CHAPTER V.
CONSTABLE APPLEBEE AND CONSTABLE POND FOREGATHER.
In the course of the next few days the weather exhibited its vagariesin a more than usually astonishing fashion. On the night of the 1st ofMarch the sobbing and the moaning of the wind continued till earlymorning, when it pleased the air to become mild and balmy, almostpromising the advent of spring. A few bold buds awoke and peeped outof their little brown beds, and over the atmosphere hung a hazy veilof dim, delicious sapphire. On the following day this promise wasdestroyed, and another change took place; and on the night of the 5tha fog which had been overlooked in the early winter took its revengefor the neglect by enveloping the City of Unrest in a mist so densethat Mrs. Pond, in a conversation with Mrs. Applebee the next day wasdriven to the use of a familiar illustration.
"If you'll believe me, Mrs. Applebee," she said, "it was that thickyou could have cut it with a knife. I could hardly see my hand beforeme."
"But what took you out in it, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Applebee.
"I couldn't help thinking of Pond," replied Mrs. Pond, a young womanof two and twenty, whose wifely experiences were tame in comparisonwith those of Mrs. Applebee, the mother of eight, "trapesing up anddown in the cold while I was setting before a blazing fire ascomfortable as you please. 'A cup of hot coffee 'll put life in him,'says I to myself, and I was soon on my way outside with a bottlefultucked under my cloak. It took me a good hour to get to him."
"And by that time the coffee was cold," Mrs. Applebee remarked.
"No, it was just lukewarm. Thinking of Pond I cuddled it close; but Idon't mind confessing I was almost giving him up."
"How did you find him at last, my dear?"
"I'll tell you a secret," said the young wife, with a little blush.Mrs. Applebee, who dearly loved a secret or anything mysterious,pricked up her ears. "When Pond was put on the night beat we agreedupon a signal. It was his idea; he's that clever you wouldn'tbelieve."
"May it ever continue," ejaculated Mrs. Applebee.
"What?"
"Your opinion of him."
"Oh, it will," said Mrs. Pond, nodding her head confidently. "WhatPond thinks of is a bird-call, and he buys two, and gives me one. 'Ifit should chance to happen,' says Pond, 'that you're my way--say aboutten o'clock--when I'm on duty, just you give a soft blow. When I hearit out comes my bird-call, and I give a soft blow. Only one, Polly,because it might be noticed and against the regulations.' It doesoften chance to happen that I'm Pond's way on a dark night," addedMrs. Pond, with a sly look, "and I give a soft blow and he givesanother. He says it's like company when he hears it, and he resoomshis tread with a light heart. As for me, I go home as happy as happycan be. Thankful I was last night when Pond answered my call, andthankful _he_ was for the coffee. 'Polly,' he says, 'you're a angel.'"
"How many kisses did he give you, my dear?"
"Oh, Mrs. Applebee," said Mrs. Pond, archly, "against the regulations,you know."
"I've heard of it being done," said Mrs. Applebee, pensively, "even bypolicemen on night duty. It was a dreadful night for our men to beout, but duty's duty and the pay's regular. It's a good thing you gothome safe. Is your room let yet?"
"No, the bill's still in the window. Twenty-five pounds is a lot topay for a house, but Pond says, 'Don't you fret, Polly; we'll soon geta lodger, and there's half the rent paid.' I must run home now in casehe wakes up."
Mrs. Applebee's lord and master was at that moment in his bed,dreaming of fogs and shadows. Mrs. Pond's lord and master was alsoenjoying repose. They lived in adjoining streets, and their husbandsbeing in the Force and at present on the night beat, it was theirhabit to foregather for a social gossip while their good men were inthe arms of Morpheus.
There had been forewarnings of this visitation of the heaviest fog ofthe season. When people woke up on the morning of March 5th theythought it was the middle of the night. The comfortable illusion beingdispelled by a consultation of watches and clocks they found that thesky was not visible, and that they could not distinguish the houses onthe opposite side of the way. They crawled to their places of businessin a discontented frame of mind, through a white blinding mist whichmade them uncertain of the direction they were taking. To add to theirperplexities the trams and omnibuses were not running, and jubilantcabmen, bent (paradoxically) on making hay while the sun shines,walked at their horses' heads, holding the bridles, and demanded goldinstead of silver for taking a fare anywhere. These creeping shadows,the muffled cries that fell upon the ear, and the lighted links whichseemed to move through space without the aid of hands, were more likea scene in the infernal regions than a representation of the anxious,throbbing life of our modern Babylon.
As the day wore on the fog lifted a little, but at night it becameworse. Theatrical managers were sad and low-spirited, for theirpatrons were not disposed to leave their firesides in such weather,and the actors performed their ghostly parts to indistinct and scantyaudiences, upon whom the brightest flashes of comedy fell withdepressing effect. The fairies in the pantomimes which were stillrunning were shorn of bright fancies, and even the bad spirits derivedno pleasure from the perpetration of evil deeds. The few monomaniacswho believed that the end of the world was coming, were on theirknees, waiting for the blast of Michael's trumpet. Topers standing atthe bars of their favourite publichouses drank their liquor with adistinct absence of conviviality, and the verbal and visual inanitiesbetween barmaids and their admirers were shorn of that vacuousvivacity which generally distinguishes the intercourse of thoseparties. Dejection and dulness reigned in all the waking world.
In no part of the city were matters quite so bad as in the vicinity ofCatchpole Square, North district, where, an hour after midnight,Constable Pond was cautiously feeling his way towards the border-lineof his beat, hoping there to meet with human companionship in theperson of Constable Applebee, who, himself animated by a similar hopein respect of Constable Pond, was advancing from an oppositedirection. On this miserable night one crumb of comfort--oh, but itwas more than a crumb; it might have been called a whole loaf--hadfallen to the share of Constable Pond. He had not thought it likelythat his wife would have ventured from the house, nor, lonely as hewas, did he wish it; but when, an hour or so before midnight, he heardthe familiar bird-call, he joyfully responded.
"Why, Polly, Polly!" he exclaimed, passing his arm around her. "Mysenses don't deceive me, do they?"
"I hope they don't," said Polly, drawing his arm tighter. "Youwouldn't do this to another woman, I'm sure of that."
"You may be, Polly, you may be. Not to Queen Victoria herself with hergold crown on. Well, this _is_ a surprise! Such a surprise, Polly, asmakes up for all."
He gave her a great hug. He did not consider the regulations--not he!
"I'm afraid it's cold," said Polly, putting the bottle of coffee intohis hand, and paying good interest for the hug. "It was boiling hotwhen I started."
"What a brick you are!" said Constable Pond, extracting the cork withhis teeth, and applying himself to the refreshment. "It's ever so muchbetter than three-star. Here, take a pull yourself." She did. "Polly,you're a angel!"
She laughed, but did not dispute it, and they remained a short time infond dalliance. A strange hour for Cupid's pranks, but that urchin hasno conscience. Polly proposed to walk the beat with her husband allthrough the night, but this was such an alarming infringement of theregulations that he would not listen to it. So he escorted her to theend of his beat, and would have escorted her farther, but _she_ wouldnot listen to that.
"Can you find your way home?" he asked, in doubt.
"Blindfold," she answered promptly.
"You may as well have the empty bottle," he said. "Hold it by theneck, and if anybody comes up to you give him a crack on the head withit. Another kiss, Polly!"
As she walked away she blew on her bird-call every few yards, to whichher husband did not fail to respond; and if desolation did not fallupon him when he could he
ar it no longer it was because of theimpression which Polly's thoughtful love had produced upon him. "Goodlittle woman," he said. "A regular trump, that's what she is." But acouple of hours' loneliness sent his spirits down again, and now hewas seeking his brother-constable Applebee to cheer him up with thefriendly word. With the advance of the night the fog continued todeepen, and he got into a state of muddle as to his whereabouts. Hisprogress was painfully slow. The white mist blinded and deceived him;his footsteps were noiseless; and but for the striking of the hourfrom a neighbouring church he might reasonably have fancied that hewas traversing a city of the dead.
"Saint Michael's Church," he soliloquised, with a feeling of relief."I didn't hear it when it struck last. Where could I have been--andwhere am I now? It can't be fur off, though whether it's to the rightof me or the left of me, or before me or behind me, I'll be hanged ifI can tell. What street am I in--Riley Street or Silver Street? Ifit's Riley Street I ought to come upon Applebee in a minute or two,unless he's at the other end of the beat. If it's Silver Street I'llhave to tack."
That he should be puzzled was not to be wondered at, for the streetshe named were so precisely alike in every detail and feature that theymight have been turned out of one mould. Their frontage was the same,their height was the same, their depth was the same, and each had thesame number of rooms of exactly the same shape and dimensions, and thesame number of chimney pots placed in exactly the same positions. Whenthis mathematical demon of architecture receives its death-blow a joywill be added to existence.
While Constable Pond stood debating whether to tack or creep straighton he saw in the distance what might be likened to a dead star--themisty glimmering of a despondent light; and on the chance of itsindicating the presence of Constable Applebee he boldly challenged it.
"Hallo, there!" he cried.
"Hallo, there!" came the echoing answer.
There was little life in their voices; they seemed to linger, asthough they had not sufficient power to effectually pierce the thickair.
"Is that you, Applebee?"
"Yes, it's me. Is it Pond?"
"Yes."
"Your voice sounds strange. Come slow."
Each advancing with caution, a friendly grasp of hands presentlyunited them.
Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery Page 6