait,\" said Mr. Polly shortly.\n\nHe turned round and listened for the words that drifted across from\nthe little figure on the opposite bank. So far as he could judge,\nUncle Jim was making an appointment for the morrow. He replied with a\ndefiant movement of the punt pole. The little figure was convulsed for\na moment and then went on its way upstream--fiercely.\n\nSo it was the first campaign ended in an insecure victory.\n\n\nIX\n\nThe next day was Wednesday and a slack day for the Potwell Inn. It was\na hot, close day, full of the murmuring of bees. One or two people\ncrossed by the ferry, an elaborately equipped fisherman stopped for\ncold meat and dry ginger ale in the bar parlour, some haymakers came\nand drank beer for an hour, and afterwards sent jars and jugs by a boy\nto be replenished; that was all. Mr. Polly had risen early and was\nbusy about the place meditating upon the probable tactics of Uncle\nJim. He was no longer strung up to the desperate pitch of the first\nencounter. But he was grave and anxious. Uncle Jim had shrunken, as\nall antagonists that are boldly faced shrink, after the first battle,\nto the negotiable, the vulnerable. Formidable he was no doubt, but not\ninvincible. He had, under Providence, been defeated once, and he might\nbe defeated altogether.\n\nMr. Polly went about the place considering the militant possibilities\nof pacific things, _pokers_, copper sticks, garden implements, kitchen\nknives, garden nets, barbed wire, oars, clothes lines, blankets,\npewter pots, stockings and broken bottles. He prepared a club with a\nstocking and a bottle inside upon the best East End model. He swung it\nround his head once, broke an outhouse window with a flying fragment\nof glass, and ruined the stocking beyond all darning. He developed a\nsubtle scheme with the cellar flap as a sort of pitfall, but he\nrejected it finally because (A) it might entrap the plump woman, and\n(B) he had no use whatever for Uncle Jim in the cellar. He determined\nto wire the garden that evening, burglar fashion, against the\npossibilities of a night attack.\n\nTowards two o\'clock in the afternoon three young men arrived in a\ncapacious boat from the direction of Lammam, and asked permission to\ncamp in the paddock. It was given all the more readily by Mr. Polly\nbecause he perceived in their proximity a possible check upon the\nself-expression of Uncle Jim. But he did not foresee and no one could\nhave foreseen that Uncle Jim, stealing unawares upon the Potwell Inn\nin the late afternoon, armed with a large rough-hewn stake, should\nhave mistaken the bending form of one of those campers--who was\npulling a few onions by permission in the garden--for Mr. Polly\'s, and\ncrept upon it swiftly and silently and smitten its wide invitation\nunforgettably and unforgiveably. It was an error impossible to\nexplain; the resounding whack went up to heaven, the cry of amazement,\nand Mr. Polly emerged from the inn armed with the frying-pan he was\ncleaning, to take this reckless assailant in the rear. Uncle Jim,\nrealising his error, fled blaspheming into the arms of the other two\ncampers, who were returning from the village with butcher\'s meat and\ngroceries. They caught him, they smacked his face with steak and\npunched him with a bursting parcel of lump sugar, they held him though\nhe bit them, and their idea of punishment was to duck him. They were\nhilarious, strong young stockbrokers\' clerks, _Territorials_ and\nseasoned boating men; they ducked him as though it was romping, and all\nthat Mr. Polly had to do was to pick up lumps of sugar for them and wipe\nthem on his sleeve and put them on a plate, and explain that Uncle Jim\nwas a notorious bad character and not quite right in his head.\n\n\"Got a regular obsession that the Missis is his Aunt,\" said Mr. Polly,\nexpanding it. \"Perfect noosance he is.\"\n\nBut he caught a glance of Uncle Jim\'s eye as he receded before the\ncampers\' urgency that boded ill for him, and in the night he had a\ndisagreeable idea that perhaps his luck might not hold for the third\noccasion.\n\nThat came soon enough. So soon, indeed, as the campers had gone.\n\nThursday was the early closing day at Lammam, and next to Sunday the\nbusiest part of the week at the Potwell Inn. Sometimes as many as six\nboats all at once would be moored against the ferry punt and hiring\nrowboats. People could either have a complete tea, a complete tea with\njam, cake and eggs, a kettle of boiling water and find the rest, or\nrefreshments _á la carte_, as they chose. They sat about, but usually\nthe boiling water-_ers_ had a delicacy about using the tables and\ngrouped themselves humbly on the ground. The _complete_ tea-_ers_ with\njam and eggs got the best tablecloth on the table nearest the steps\nthat led up to the glass-panelled door. The groups about the lawn were\nvery satisfying to Mr. Polly\'s sense of amenity. To the right were the\n_complete_ tea-_ers_ with everything heart could desire, then a small\ngroup of three young men in remarkable green and violet and pale-blue\nshirts, and two girls in mauve and yellow blouses with common teas and\ngooseberry jam at the green clothless table, then on the grass down by\nthe pollard willow a small family of hot water-_ers_ with a hamper, a\nlittle troubled by wasps in their jam from the nest in the tree and\nall in mourning, but happy otherwise, and on the lawn to the right a\nginger beer lot of \'prentices without their collars and very jocular\nand happy. The young people in the rainbow shirts and blouses formed\nthe centre of interest; they were under the leadership of a\ngold-spectacled senior with a fluting voice and an air of mystery; he\nordered everything, and showed a peculiar knowledge of the qualities\nof the Potwell jams, preferring gooseberry with much insistence. Mr.\nPolly watched him, christened him the \"benifluous influence,\" glanced\nat the \'prentices and went inside and down into the cellar in order to\nreplenish the stock of stone ginger beer which the plump woman had\nallowed to run low during the preoccupations of the campaign. It was\nin the cellar that he first became aware of the return of Uncle Jim.\nHe became aware of him as a voice, a voice not only hoarse, but thick,\nas voices thicken under the influence of alcohol.\n\n\"Where\'s that muddy-faced mongrel?\" cried Uncle Jim. \"Let \'im come out\nto me! Where\'s that blighted whisp with the punt pole--I got a word to\nsay to \'im. Come out of it, you pot-bellied chunk of dirtiness, you!\nCome out and \'_ave_ your ugly face wiped. I got a Thing for you....\n\'_Ear_ me?\n\n\"\'E\'s \'iding, that\'s what \'e\'s doing,\" said the voice of Uncle Jim,\ndropping for a moment to sorrow, and then with a great increment of\nwrathfulness: \"Come out of my nest, you blinking cuckoo, you, or I\'ll\ncut your silly insides out! Come out of it--you pock-marked rat!\nStealing another man\'s \'ome away from \'im! Come out and look me in the\nface, you squinting son of a Skunk!...\"\n\nMr. Polly took the ginger beer and went thoughtfully upstairs to the\nbar.\n\n\"\'E\'s back,\" said the plump woman as he appeared. \"I knew \'e\'d come\nback.\"\n\n\"I heard him,\" said Mr. Polly, and looked about. \"Just gimme the old\npoker handle that\'s under the beer engine.\"\n\nThe door opened softly and Mr. Polly turned quickly. But it was only\nthe pointed nose and intelligent face of the young man with the gilt\nspectacles and discreet manner. He coughed and the spectacles fixed\nMr. Polly.\n\n\"I say,\" he said with quiet earnestness. \"There\'s a chap out here\nseems to want someone.\"\n\n\"Why don\'t he come in?\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"He seems to want you out there.\"\n\n\"What\'s he want?\"\n\n\"I _think_,\" said the spectacled young man after a thoughtful moment,\n\"he appears to have brought you a present of fish.\"\n\n\"Isn\'t he shouting?\"\n\n\"He _is_ a little boisterous.\"\n\n\"He\'d better come in.\"\n\nThe manner of the spectacled young man intensified. \"I wish you\'d come\nout and persuade him to go away,\" he said. \"His language--isn\'t quite\nthe thing--ladies.\"\n\n\"It never was,\" said the plump woman, her voice charged with sorrow.\n\nMr. Polly moved towards the door and stood with his hand on the\nhandle. The gold-spectacled face disappeared.\n\n\"Now, my man,\" came his voice from outside, \"be careful what you\'re\nsaying--\"\n\n\"Oo in all the World and Hereafter are you to call me, me man?\" cried\nUncle Jim in the voice of one astonished and pained beyond endurance,\nand added scornfully: \"You gold-eyed Geezer, you!\"\n\n\"Tut, tut!\" said the gentleman in gilt glasses. \"Restrain yourself!\"\n\nMr. Polly emerged, poker in hand, just in time to see what followed.\nUncle Jim in his shirtsleeves and a state of ferocious decolletage,\nwas holding something--yes!--a dead eel by means of a piece of\nnewspaper about its tail, holding it down and back and a little\nsideways in such a way as to smite with it upward and hard. It struck\nthe spectacled gentleman under the jaw with a peculiar dead thud, and\na cry of horror came from the two seated parties at the sight. One of\nthe girls shrieked piercingly, \"Horace!\" and everyone sprang up. The\nsense of helping numbers came to Mr. Polly\'s aid.\n\n\"Drop it!\" he cried, and came down the steps waving his poker and\nthrusting the spectacled gentleman before him as once heroes were wont\nto wield the ox-hide shield.\n\nUncle Jim gave ground suddenly, and trod upon the foot of a young man\nin a blue shirt, who immediately thrust at him violently with both\nhands.\n\n\"Lea go!\" howled Uncle Jim. \"That\'s the chap I\'m looking for!\" and\npressing the head of the spectacled gentleman aside, smote hard at Mr.\nPolly.\n\nBut at the sight of this indignity inflicted upon the spectacled\ngentleman a woman\'s heart was stirred, and a pink parasol drove hard\nand true at Uncle Jim\'s wiry neck, and at the same moment the young\nman in the blue shirt sought to collar him and lost his grip again.\n\n\"Suffragettes,\" gasped Uncle Jim with the ferule at his throat.\n\"Everywhere!\" and aimed a second more successful blow at Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Wup!\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nBut now the jam and egg party was joining in the fray. A stout yet\nstill fairly able-bodied gentleman in white and black checks enquired:\n\"What\'s the fellow up to? Ain\'t there no police here?\" and it was\nevident that once more public opinion was rallying to the support of\nMr. Polly.\n\n\"Oh, come on then all the LOT of you!\" cried Uncle Jim, and backing\ndexterously whirled the eel round in a destructive circle. The pink\nsunshade was torn from the hand that gripped it and whirled athwart\nthe complete, but unadorned, tea things on the green table.\n\n\"Collar him! Someone get hold of his collar!\" cried the\ngold-spectacled gentleman, coming out of the scrimmage, retreating up\nthe steps to the inn door as if to rally his forces.\n\n\"Stand clear, you blessed mantel ornaments!\" cried Uncle Jim, \"stand\nclear!\" and retired backing, staving off attack by means of the\nwhirling eel.\n\nMr. Polly, undeterred by a sense of grave damage done to his nose,\npressed the attack in front, the two young men in violet and blue\nskirmished on Uncle Jim\'s flanks, the man in white and black checks\nsought still further outflanking possibilities, and two of the\napprentice boys ran for oars. The gold-spectacled gentleman, as if\ninspired, came down the wooden steps again, seized the tablecloth of\nthe jam and egg party, lugged it from under the crockery with\ninadequate precautions against breakage, and advanced with compressed\nlips, curious lateral crouching movements, swift flashings of his\nglasses, and a general suggestion of bull-fighting in his pose and\ngestures. Uncle Jim was kept busy, and unable to plan his retreat with\nany strategic soundness. He was moreover manifestly a little nervous\nabout the river in his rear. He gave ground in a curve, and so came\nright across the rapidly abandoned camp of the family in mourning,\ncrunching a teacup under his heel, oversetting the teapot, and finally\ntripping backwards over the hamper. The eel flew out at a tangent from\nhis hand and became a mere looping relic on the sward.\n\n\"Hold him!\" cried the gentleman in spectacles. \"Collar him!\" and\nmoving forward with extraordinary promptitude wrapped the best\ntablecloth about Uncle Jim\'s arms and head. Mr. Polly grasped his\npurpose instantly, the man in checks was scarcely slower, and in\nanother moment Uncle Jim was no more than a bundle of smothered\nblasphemy and a pair of wildly active legs.\n\n\"Duck him!\" panted Mr. Polly, holding on to the earthquake. \"Bes\'\nthing--duck him.\"\n\nThe bundle was convulsed by paroxysms of anger and protest. One boot\ngot the hamper and sent it ten yards.\n\n\"Go in the house for a clothes line someone!\" said the gentleman in\ngold spectacles. \"He\'ll get out of this in a moment.\"\n\nOne of the apprentices ran.\n\n\"Bird nets in the garden,\" shouted Mr. Polly. \"In the garden!\"\n\nThe apprentice was divided in his purpose. And then suddenly Uncle Jim\ncollapsed and became a limp, dead seeming thing under their hands. His\narms were drawn inward, his legs bent up under his person, and so he\nlay.\n\n\"Fainted!\" said the man in checks, relaxing his grip.\n\n\"A fit, perhaps,\" said the man in spectacles.\n\n\"Keep hold!\" said Mr. Polly, too late.\n\nFor suddenly Uncle Jim\'s arms and legs flew out like springs released.\nMr. Polly was tumbled backwards and fell over the broken teapot and\ninto the arms of the father in mourning. Something struck his\nhead--dazzingly. In another second Uncle Jim was on his feet and the\ntablecloth enshrouded the head of the man in checks. Uncle Jim\nmanifestly considered he had done all that honour required of him, and\nagainst overwhelming numbers and the possibility of reiterated\nduckings, flight is no disgrace.\n\nUncle Jim fled.\n\nMr. Polly sat up after an interval of an indeterminate length among\nthe ruins of an idyllic afternoon. Quite a lot of things seemed\nscattered and broken, but it was difficult to grasp it all at once. He\nstared between the legs of people. He became aware of a voice,\nspeaking slowly and complainingly.\n\n\"Someone ought to pay for those tea things,\" said the father in\nmourning. \"We didn\'t bring them \'ere to be danced on, not by no manner\nof means.\"\n\n\nX\n\nThere followed an anxious peace for three days, and then a rough man\nin a blue jersey, in the intervals of trying to choke himself with\nbread and cheese and pickled onions, broke out abruptly into\ninformation.\n\n\"Jim\'s lagged again, Missus,\" he said.\n\n\"What!\" said the landlady. \"Our Jim?\"\n\n\"Your Jim,\" said the man, and after an absolutely necessary pause for\nswallowing, added: \"Stealin\' a \'atchet.\"\n\nHe did not speak for some moments, and then he replied to Mr. Polly\'s\nenquiries: \"Yes, a \'atchet. Down Lammam way--night before last.\"\n\n\"What\'d \'e steal a \'atchet for?\" asked the plump woman.\n\n\"\'E said \'e wanted a \'atchet.\"\n\n\"I wonder what he wanted a hatchet for?\" said Mr. Polly, thoughtfully.\n\n\"I dessay \'e \'ad a use for it,\" said the gentleman in the blue jersey,\nand he took a mouthful that amounted to conversational suicide. There\nwas a prolonged pause in the little bar, and Mr. Polly did some rapid\nthinking.\n\nHe went to the window and whistled. \"I shall stick it,\" he whispered\nat last. \"\'Atchets or no \'atchets.\"\n\nHe turned to the man with the blue jersey when he thought him clear\nfor speech again. \"How much did you say they\'d given him?\" he asked.\n\n\"Three munce,\" said the man in the blue jersey, and refilled\nanxiously, as if alarmed at the momentary clearness of his voice.\n\n\nXI\n\nThose three months passed all too quickly; months of sunshine and\nwarmth, of varied novel exertion in the open air, of congenial\nexperiences, of interest and wholesome food and successful digestion,\nmonths that browned Mr. Polly and hardened him and saw the beginnings\nof his beard, months marred only by one anxiety, an anxiety Mr. Polly\ndid his utmost to suppress. The day of reckoning was never mentioned,\nit is true, by either the plump woman or himself, but the name of\nUncle Jim was written in letters of glaring silence across their\nintercourse. As the term of that respite drew to an end his anxiety\nincreased, until at last it even trenched upon his well-earned sleep.\nHe had some idea of buying a revolver. At last he compromised upon a\nsmall and very foul and dirty rook rifle which he purchased in Lammam\nunder a pretext of bird scaring, and loaded carefully and concealed\nunder his bed from the plump woman\'s eye.\n\nSeptember passed away, October came.\n\nAnd at last came that night in October whose happenings it is so\ndifficult for a sympathetic historian to drag out of their proper\nnocturnal indistinctness into the clear, hard light of positive\nstatement. A novelist should present characters, not vivisect them\npublicly....\n\nThe best, the kindliest, if not the justest course is surely to leave\nuntold such things as Mr. Polly would manifestly have preferred\nuntold.\n\nMr. Polly had declared that when the cyclist discovered him he was\nseeking a weapon that should make a conclusive end to Uncle Jim. That\ndeclaration is placed before the reader without comment.\n\nThe gun was certainly in possession of Uncle Jim at that time and no\nhuman being but Mr. Polly knows how he got hold of it.\n\nThe cyclist was a literary man named Warspite, who suffered from\ninsomnia; he had risen and come out of his house near Lammam just\nbefore the dawn, and he discovered Mr. Polly partially concealed in\nthe ditch by the Potwell churchyard wall. It is an ordinary dry ditch,\nfull of nettles and overgrown with elder and dogrose, and in no way\nsuggestive of an arsenal. It is the last place in which you would look\nfor a gun. And he says that when he dismounted to see why Mr. Polly\nwas allowing only the latter part of his person to show (and that it\nwould seem by inadvertency), Mr. Polly merely raised his head and\nadvised him to \"Look out!\" and added: \"He\'s let fly at me twice\nalready.\" He came out under persuasion and with gestures of extreme\ncaution. He was wearing a white cotton nightgown of the type that has\nnow been so extensively superseded by pyjama sleeping suits, and his\nlegs and feet were bare and much scratched and torn and very muddy.\n\nMr. Warspite takes that exceptionally lively interest in his\nfellow-creatures which constitutes so much of the distinctive and\ncomplex charm of your novelist all the world over, and he at once\ninvolved himself generously in the case. The two men returned at Mr.\nPolly\'s initiative across the churchyard to the Potwell Inn, and came\nupon the burst and damaged rook rifle near the new monument to Sir\nSamuel _Harpon_ at the corner by the yew.\n\n\"That must have been his third go,\" said Mr. Polly. \"It sounded a bit\nfunny.\"\n\nThe sight inspirited him greatly, and he explained further that he had\nfled to the churchyard on account of the cover afforded by tombstones\nfrom the flight of small shot. He expressed anxiety for the fate of\nthe landlady of the Potwell Inn and her grandchild, and led the way\nwith enhanced alacrity along the lane to that establishment.\n\nThey found the doors of the house standing open, the bar in some\ndisorder--several bottles of whisky were afterwards found to be\nmissing--and Blake, the village policeman, rapping patiently at the\nopen door. He entered with them. The glass in the bar had suffered\nseverely, and one of the mirrors was starred from a blow from a pewter\npot. The till had been forced and ransacked, and so had the bureau in\nthe minute room behind the bar. An upper window was opened and the\nvoice of the landlady became audible making enquiries. They went out\nand parleyed with her. She had locked herself upstairs with the little\ngirl, she said, and refused to descend until she was assured that\nneither Uncle Jim nor Mr. Polly\'s gun were anywhere on the premises.\nMr. Blake and Mr. Warspite proceeded to satisfy themselves with regard\nto the former condition, and Mr. Polly went to his room in search of\ngarments more suited to the brightening dawn. He returned immediately\nwith a request that Mr. Blake and Mr. Warspite would \"just come and\nlook.\" They found the apartment in a state of extraordinary confusion,\nthe bedclothes in a ball in the corner, the drawers all open and\nransacked, the chair broken, the lock of the door forced and broken,\none door panel slightly scorched and perforated by shot, and the\nwindow wide open. None of Mr. Polly\'s clothes were to be seen, but\nsome garments which had apparently once formed part of a stoker\'s\nworkaday outfit, two brownish yellow halves of a shirt, and an unsound\npair of boots were scattered on the floor. A faint smell of gunpowder\nstill hung in the air, and two or three books Mr. Polly had recently\nacquired had been shied with some violence under the bed. Mr. Warspite\nlooked at Mr. Blake, and then both men looked at Mr. Polly. \"That\'s\n_his_ boots,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nBlake turned his eye to the window. \"Some of these tiles \'_ave_ just\ngot broken,\" he observed.\n\n\"I got out of the window and slid down the scullery tiles,\" Mr. Polly\nanswered, omitting much, they both felt, from his explanation....\n\n\"Well, we better find \'im and \'_ave_ a word with \'im,\" said Blake.\n\"That\'s about my business now.\"\n\n\nXII\n\nBut Uncle Jim had gone altogether....\n\nHe did not return for some days. That perhaps was not very wonderful.\nBut the days lengthened to weeks and the weeks to months and still\nUncle Jim did not recur. A year passed, and the anxiety of him became\nless acute; a second healing year followed the first. One afternoon\nabout thirty months after the Night Surprise the plump woman spoke of\nhim.\n\n\"I wonder what\'s become of Jim,\" she said.\n\n\"_I_ wonder sometimes,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\n\nChapter the Tenth\n\nMiriam Revisited\n\n\nI\n\nOne summer afternoon about five years after his first coming to the\nPotwell Inn Mr. Polly found himself sitting under the pollard willow\nfishing for dace. It was a plumper, browner and healthier Mr. Polly\naltogether than the miserable bankrupt with whose dyspeptic portrait\nour novel opened. He was fat, but with a fatness more generally\ndiffused, and the lower part of his face was touched to gravity by a\nsmall square beard. Also he was balder.\n\nIt was the first time he had found leisure to fish, though from the\nvery outset of his Potwell career he had promised himself abundant\nindulgence in the pleasures of fishing. Fishing, as the golden page of\nEnglish literature testifies, is a meditative and retrospective\npursuit, and the varied page of memory, disregarded so long for sake\nof the teeming duties I have already enumerated, began to unfold\nitself to Mr. Polly\'s consideration. A speculation about Uncle Jim\ndied for want of material, and gave place to a reckoning of the years\nand months that had passed since his coming to Potwell, and that to a\nphilosophical review of his life. He began to think about Miriam,\nremotely and impersonally. He remembered many things that had been\nneglected by his conscience during the busier times, as, for example,\nthat he had committed arson and deserted a wife. For the first time he\nlooked these long neglected facts in the face.\n\nIt is disagreeable to think one has committed Arson, because it is an\naction that leads to jail. Otherwise I do not think there was a grain\nof regret for that in Mr. Polly\'s composition. But deserting Miriam\nwas in a different category. Deserting Miriam was mean.\n\nThis is a history and not a glorification of Mr. Polly, and I tell of\nthings as they were with him. Apart from the disagreeable twinge\narising from the thought of what might happen if he was found out, he\nhad not the slightest remorse about that fire. Arson, after all, is an\nartificial crime. Some crimes are crimes in themselves, would be\ncrimes without any law, the cruelties, mockery, the breaches of faith\nthat astonish and wound, but the burning of things is in itself\nneither good nor bad. A large number of houses deserve to be burnt,\nmost modern furniture, an overwhelming majority of pictures and\nbooks--one might go on for some time with the list. If our community\nwas collectively anything more than a feeble idiot, it would burn most\nof London and Chicago, for example, and build sane and beautiful\ncities in the place of these pestilential heaps of rotten private\nproperty. I have failed in presenting Mr. Polly altogether if I have\nnot made you see that he was in many respects an artless child of\nNature, far more untrained, undisciplined and spontaneous than an\nordinary savage. And he was really glad, for all that little drawback\nof fear, that he had the courage to set fire to his house and fly and\ncome to the Potwell Inn.\n\nBut he was not glad he had left Miriam. He had seen Miriam cry once or\ntwice in his life, and it had always reduced him to abject\ncommiseration. He now imagined her crying. He perceived in a perplexed\nway that he had made himself responsible for her life. He forgot how\nshe had spoilt his own. He had hitherto rested in the faith that she\nhad over a hundred pounds of insurance money, but now, with his eye\nmeditatively upon his float, he realised a hundred pounds does not\nlast for ever. His conviction of her incompetence was unflinching; she\nwas bound to have fooled it away somehow by this time. And then!\n\nHe saw her humping her shoulders and sniffing in a manner he had\nalways regarded as detestable at close quarters, but which now became\nharrowingly pitiful.\n\n\"Damn!\" said Mr. Polly, and down went his float and he flicked up a\nvictim to destruction and took it off the hook.\n\nHe compared his own comfort and health with Miriam\'s imagined\ndistress.\n\n\"Ought to have done something for herself,\" said Mr. Polly, rebaiting\nhis hook. \"She was always talking of doing things. Why couldn\'t she?\"\n\nHe watched the float oscillating gently towards quiescence.\n\n\"Silly to begin thinking about her,\" he said. \"Damn silly!\"\n\nBut once he had begun thinking about her he had to go on.\n\n\"Oh blow!\" cried Mr. Polly presently, and pulled up his hook to find\nanother fish had just snatched at it in the last instant. His handling\nmust have made the poor thing feel itself unwelcome.\n\nHe gathered his things together and turned towards the house.\n\nAll the Potwell Inn betrayed his influence now, for here indeed he had\nfound his place in the world. It looked brighter, so bright indeed as\nto be almost skittish, with the white and green paint he had lavished\nupon it. Even the garden palings were striped white and green, and so\nwere the boats, for Mr. Polly was one of those who find a positive\nsensuous pleasure in the laying on of paint. Left and right were two\nlarge boards which had done much to enhance the inn\'s popularity with\nthe lighter-minded variety of pleasure-seekers. Both marked\ninnovations. One bore in large letters the single word \"Museum,\" the\nother was as plain and laconic with \"Omlets!\" The spelling of the\nlatter word was Mr. Polly\'s own, but when he had seen a whole boatload\nof men, intent on Lammam for lunch, stop open-mouthed, and stare and\ngrin and come in and ask in a marked sarcastic manner for \"omlets,\" he\nperceived that his inaccuracy had done more for the place than his\nutmost cunning could have contrived. In a year or so the inn was known\nboth up and down the river by its new name of \"Omlets,\" and Mr. Polly,\nafter some secret irritation, smiled and was content. And the fat\nwoman\'s _omelettes_ were things to remember.\n\n(You will note I have changed her epithet. Time works upon us all.)\n\nShe stood upon the steps as he came towards the house, and smiled at\nhim richly.\n\n\"Caught many?\" she asked.\n\n\"Got an idea,\" said Mr. Polly. \"Would it put you out very much if I\nwent off for a day or two for a bit of a holiday? There won\'t be much\ndoing now until Thursday.\"\n\n\nII\n\nFeeling recklessly secure behind his beard Mr. Polly surveyed the\nFishbourne High Street once again. The north side was much as he had\nknown it except that Rusper had vanished. A row of new shops replaced\nthe destruction of the great fire. Mantell and Throbson\'s had risen\nagain upon a more flamboyant pattern, and the new fire station was in\nthe Swiss-Teutonic style and with much red paint. Next door in the\nplace of Rumbold\'s was a branch of the Colonial Tea Company, and then\na Salmon and Gluckstein Tobacco Shop, and then a little shop that\ndisplayed sweets and professed a \"Tea Room Upstairs.\" He considered\nthis as a possible place in which to prosecute enquiries about his\nlost wife, wavering a little between it and the God\'s Providence Inn\ndown the street. Then his eye caught a name over the window, \"Polly,\"\nhe read, \"& Larkins! Well, I\'m--astonished!\"\n\nA momentary faintness came upon him. He walked past and down the\nstreet, returned and surveyed the shop again.\n\nHe saw a middle-aged, rather untidy woman standing behind the counter,\nwho for an instant he thought might be Miriam terribly changed, and\nthen recognised as his sister-in-law Annie, filled out and no longer\nhilarious. She stared at him without a sign of recognition as he\nentered the shop.\n\n\"Can I have tea?\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Well,\" said Annie, \"you _can_. But our Tea Room\'s upstairs.... My\nsister\'s been cleaning it out--and it\'s a bit upset.\"\n\n\"It _would_ be,\" said Mr. Polly softly.\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\" said Annie.\n\n\"I said _I_ didn\'t mind. Up here?\"\n\n\"I daresay there\'ll be a table,\" said Annie, and followed him up to a\nroom whose conscientious disorder was intensely reminiscent of Miriam.\n\n\"Nothing like turning everything upside down when you\'re cleaning,\"\nsaid Mr. Polly cheerfully.\n\n\"It\'s my sister\'s way,\" said Annie impartially. \"She\'s gone out for a\nbit of air, but I daresay she\'ll be back soon to finish. It\'s a nice\nlight room when it\'s tidy. Can I put you a table over there?\"\n\n\"Let _me_,\" said Mr. Polly, and assisted. He sat down by the open\nwindow and drummed on the table and meditated on his next step while\nAnnie vanished to get his tea. After all, things didn\'t seem so bad\nwith Miriam. He tried over several gambits in imagination.\n\n\"Unusual name,\" he said as Annie laid a cloth before him. Annie looked\ninterrogation.\n\n\"Polly. Polly & Larkins. Real, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Polly\'s my sister\'s name. She married a Mr. Polly.\"\n\n\"Widow I presume?\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"Yes. This five years--come October.\"\n\n\"Lord!\" said Mr. Polly in unfeigned surprise.\n\n\"Found drowned he was. There was a lot of talk in the place.\"\n\n\"Never heard of it,\" said Mr. Polly. \"I\'m a stranger--rather.\"\n\n\"In the Medway near Maidstone. He must have been in the water for\ndays. Wouldn\'t have known him, my sister wouldn\'t, if it hadn\'t been\nfor the name sewn in his clothes. All whitey and eat away he was.\"\n\n\"Bless my heart! Must have been rather a shock for her!\"\n\n\"It _was_ a shock,\" said Annie, and added darkly: \"But sometimes a\nshock\'s better than a long agony.\"\n\n\"No doubt,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nHe gazed with a rapt expression at the preparations before him. \"So\nI\'m drowned,\" something was saying inside him. \"Life insured?\" he\nasked.\n\n\"We started the tea rooms with it,\" said Annie.\n\nWhy, if things were like this, had remorse and anxiety for Miriam been\nimplanted in his soul? No shadow of an answer appeared.\n\n\"Marriage is a lottery,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"_She_ found it so,\" said Annie. \"Would you like some jam?\"\n\n\"I\'d like an egg,\" said Mr. Polly. \"I\'ll have two. I\'ve got a sort of\nfeeling--. As though I wanted keeping up.... Wasn\'t particularly good\nsort, this Mr. Polly?\"\n\n\"He was a _wearing_ husband,\" said Annie. \"I\'ve often pitied my\nsister. He was one of that sort--\"\n\n\"Dissolute?\" suggested Mr. Polly faintly.\n\n\"No,\" said Annie judiciously; \"not exactly dissolute. Feeble\'s more\nthe word. Weak, \'E was. Weak as water. \'Ow long do you like your eggs\nboiled?\"\n\n\"Four minutes exactly,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"One gets talking,\" said Annie.\n\n\"One does,\" said Mr.-Polly, and she left him to his thoughts.\n\nWhat perplexed him was his recent remorse and tenderness for Miriam.\nNow he was back in her atmosphere all that had vanished, and the old\nfeeling of helpless antagonism returned. He surveyed the piled\nfurniture, the economically managed carpet, the unpleasing pictures on\nthe wall. Why had he felt remorse? Why had he entertained this\nillusion of a helpless woman crying aloud in the pitiless darkness for\nhim? He peered into the unfathomable mysteries of the heart, and\nducked back to a smaller issue. _Was_ he feeble?\n\nThe eggs came up. Nothing in Annie\'s manner invited a resumption of\nthe discussion.\n\n\"Business brisk?\" he ventured to ask.\n\nAnnie reflected. \"It is,\" she said, \"and it isn\'t. It\'s like that.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Mr. Polly, and squared himself to his egg. \"Was there an\ninquest on that chap?\"\n\n\"What chap?\"\n\n\"What was his name?--Polly!\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"You\'re sure it was him?\"\n\n\"What you mean?\"\n\nAnnie looked at him hard, and suddenly his soul was black with terror.\n\n\"Who else could it have been--in the very cloes \'e wore?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Mr. Polly, and began his egg. He was so agitated\nthat he only realised its condition when he was half way through it\nand Annie safely downstairs.\n\n\"Lord!\" he said, reaching out hastily for the pepper. \"One of\nMiriam\'s! Management! I haven\'t tasted such an egg for five years....\nWonder where she gets them! Picks them out, I suppose!\"\n\nHe abandoned it for its fellow.\n\nExcept for a slight mustiness the second egg was very palatable\nindeed. He was getting on to the bottom of it as Miriam came in. He\nlooked up. \"Nice afternoon,\" he said at her stare, and perceived she\nknew him at once by the gesture and the voice. She went white and shut\nthe door behind her. She looked as though she was going to faint. Mr.\nPolly sprang up quickly and handed her a chair. \"My God!\" she\nwhispered, and crumpled up rather than sat down.\n\n\"It\'s _you_\" she said.\n\n\"No,\" said Mr. Polly very earnestly. \"It isn\'t. It just looks like me.\nThat\'s all.\"\n\n\"I _knew_ that man wasn\'t you--all along. I tried to think it was. I\ntried to think perhaps the water had altered your wrists and feet and\nthe colour of your hair.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"I\'d always feared you\'d come back.\"\n\nMr. Polly sat down by his egg. \"I haven\'t come back,\" he said very\nearnestly. \"Don\'t you think it.\"\n\n\"\'Ow we\'ll pay back the insurance now I _don\'t_ know.\" She was\nweeping. She produced a handkerchief and covered her face.\n\n\"Look here, Miriam,\" said Mr. Polly. \"I haven\'t come back and I\'m not\ncoming back. I\'m--I\'m a Visitant from Another World. You shut up about\nme and I\'ll shut up about myself. I came back because I thought you\nmight be hard up or in trouble or some silly thing like that. Now I\nsee you again--I\'m satisfied. I\'m satisfied completely. See? I\'m going\nto absquatulate, see? Hey Presto right away.\"\n\nHe turned to his tea for a moment, finished his cup noisily, stood up.\n\n\"Don\'t you think you\'re going to see me again,\" he said, \"for you\nain\'t.\"\n\nHe moved to the door.\n\n\"That _was_ a tasty egg,\" he said, hovered for a second and vanished.\n\nAnnie was in the shop.\n\n\"The missus has had a bit of a shock,\" he remarked. \"Got some sort of\nfancy about a ghost. Can\'t make it out quite. So Long!\"\n\nAnd he had gone.\n\n\nIII\n\nMr. Polly sat beside the fat woman at one of the little green tables\nat the back of the Potwell Inn, and struggled with the mystery of\nlife. It was one of those evenings, serenely luminous, amply and\natmospherically still, when the river bend was at its best. A swan\nfloated against the dark green masses of the further bank, the stream\nflowed broad and shining to its destiny, with scarce a ripple--except\nwhere the reeds came out from the headland--the three poplars rose\nclear and harmonious against a sky of green and yellow. And it was as\nif it was all securely within a great warm friendly globe of crystal\nsky. It was as safe and enclosed and fearless as a child that has\nstill to be born. It was an evening full of the quality of tranquil,\nunqualified assurance. Mr. Polly\'s mind was filled with the persuasion\nthat indeed all things whatsoever must needs be satisfying and\ncomplete. It was incredible that life has ever done more than seemed\nto jar, that there could be any shadow in life save such velvet\nsoftnesses as made the setting for that silent swan, or any murmur but\nthe ripple of the water as it swirled round the chained and gently\nswaying punt. And the mind of Mr. Polly, exalted and made tender by\nthis atmosphere, sought gently, but sought, to draw together the\nvaried memories that came drifting, half submerged, across the circle\nof his mind.\n\nHe spoke in words that seemed like a bent and broken stick thrust\nsuddenly into water, destroying the mirror of the shapes they sought.\n\"Jim\'s not coming back again ever,\" he said. \"He got drowned five\nyears ago.\"\n\n\"Where?\" asked the fat woman, surprised.\n\n\"Miles from here. In the Medway. Away in Kent.\"\n\n\"Lor!\" said the fat woman.\n\n\"It\'s right enough,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"How d\'you know?\"\n\n\"I went to my home.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Don\'t matter. I went and found out. He\'d been in the water some days.\nHe\'d got my clothes and they\'d said it was me.\"\n\n\"_They_?\"\n\n\"It don\'t matter. I\'m not going back to them.\"\n\nThe fat woman regarded him silently for some time. Her expression of\nscrutiny gave way to a quiet satisfaction. Then her brown eyes went to\nthe river.\n\n\"Poor Jim,\" she said. \"\'E \'adn\'t much Tact--ever.\"\n\nShe added mildly: \"I can\'t \'ardly say I\'m sorry.\"\n\n\"Nor me,\" said Mr. Polly, and got a step nearer the thought in him.\n\"But it don\'t seem much good his having been alive, does it?\"\n\n\"\'E wasn\'t much good,\" the fat woman admitted. \"Ever.\"\n\n\"I suppose there were things that were good to him,\" Mr. Polly\nspeculated. \"They weren\'t _our_ things.\"\n\nHis hold slipped again. \"I often wonder about life,\" he said weakly.\n\nHe tried again. \"One seems to start in life,\" he said, \"expecting\nsomething. And it doesn\'t happen. And it doesn\'t matter. One starts\nwith ideas that things are good and things are bad--and it hasn\'t much\nrelation to what _is_ good and what is bad. I\'ve always been the\nskeptaceous sort, and it\'s always seemed rot to me to pretend we know\ngood from evil. It\'s just what I\'ve _never_ done. No Adam\'s apple\nstuck in _my_ throat, ma\'am. I don\'t own to it.\"\n\nHe reflected.\n\n\"I set fire to a house--once.\"\n\nThe fat woman started.\n\n\"I don\'t feel sorry for it. I don\'t believe it was a bad thing to\ndo--any more than burning a toy like I did once when I was a baby. I\nnearly killed myself with a razor. Who hasn\'t?--anyhow gone as far as\nthinking of it? Most of my time I\'ve been half dreaming. I married\nlike a dream almost. I\'ve never really planned my life or set out to\nlive. I happened; things happened to me. It\'s so with everyone. Jim\ncouldn\'t help himself. I shot at him and tried to kill him. I dropped\nthe gun and he got it. He very nearly had me. I wasn\'t a second too\nsoon--ducking.... Awkward--that night was.... M\'mm.... But I don\'t\nblame him--come to that. Only I don\'t see what it\'s all up to....\n\n\"Like children playing about in a nursery. Hurt themselves at\ntimes....\n\n\"There\'s something that doesn\'t mind us,\" he resumed presently. \"It\nisn\'t what we try to get that we get, it isn\'t the good we think we do\nis good. What makes us happy isn\'t our trying, what makes others happy\nisn\'t our trying. There\'s a sort of character people like and stand up\nfor and a sort they won\'t. You got to work it out and take the\nconsequences.... Miriam was always trying.\"\n\n\"Who was Miriam?\" asked the fat woman.\n\n\"No one you know. But she used to go about with her brows knit trying\nnot to do whatever she wanted to do--if ever she did want to do\nanything--\"\n\nHe lost himself.\n\n\"You can\'t help being fat,\" said the fat woman after a pause, trying\nto get up to his thoughts.\n\n\"_You_ can\'t,\" said Mr. Polly.\n\n\"It helps and it hinders.\"\n\n\"Like my upside down way of talking.\"\n\n\"The magistrates wouldn\'t \'_ave_ kept on the license to me if I \'adn\'t\nbeen fat....\"\n\n\"Then what have we done,\" said Mr. Polly, \"to get an evening like\nthis? Lord! look at it!\" He sent his arm round the great curve of the\nsky.\n\n\"If I was a nigger or an Italian I should come out here and sing. I\nwhistle sometimes, but bless you, it\'s singing I\'ve got in my mind.\nSometimes I think I live for sunsets.\"\n\n\"I don\'t see that it does you any good always looking at sunsets like\nyou do,\" said the fat woman.\n\n\"Nor me. But I do. Sunsets and things I was made to like.\"\n\n\"They don\'t \'elp you,\" said the fat woman thoughtfully.\n\n\"Who cares?\" said Mr. Polly.\n\nA deeper strain had come to the fat woman. \"You got to die some day,\"\nshe said.\n\n\"Some things I can\'t believe,\" said Mr. Polly suddenly, \"and one is\nyour being a skeleton....\" He pointed his hand towards the neighbour\'s\nhedge. \"Look at \'em--against the yellow--and they\'re just stingin\'\nnettles. Nasty weeds--if you count things by their uses. And no help\nin the life hereafter. But just look at the look of them!\"\n\n\"It isn\'t only looks,\" said the fat woman.\n\n\"Whenever there\'s signs of a good sunset and I\'m not too busy,\" said\nMr. Polly, \"I\'ll come and sit out here.\"\n\nThe fat woman looked at him with eyes in which contentment struggled\nwith some obscure reluctant protest, and at last turned them slowly to\nthe black nettle pagodas against the golden sky.\n\n\"I wish we could,\" she said.\n\n\"I will.\"\n\nThe fat woman\'s voice sank nearly to the inaudible.\n\n\"Not always,\" she said.\n\nMr. Polly was some time before he replied. \"Come here always when I\'m\na ghost,\" he replied.\n\n\"Spoil the place for others,\" said the fat woman, abandoning her moral\nsolicitudes for a more congenial point of view.\n\n\"Not my sort of ghost wouldn\'t,\" said Mr. Polly, emerging from another\nlong pause. \"I\'d be a sort of diaphalous feeling--just mellowish and\nwarmish like....\"\n\nThey said no more, but sat on in the warm twilight until at last they\ncould scarcely distinguish each other\'s faces. They were not so much\nthinking as lost in a smooth, still quiet of the mind. A bat flitted\nby.\n\n\"Time we was going in, O\' Party,\" said Mr. Polly, standing up. \"Supper\nto get. It\'s as you say, we can\'t sit here for ever.\"\n\nThe End'"