Читать книгу Ben Sees It Through - J. Farjeon Jefferson - Страница 11

A thud is not a subtle sound. It is crude and blatant; but the very blatancy gives it a special distinction of its own. A footstep may be a murderer or a sweetheart. A creak may be a policeman or a child. A bell may be a creditor or a rich uncle. But a thud, in nine cases out of ten, eliminates all pleasant possibilities. It is a call to the listener that something has gone wrong.

And now the two inmates of the lonely barn knew that something had gone wrong on the other side of the barn-door. The question presented itself, should they risk their security by attempting to right what was wrong?

The question lingered only in the muddy mind of Ben. Molly, residing closer to the full range of her reactions, needed but a second to find the answer. The second over, she crossed swiftly to the door and flung it open.

On the coarse grass that separated the barn from the lane lay the crumpled figure of a man.

As Molly stared down at it, her silhouette now more distinct against the background of lane and evening sky. Ben roused himself from his momentary stupor. Lummy, you couldn’t let a slip of a girl face whatever she was facing all by herself! That was hardly in line with the best traditions of St George and the Merchant Service. No matter what your stomach was doing (and these things always hit you first in the stomach, just in the space that was waiting for food), you had to go and face it with her! That was right, wasn’t it?

So, before Molly had finished staring, Ben joined her and added his startled eyes to hers. And, having roused himself to this extent, he went farther and produced the first comment.

‘Dead, miss, ain’t ’e?’

In such moments of tension habit came on top, and the pleasant intimacy of ‘Molly’ was forgotten.

The girl did not reply. The words that expressed her own unspoken fear whipped her into action, and she stooped suddenly to examine the figure more closely.

‘Go ’way!’ murmured the figure.

She jumped up, in surprised relief. The surprise shot her back into Ben, for the Merchant Service, despite its good resolutions, had kept behind, guarding the rear, like. Now the Merchant Service toppled down on its own rear, like, and murmured shakily from the ground,

‘Wot did ’e say?’

The information was supplied by the other figure on the ground.

‘Go ’way!’ repeated the recumbent intruder. ‘Go ’way!’

The advice seemed excellent. Just the same, it had to be thought about.

‘’E’s drunk,’ reported Ben in a whisper, as he reassumed the perpendicular.

‘Dead,’ nodded Molly.

‘Eh?’

‘Dead-drunk.’

‘Oh! Well, it’s ’is licker, not our’n. Let’s ’op it!’

‘Where to?’

‘Eh?’

‘Another barn?’

‘We’d better leave ’im this ’un. S’pose ’e starts singin’?’

‘Yes, he’s rather spoilt this little Conference Hall,’ agreed Molly, frowning, ‘but when we move this time, Ben, we ought to know where we’re moving to.’

‘Yer mean, we ’adn’t decided, like,’ answered Ben.

‘That’s right.’

‘If you tush me again, you dirty bit o’ Sothershen Europe,’ babbled the tipsy one, ‘I’ll—’

The threat ended ineffectively in the grass.

‘Barmy!’ muttered Ben, and suddenly noticed Molly’s expression. It was odd. ‘Wot’s up?’

‘Buy British!’ burbled the barmy one.

The girl withdrew a little way into the barn, pulling Ben back with her. She looked anxious, and Ben’s heart missed a beat. Anxiety is catching.

‘Did you hear what he said?’ she asked.

‘Yus,’ replied Ben. ‘Buy British.’

‘I mean before that.’

‘Eh? Oh! ’E tole yer not ter touch ’im agine—’

‘Me?’

‘— and then called yer somethink I’d give ’im a swipe for if ’e was sober.’

‘He wasn’t referring to me.’

‘Go on!’

‘Can’t you guess who he was referring to?’

Ben thought, and guessed.

‘Some’un helse,’ he said.

‘Someone else who he said was a dirty bit of—’

‘Sothersomethink Europe.’

‘Suppose he meant Southern Europe? That might be Spain, mightn’t it?’

‘Blimy!’ said Ben.

The sudden vision that sprang into Ben’s mind was confirmed a moment later.

‘I’ll teach dirty Spaniard talk to Englishman!’ came the tipsy fellow’s voice from outside. ‘Who foun’ it? I foun’ it, an’ findin’s keepin’, hic. An’ what business ish it yours where I foun’ it? Hic?’

Happily the remarks were addressed not to solid substance but to thin air. They were, however, quite disturbing enough. The tipsy fellow had obviously met the Spaniard, and the meeting had been sufficiently recent to remain embedded in his muzzy consciousness.

‘We must go!’ exclaimed Molly, quickly.

‘Yus, but wot did ’e find?’ gulped Ben.

The answer was revealed when he followed Molly’s gaze. Already she had moved again towards the door, but she had paused to stare at the odd sight of the tipsy fellow, now sitting up, kissing the tip of a lady’s shoe.

‘Findin’s keepin’,’ repeated the amorous one, fatuously, ‘an’ ’spretty shoe. Now all I got to fin’ ’slady!’

Molly Smith’s record was far from blameless. She had picked pockets and had committed other offences of equal demerit. But she had her standards, odd though this may have seemed in her particular circumstances, and her womanhood could be affronted. It was affronted now at the spectacle of a tipsy man saluting her shoe.

Indignation was assisted by a dexterity she had often utilised in less worthy cause. In a flash she was out of the barn and had whipped the shoe out of the tipsy man’s hand. In another flash she had sped up the road with it and was round a corner. The reasons why the tipsy man did not see her, and imagined that invisible fingers had relieved him of his trophy, were firstly because she had adopted the pickpocket’s ruse of tapping him on one side before doing her work upon the other, and secondly because he was really too blind to see anything that was not immediately before him, and that was not held tight.

It was only through the second reason that Ben, less dexterous, was able to make his own escape without becoming a coherent memory. Subsequently the tipsy man was merely able to record that, after the avenging angel had snatched the shoe away in heavenly indignation, there had been a short, swift rush of wind and thunder. At the moment, however, he was himself indignant, and bellowed his wrath to the world.

Round the corner, Ben and Molly heard him.

‘’E’ll bring along the ’ole of Southampton,’ muttered Ben.

‘Then the sooner we’re off again, the better,’ answered Molly, as she stopped and slipped on her regained shoe.

‘Wot! More runnin’?’

‘Got to be, hasn’t it?’

‘Jest run and see wot ’appens?’

‘We must sleep somewhere, Ben.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Where we won’t be disturbed.’

‘There ain’t no such plice!’

‘And where we can decide where to go afterwards. Oh, Ben, are you sure you’ve lost that address?’

‘It’s gorn, miss. Molly, that is.’

‘And you can’t remember it?’

‘Not more’n Wimbledon Common.’

‘Think hard.’

‘Yer carn’t, not with a sorft brine.’

‘But you said you’d written it in that letter to me!’ exclaimed Molly, suddenly. ‘It’s there waiting for me, Southampton Post Orfice!’

‘So it is,’ murmured Ben. ‘On’y we ain’t at Southampton Post Office!’

‘No—but I could still go to the Southampton Post Office! Couldn’t I?’

‘What for?’

‘For that letter—and the address.’

Ben stared at her. Out of sight, the tipsy man was still audible. He was no longer shouting, however. He was singing.

‘Look ’ere, miss,’ said Ben, very solemnly. ‘Ain’t we a couple o’ mugs standin’ ’ere like this and torkin’ abart goin’ back ter Southampton?’

‘Weren’t you once a mug in Spain, Ben,’ responded Molly, just as solemnly, ‘when you took a long and dangerous journey because you thought a girl was in danger?’

‘Eh? That was dif’rent,’ muttered Ben.

‘You’d say so,’ answered Molly.

‘Well, p’r’aps the gal’s in danger now!’ he challenged.

‘P’r’aps you are, too,’ murmured Molly, musingly.

She seemed to be weighing things in her mind.

‘Oh, I’m uster it,’ retorted Ben. ‘It’s you I’m torkin’ of jest now.’

‘Bless the man! Aren’t I used to danger, too!’ exclaimed Molly. Then her voice suddenly dropped again. ‘But you know, Ben, I’m wondering whether somebody else isn’t in even greater danger than either of us?’

‘’Oo?’

‘The person at that house on Wimbledon Common you were going to—and whose address is lost!’

‘Lummy!’ murmured Ben.

Now he, too, started weighing things in his mind.

‘Yer mean—the dainjer of Don Diablo, eh?’ he said. ‘Don Diablo might ’ave fahnd the address?’

‘What do you think?’ she inquired.

‘That’s right. ’E might. And we orter git ter ’im furst—that hother Wimbledon chap—and warn ’im, like?’

‘It’d be decent. Especially if Don Diablo has really got the address from you.’

‘Yus,’ nodded Ben. ‘From me, not from you! Wot’s this got ter do with you, any’ow?’

‘Don’t you see, I’m the only one who can get the letter at the Southampton Post Office,’ she said. ‘And besides, why shouldn’t I stick to you, as you’ve stuck to me?’

Ben swallowed. It was nice, her saying that. Just the same …

‘Look ’ere,’ he said, suddenly, ‘I ain’t ’eard nothink abart you yet! Orl you’ve told me is that yer’ve bin in port a couple o’ days. Do you know anythink more abart orl this? ’Cos, if yer do, now’s the time ter spill it.’

‘I know something more about—Don Diablo,’ answered Molly, after a little pause. ‘You see, we came over on the same boat.’

‘Go on!’

‘If you want me to tell you his life story, I can’t—’

‘Leave out wot yer can’t. Wot can yer?’

‘I can tell you this, Ben. There are just two things in his mind at this moment. One’s murder. And the other’s—love. Ugh! Or what a beast like that calls love.’

‘Yer mean, ’e’s got a sweet’eart?’ inquired Ben.

‘He’d like to have one,’ she answered, and suddenly turned her head away.

Round the corner, out of sight, the tipsy man’s voice rose again.

‘Why—if it isn’t Mr Spaniard!’ it cried. ‘Now, lishen, Mr Spaniard—I’ve not got the shoe! Angel from heaven—hic—just snatched it away.’