Читать книгу Sam Small Flies Again: The Amazing Adventures of The Flying Yorkshireman - Eric Knight - Страница 9

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Here’s to me—and ma wife’s husband—

not forgettin’ masen.

“If there’s one thing I’d like to do,” Mully Small said, as she sat before the hearth, “it’s travel. Now we’re wealthy and retired, as tha maught say, I’d like to go round the world.”

Sam ignored the gambit altogether as he put down the evening paper.

“What,” he asked, rhetorically and pugnaciously, “would the British workingman be without his pint of ale at the day’s end?”

“That’s something the world’ll never know till one of ’em tries it,” Mully snapped. “And as I don’t suppose tha’s in the mood for noble experiments, for goodness’ sake away ye go down to the pub, for I see I’ll get no peace until tha does. Although I did think, since I’m poorly, that tha might have spent one evening at home.”

Sam got up and stood undecided. Truly Mully didn’t look so well, and he wanted to stay. But he wanted his evening mug of ale, too. A sort of short, but bitter, tug-of-war took place inside him—and the ale won.

“Now I’ll not be long,” he said, in a tone of hopeful appeasement.

Mully refused the scant olive branch.

“Ah’ll gamble,” she said sarcastically, in her broadest Yorkshire dialect. “Chucking out time!”

“Now isn’t that just like a woman’s dirty suspicions, for thee?” Sam asked the vacant air. “I’ll be back long before chucking out.”

At the time Sam really meant what he said—if only to prove to Mully how grossly she wronged him with her accusations. But when he got to the pub, unfortunately there was an argument going on. Moreover, it was just the sort of argument that needed the sagacity, erudition, and forensic abilities of Sam Small—and Sam Small was the best man in all Yorkshire for giving his opinion in an argument.

“It’s this way, Sam,” explained Rowlie Helliker. “It says here as how a doctor thinks this Hitler chap has got——”

He peered at the newspaper.

“—anyway, the word means a split personality, it says.”

“Oh, aye,” responded Sam nonchalantly. “Schizoperennial.”

“What’s coming off here?” asked Huckle, the publican.

“That’s just the technicological name o’ the disease,” Sam said. “It means a chap splits into two personalities—that’s what.”

“Ah’ve seen two personalities,” offered Annie, the barmaid. “It were in t’cinema once. One were——”

“Ah’ve come to a decision,” interrupted Gaffer Sitherthwick. “If ye mean to stand theer and tell me that a chap can divide into two, then what Ah say is—it ain’t human, it’s just dirty propaganda.”

“Hold on, Gaffer,” Sam said. “Ye see, science has discovered that every one of us is a couple of people, really. And ye can’t beat science when it comes to—to—to science, can ye?”

“Science is off to get itself into a hole some day, if it goes on discovering things,” warned Capper Wambley darkly.

“Well, ye’ve heard o’ twins, haven’t ye?” Rowlie Helliker offered. “Happen this here schizoperennia’s like that, only a chap becomes twins after he’s born instead of before.”

“Nonsense,” the Capper said. “Ah would have heard of it before this. Ah’m the oldest chap here, and I never heard of that happening.”

“But it’s only just come out, like,” Sam explained.

“Ah still don’t believe a chap can split in two,” roared the Gaffer.

“Nor me, nawther,” agreed Capper Wambley.

“Hold on, British fair play every time,” Rowlie Helliker shouted. “Two against one. Now what I say, is this....”

And so the argument rumbled, with words flowing ponderously and sagely in the Yorkshire way, and the white arms of Annie, the barmaid, flashing up and down as she gave the long pull on the mild and bitter pumps. Until, in no time whatsoever, as you might say, there rose the voice of Huckle above the din, his voice sounding the well-known British curfew, “Time, gentlemen, please! Time!”

Sam Small stood, like Cinderella hearing the stroke of midnight.

“Eigh, by gum,” he muttered, aghast. “And I promised Mully faithful I’d be home afore chucking out....”

Off Sam went, through the door as fast as his stubby legs would carry him. As he skeltered up along the Green, the thought seeped into his mind that if he got home quickly he might be able to say he had left before closing time, but had strolled home lazily.

He began to feel guilty—not because he was preparing the evidence for another lie, but because he had left Mully alone all evening. He wished he hadn’t done that.

He was feeling angry at himself, and then ...

It happened!

There was a flash, a sort of silent explosion, a whirling of planets and comets in an endless purple void, and Sam Small found himself sitting on the pavement, half-dazed.

“By gum,” he muttered thickly. “I must have bumped into the lamppost.”

But then, as he collected his senses, he saw another man, similarly situated on the pavement.

“So—it was thee bumped into me,” Sam began pugnaciously. “Why doesn’t tha look where tha’s going?”

“It’s six o’ one and half a dozen o’ t’other, lad.”

“Now don’t argue wi’ me,” Sam groaned. “Gie us a hand up.”

“How about thee gi’ing me a hand up?” the other said.

“Why, I never met such a nasty, unobliging chap,” Sam said. “But I’ve no time to argue wi’ thee. My wife’s poorly and I promised to be home afore chucking out time, and here I am....”

“Beer-swiller!” accused the other. “If thy wife’s poorly, why doesn’t tha sit with her? That’s what I’ve been doing at ma home over the Green.”

“Thy home?” breathed Sam.

His voice rose in suspicion, and a chilly vibration ran up his spine. For he had an eerie feeling that the voice of the other man was familiar—too familiar, somehow.

“Who are ye?” Sam cried.

They both rose from the pavement, and Sam dragged the other under the street light. Then he gasped. For Sam Small found that he was looking at none other than himself!

For a second only was Sam nonplused, and then his brain functioned. He grabbed the other tightly.

“A blooming imposter!” he said. “I’ve got thee!”

“Imposter thysen,” the other said. “I’m Sam Small.”

“Oooo, you liar. I’m Sam Small.”

“Now, now, don’t contradict. Look at me and see if I don’t look like Sam Small.”

“By gum, so tha does,” Sam admitted. Then he moaned, “Eigh, don’t go mixing me all up, or ye’ll have me so conflummoxed I won’t know what to think. How can ye prove ye’re Sam Small?”

“Well,” the other began, glaring suspiciously. “I have a wife whose name is Mully. And I have a daughter rising seventeen whose name’s Vinnie, and ...”

“I’ll be jiggered,” Sam said. “I see tha’s a very clever imposter indeed. At least, tha’s looked up all ma background. But tha’s slipped up, my lad, for I know where I have thee!”

As he spoke Sam tugged at the heavy gold chain on his waistcoat and drew out a great turnip of a gold watch, and snapped open the back with a gesture.

“There,” he said. “Read that. For I know it by heart. It says on it, ‘To Sam Small, from his loyal wife, Millicent, on their wedding day.’ ”

“Well, I’ll be jiggered,” said the other. “For it says exactly the same—here!”

And, with a similar gesture, tugging at a similar chain, he snapped open the back of a similar watch.

“Oooo, by gum,” Sam moaned. “I am in trouble. I must have done summat wrong. And here I stand, not knowing whether I’m me, or tha’s me—or I’m thee—or whether us is both we.”

He stood a second.

“Why, that’s it,” he yelped.

“What’s it?”

“We’re both me—both of us. It’s schizoperennial. Ma personality’s split wide open, just like we’ve been arguing about down the pub—and I’ve become two on us.”

“Well, by gum. Think o’ that, now,” said the other. “But—but what can us do about it?”

“Look, this is a very important happening, lad,” Sam said. “And we’ve got to go careful about it. I think, before anyone sees us and spoils it all, we’d better take a walk out on the moor and discuss it proper. For the sake of getting it straight a bit, suppose I call thee Sammywell, and call mysen Sam? That’ll get us separated for purposes o’ discussion, as ye might say.”

And off they went over the moor, with Sam explaining his view of what had happened.

“If we handle it carefully,” said Sam, “there’s a fortune in it. For instance, doctors and such wi’ scientific curiosity—why they’d pay a right lot o’ brass to meet a couple of chaps like us.”

“I don’t care for doctors, Sam. Happen they’d want to operate on us,” Sammywell ventured.

“Aye, I don’t care for ’em, either. But happen we could get a tent and travel round wi’ the feasts—we’d be champion curiosities, and people’d pay a shilling to see us.”

“I’d object to being a freak, like,” Sammywell droned.

“Nay, there’s nowt wrong wi’ making a little honest brass, lad, and I’ve not got it all worked out yet, but there’s brass in the general idea. Just look at t’brass Ah’ve just made off ma self-doffing spindle.”

“Aye,” said Sammywell, “but an invention’s a fact.”

“So is this a fact,” Sam said. “Think on it! The Government might take an interest in us, as tha might say. Why, if they could multiply every man by two they could double the man power o’ t’army!”

“Aye, but us can’t sit out here all night, lad, while tha works it out. There’s Mully waiting up for me at home.”

“Well, we can’t go home,” Sam expostulated, “not the two on us.”

“That’s so,” Sammywell agreed. “But one on us could stay out here tonight and puzzle out what’s best to do. T’other can go home and say nowt to Mully. It won’t be cold sleeping out here for thee, Sam—and in the morning I can slip out and bring thee a few licks to eat, like.”

“Hold on a bit. I don’t like that idea—thee going home to my wife. It—it ain’t moral!”

“But since tha explained it to me that we’re both one, when I go home it’s really thee, too, tha knows,” Sammywell said. “Now be sensible; one of us has got to take a back seat for a while until we get this all figured out. Why don’t you go away for a few days and we’ll both put our thinking caps on?”

“Me go away?” echoed Sam.

Then he thought a while. He began to see possibilities in the suggestion. If he went away he could have a right good beano.

Sam glowed inwardly. But he put on a sad face.

“Eigh, it’s sad and all to think of a man giving up the rightful comfort of his own hearth and home, and going forth, an uncherished wanderer on the face o’ t’earth, as ye might say. But for the sake of Mully and her peace o’ mind, I make the great sacrifice. Good-by.”

“Where are ye going?”

“Why—I’ll cut over the moor and be in Bradley by morning. Then I’ll drop in the bank and get a little cash——”

“Hey. Thee be careful wi’ my savings account,” Sammywell wavered.

“Our savings account, Sammywell, lad. So long.”

And then Sammywell was alone.

“Sam,” he shouted into the darkness. “When’ll ye be back?”

“Expect me when ye see me,” floated back the voice of Sam. “Keep the home fires burning, Sammywell. Keep the home fires burning!”

“Do you want a railway ticket, lad?” asked the man behind the little bars at the station, helpfully.

“Aye, that’s it exactly,” Sam said. “But Mully generally tends to all this part of it, and I’m at a bit of a loss wi’out her. What sort o’ tickets have ye got?”

“Oh, first, third, excursion, return.”

“I’ll have a return.”

“One return. Good. Where to?”

“Why back here, of course, gormless.”

The chap, thinking Sam was kidding him, got quite upset. So the argument began. Sam got his Yorkshire up and wouldn’t be pinned down as to where he was going.

“Now any fool can let people buy what they want,” Sam pointed out. “But I’ve read it takes a real salesman to sell a doubtful customer.”

“But where do you want to go?”

“How would I know afore I hear what expense I’m off to run into? No sensible man runs ahead of his brass. So cite me a few bargains.”

The man blew out his breath and picked up a printed list.

“Llandudno, very special, twenty-six and six?” he offered.

“Couldn’t spell it,” Sam said. “I wouldn’t live in a town I couldn’t spell. I’d feel all defeated, like.”

“Scarborough, fifteen and——”

“Dearie, no. I had a chum went there once, broke his leg, he did. I’d be that sad thinking on him. He was putting his trowsis on, he was, and just toppled over and broke his leg.”

“They could set it, couldn’t they?”

“Aye, but his wife were that upset, ’cause his leg didn’t look the same. She were always after him to break the other. They never had a peaceful day together after that. A plumber, he were. Name o’ Billy Sandyson. Ever meet him?”

“No! Blackpool, twelve and six, ten-day excursion?”

“Blackpool? Now tha’s getting me interested.”

“Shall it be Blackpool, then?”

“Don’t rush me. I were there once. I ate so many whelks wi’ vinegar I were sick on the train coming home. Eigh, I had a champion time.”

“Then it’ll be Blackpool?”

“Hold on a minute. If I don’t use the return part in ten days, can I cash it in on a full fare coming back?”

“Yes,” sighed the man. “Yes.”

“Then sold!” said Sam.

And off he went to Blackpool.

Sam did have a rare old time at Blackpool. There was so much to do that he’d sally out each morning and never even go back to his boardinghouse for meals. But this didn’t matter as there were any number of places where a chap could buy winkles and cockles and fried fish and pease pudding and ices. And since it was a holiday without Mully, Sam didn’t feel so bad about flinging his money about.

And Sam winked at all the lasses there on their holidays—for though a bit snowy in the pow, Sam was feeling quite a dog.

One day, by the bandstand, a big, fine-looking woman smiled at him. Sam bought himself a walking cane on the strength of it. The next day she smiled again, so he got himself a straw hat for one-and-tuppence.

Then one day it got warm, and everyone went wading on the sands. The sands were a bit squoggy at Blackpool, but Sam, full of holiday freedom, didn’t mind. With his trousers rolled up, he paddled and splashed to his heart’s content—all through the day, until the sun began to go down, blood-red, and a chill wind came in suddenly from the sea.

Sam Small shivered.

“Happen I got ma trowsis wet,” he said to himself. “Wouldn’t Mully give me a talking-to?”

He went up higher on the sands, intending to put on his stockings and boots, and then go by the bandstand to see what the fine-looking woman thought of his straw hat. But somehow, when he was dressed, he didn’t feel like strolling. And yet—he wanted something.

“Now what can it be?” Sam said to himself. “Happen I want summat to eat.”

So he thought of pork pies and saveloys and sausage rolls and oysters, and all the things sold at the shops; but it wasn’t any of those he wanted.

He tried to puzzle it out, considering a walk on the promenade as against a stroll on the pier, a look at the zoo or a go at the merry-go-round, or perhaps the ferris wheel. But it wasn’t any of these things he wanted.

As he sat the sun sank, the wet sands glowed in the dusk, and a sort of cosmic sadness washed in from the dying day and seeped over him. The lights in the shops behind him popped on, one by one, and the electric signs came on to spangle the holiday front of the town, and people laughed and screamed. And over the ocean the day ebbed away to other lands and there was nothing left of the sea but its hushing.

Finally Sam gave up trying to puzzle it out and went back to his boardinghouse. He was in a strange bad temper.

“I think I’ve copped a cold,” he told his landlady.

“More like some o’ the stuff tha’s been eating,” she said. “Tripe and cowheel and chitterlins and eel-pies and poloney and trunnel-pies and hokeypokey and blood pudding....”

“Are ye selling summat?” Sam said. “If I weren’t upset when I come home, I am now.”

“Then I’ll gie thee some lickerish powder. I allus used to give ma husband lickerish powder. A fine chap he were....”

“Thy husband? Where’s he now?”

“Eigh, he’s deead.”

“I tell ye, it’s nowt I ate. What’s more, if it were I wouldn’t take lickerish powder. I tell ye I’ve copped a cold.”

“Then I’ll fix thee a mustard footbath.”

“I don’t want no footbath. Mully gi’s me hot rum and treacle.”

“Well, I’ve no rum. I’ll gie ye the treacle now and ye can take the rum tomorrow.”

“By gum, there’s no help from women. Tha sounds like Mully hersen.”

“Heaven pity her, if she has to put up wi’ thee.”

“By gow, I should ha’ known better than to expect either sense or sympathy i’ Lancashire!”

“Huh!” snorted the landlady. “Yorkshire!”

“That’s done it!” roared Sam. “That’s the final insult. First thing in the morn I’m off home to Mully.”

And home he went.

As Sam Small swung along by the Green in the twilight, suddenly his happiness fled. For, as if for the first time, he remembered Sammywell.

“By gum,” he breathed, “if I walk in and he’s there, Mully’ll find out the whole thing, and want to know where I’ve been—then I’ll cop Halifax. I’d better go sly.”

So Sam crept up to his cottage and looked in the window. And there he saw Mully, knitting as she rocked in the chair before the fire, with Sammywell reading aloud to her.

Sam felt queer and hopeless and unwanted, seeing another man before his fire, with himself outside and tired—and badly in need of a good cup of tea.

He retreated into the garden and began flipping bits of stone at the window. After a long time the door opened and a beam of light poured out. With it, from far back in the room, came Mully’s voice. Sam heard it pouring over him, like a rush of warm blood in his chest.

“If that’s them Kidderley bairns again, Sam, shout out to them not to be naughty.”

“Psst,” Sam hissed. “Sammywell! I want a word wi’ thee. Meet me up the Green corner.”

“What is it, Sam, love?” came Mully’s voice.

“Nowt,” called back Sammywell. “I think I’ll get ma jacket and take a stroll, Mully—and a smoke. Then I won’t choke the house up wi’ baccy smoke.”

“Aye, do. A breath of air’ll do thee good, Sam,” said Mully’s voice.

Then the door closed. Sam stalked up to the corner of the Green. Over and over again he heard Mully’s words—and the tones. Her voice had been soft and warm. And she had called Sammywell “Sam, love.” That wasn’t like Mully. She never called him “love.”

By the time he saw Sammywell approaching, Sam was fair hopping with anger and jealousy.

“Tha’s off to take a walk wi’ me, lad,” Sam growled.

“Why, what’s wrong, Sam?”

“Never heed what’s wrong. I’ve just decided that it’s high time I came home and took ma rightful and proper place beside my wife—ye—ye—Judas!”

“But, Sam, I thought ye wanted to go away and have a fling.”

“Well, I’ve flung—and now it’s thy turn to go away.”

“Oh, no, Sam,” said Sammywell self-righteously. “I’m that comfortable. I stay home evenings wi’ Mully and——”

“Aye. I heard her gi’ing thee the softsoap voice. An’ her ma wife?”

“Our wife, Sam.”

“Now don’t conflummox me,” Sam groaned. “Tha’s had a comfortable week—now it’s ma turn. Go away for a visit.”

“But Sam, tha’s the one who likes to go away. I’m the one who likes to stay home.”

“Ooah, ba gum,” moaned Sam. “Do I have to argue wi’ thee? Look, I’m hungry—I haven’t had ma tea yet—and I’ve been poorly. Now hop it like a good chap.”

“Not me,” said Sammywell. “My place is in the home, and there’s where I’m off right now.”

“Well, I’m off wi’ thee, then.”

“And have her find out? Nay, I’m not bahn to have her upset.”

“Now look here, Sammywell. If I know Mully, she’s off to find out sooner or later—so it might as well be sooner, and then I can have ma tea!”

“And I say ye’ll not....”

But away darted Sam, full tilt. For he realized that if he got home first, then the whole problem would be shifted onto the shoulders of Sammywell.

Down the Green went Sam with Sammywell legging it after him. They were both, of course, evenly matched. But unfortunately Sam had to open the gate and the door. He managed the first all right, but before he reached the door Sammywell grabbed him, and down they went, wrestling and struggling. They were so intent that they hardly realized the door had opened until they heard Mully’s voice.

“What’s up now?”

They stopped wrestling and blinked into the light.

So the three stood!

“Ooah, ma dear,” moaned Mully. “Get in this house, here—afore anyone sees us.”

Shamefacedly the two men went into the cottage and stood on the hearth. Mully looked at them, and then flopped into the rocking chair and began to cry.

“Now what tricks are ye playing on me, Sam Small?” she cried. “Whichever one on ye is Sam?”

“We’re both Sam,” Sammywell said.

“To think ye never told me ye had a twin brother,” sobbed Mully. “But one of ye’s Sam—and when I find out which one it is—he’s off to wish he’d never been born.”

“Now hold on, Mully,” Sam said. “We’re both us—that is, we’re both me.”

Then he explained as best he could about how his personality had split the week before.

“Well, which one’s been here this past week?” Mully asked.

“Me,” said Sammywell, quickly. “He’s been on a trip to Blackpool!”

“Ha, ye scallywag,” said Mully triumphantly. “Now I know which one’s Sam Small. It’s thee! So tha would go gallivanting away and leave thy true wife wi’ a stranger....”

She advanced on Sam, but Sammywell interposed a hand.

“Nay, Mully,” he said. “Don’t be angry. Hasn’t it been better with him away? Haven’t I stayed by thy side this week and nursed thee through a cold?”

“Aye,” she said. “Tha’s been that considerate and kind—I knew there must be summat wrong. I were too happy for it to be true.”

She sat down and wept, and Sam stood, head hanging, and shuffled his feet. For a while he thought, and then went to his wife.

“Mully Small,” he said. “Do ye mean that? Have ye really been so happy wi’—wi’ yon, while I’ve been away?”

Now Mully was, after all, a woman. And she couldn’t help being a bit spiteful in her answer.

“Sam Small,” she said. “I’ve never been so cherished in all ma born days. It’s been the best week of ma married life.”

Sam stared into the fire and drew his breath.

“I see,” he said softly. “Well, somehow there ain’t much for a chap to say when he finds out he’s failed, is there? What I mean is—well, t’would be a poor man who’d stand in the way of his wife’s happiness, so—good-bye—and good luck, lass.”

Sam turned on his heel and made for the door, while Mully watched as in a trance. Perhaps she would have let him go, but Sammywell’s voice wakened her.

“Ye see, Sam,” cried Sammywell triumphantly. “I told ye I were the man to make her happy.”

That started Mully.

“Now hold on,” she said. “I’ve got summat to say about all this. Come back, lad, and sit here by the hearth. If this is true about this here split personality, what us has got to do is think it out.”

“Aye, but us has done all the thinking us can. Why couldn’t we all stay here?” Sammywell suggested.

“What, me live wi’ two husbands?” breathed Mully. “That’s bigamy.”

“But me and Sam is both the same husband,” Sammywell pointed out.

“Aye,” said Mully. “We know that, because we’re open-minded, but I’m afraid the British law hasn’t caught up wi’ such modern things, and’ll come to the conclusion that two husbands is two.”

“Hold on,” said Sam. “Tha’s nobbut had one marriage.”

“Then one on ye’s churched, and the other’s unchurched, and that’s still against the law.”

“Aye,” Sam said.

“Don’t interrupt,” said Mully. “Now all keep quiet till I think this out.”

For a long time she sat, and then she sighed and rose.

“Well, I’ve decided,” she said. “Ma mother allus used to say to me, ‘When in doubt, go to sleep.’ ”

“So,” crooned Sammywell, smiling.

“So,” she said. “I’m off to bed and go to sleep—and ye two are off outside.”

“But look here, Mully,” Sammywell groaned. “I don’t like——”

“Neither do I,” she chipped in. “But ye doubled yoursen wi’out ma help. Happen ye can best sort it out the same road.”

And firmly she chivvied the two of them to the door and pushed them out. Only as Sam went past, she said, quietly, “Don’t come home till there’s nobbut one of ye.”

Then the door closed, the bolt clicked, and the two were out in the night.

“Now, we’d better take a walk and think some more,” Sam said. “And thee stick close to me if ye know what’s good. We’ll take a turn on the moor.”

As the two reached the Green, they still wore the same thoughtful expressions.

“Have ye thought of owt?” Sammywell asked.

“Look, I’m fair sick to deeath o’ thee,” Sam warned. “Now be quiet.”

He paused and looked about. They were by the lamppost.

“Here’s where we first met,” Sam mused.

“If tha’d nobbut stayed away,” Sammywell began.

“Now look here, ma lad,” Sam burst out. “One more peep out o’ thee, and tha’ll get a thick lip. Why, for two pins....”

Then, as Sam lifted his hand, he seemed to hear the words of Mully, whispered as if for him alone, “Don’t come back till there’s nobbut one of ye.”

The idea raced through his brain.

“Sam Small,” cried Sammywell, in terror. “Tha has murder in thy heart.”

Sam smiled gently.

“Tha’s ruddy right, I have,” he said. “Come on, Sammywell, put up thy dukes and stand up like a Yorkshireman.”

“But I don’t like brawling, Sam.”

“Well, I’ll sweeten ye up to it, then, Sammywell, ma lad. There!”

And Sam popped a left on one side of Sammywell’s nose.

“And there!”

And he popped a right on the other side.

“Well,” Sammywell said, outraged. “The Good Book says if ye’re slapped on one cheek, turn the other. But it gives no instructions what to do if that gets slapped. However, I suppose that means a chap’s got to use his own judgment. So—there!”

And he banged a beautiful and righteous left smack in the middle of Sam’s nose.

“Ow,” said Sam. “Here I come!”

Then, with fists flailing, the two went at each other in as strange a fight as you could wish to see. For, both being Sam Small, they were evenly matched as never were any two men before in prize ring history. Each had the same strength and each mind worked exactly alike. If Sam swung with the right, Sammywell blocked with his left. It was like boxing before a mirror. So on and on it went, with neither gaining an advantage, and both becoming more and more tired.

Then Sam got an inspiration.

“Thing to do next time he leads,” he said to himself, “is not to block, but to take it and just let him have one with everything I’ve got.”

And at exactly that second, Sammywell was thinking exactly the same thing.

The result was, they both swung, neither blocked, and then for each there was nothing but a blinding flash, a crack, and an interstellar polka-dot display.

Suddenly Sam felt his spirit lifting. Below him he could see the two bodies lying, unconscious. And beside him was another soaring spirit.

“Ooah, ma gum,” Sam moaned. “So now there’s four on us.”

“No, Sam,” said Sammywell gently. “Look.”

As they watched, the two bodies below slowly drifted together and began to merge.

“Now,” Sammywell said. “Come, Sam. We’ve both got to fit in there.”

So they floated down and began to squeeze and wriggle themselves into the body. And then Sam heard voices.

“Poor owd Sam,” said someone. “He must ha’ bumped into the lamppost.”

Sam wanted to tell them that it had been a fight, but the words wouldn’t come out. And in what seemed to be a sort of flash-past of time, he was in the cottage and Mully was bending over him.

“Eigh, Sam,” she moaned. “I’ trouble again.”

“Nay, Mully,” he said, thickly. “I’m not drunk.”

She bent near him.

“Neither tha is,” she agreed.

Sam looked into her eyes.

“I killed him,” he said.

“Who?”

“Sammywell!”

“Sammywell? Sammywell who?”

Sam thought this over and began to smile.

Women—they were the wonderful ones. They knew what part of a man’s life to pretend to forget.

Sam felt a rush of warmth and love for Mully—plump Mully who was now bathing his head with a cool damp towel.

“Dosta forgive me, Mully?”

“Eigh, Sam Small,” she sighed. “I been forgiving thee so many years I wouldn’t know how to get out o’ the habit now.”

“Mully,” said Sam. “I’m off to treat thee nicer. For one thing, I weren’t happy away at Blackpool, and for another, well—after I killed Sammywell tonight, we sort of amalgamated. A merger, as ye might say. So now I’ve got him inside me, too, and he’s the good side of me—and from now on I’m off to let my good side come to the front.”

“Hush,” Mully said. “If ye do ye’ll be sort of anatomically twisted.”

“And I’m never going down The Spread Eagle any more. I’m bahn to stay home every evening and read to thee while tha knits.”

“Heaven forbid,” Mully said. “I’d never have a moment’s peace then. Eigh, I like ye just as ye are, Sam, ye old scallywag.”

“Dosta, Mully? But I’m determined—fro’ now on I’m off to be more like Sammywell; he’s really ma better half.”

“Nay, tha’s got nobbut one better half,” Mully said. “And that’s me. Upsydaisy. Up ye come to bed.”