by Saki
Mrs. Greyes and Miss Fritten had missed the 2.18 to Town, and as there was not another train till 3.12 they thought that they might as well make their grocery purchases at Scarrick’s. It would not be sensational, they agreed, but it would still be shopping.
For some minutes they had the shop almost to themselves, as far as customers were concerned, but while they were debating the respective virtues and blemishes of two competing brands of anchovy paste they were startled by an order, given across the counter, for six pomegranates and a packet of quail seed. Neither commodity was in general demand in that neighbourhood. Equally unusual was the style and appearance of the customer; about sixteen years old, with dark olive skin, large dusky eyes, and thick, low-growing, blue-black hair, he might have made his living as an artist’s model. As a matter of fact he did. The bowl of beaten brass that he produced for the reception of his purchases was distinctly the most astonishing variation on the string bag or marketing basket of suburban civilization that his fellow-shoppers had ever seen. He threw a gold piece, apparently of some exotic currency, across the counter, and did not seem disposed to wait for any change that might be forthcoming.
“The wine and figs were not paid for yesterday,” he said; “keep what is over of the money for our future purchases.”
“A very strange-looking boy?” said Mrs. Greyes interrogatively to the grocer as soon as his customer had left.
“A foreigner, I believe,” said Mr. Scarrick, with a shortness that was entirely out of keeping with his usually communicative manner.
“I wish for a pound and a half of the best coffee you have,” said an authoritative voice a moment or two later. The speaker was a tall, authoritative-looking man of rather outlandish aspect, remarkable among other things for a full black beard, worn in a style more in vogue in early Assyria than in a London suburb of the present day.
“Has a dark-faced boy been here buying pomegranates?” he asked suddenly, as the coffee was being weighed out to him.
The two ladies almost jumped on hearing the grocer reply with an unblushing negative.
“We have a few pomegranates in stock,” he continued, “but there has been no demand for them.”
“My servant will fetch the coffee as usual,” said the purchaser, producing a coin from a wonderful metal-work purse. As an apparent afterthought he fired out the question: “Have you, perhaps, any quail seed?”
“No,” said the grocer, without hesitation, “we don’t stock it.”
“What will he deny next?” asked Mrs. Greyes under her breath. What made it seem so much worse was the fact that Mr. Scarrick had quite recently presided at a lecture on Savonarola.
Turning up the deep astrachan collar of his long coat, the stranger swept out of the shop, with the air, as Miss Fritten afterwards described it, of a Satrap proroguing a Sanhedrin. Whether such a pleasant function ever fell to a Satrap’s lot she was not quite certain, but the simile faithfully conveyed her meaning to a large circle of acquaintances.
“Don’t let’s bother about the 3.12,” said Mrs. Greyes; “let’s go and talk this over at Laura Lipping’s. It’s her day.”
When the dark-faced boy arrived at the shop next day with his brass marketing bowl there was quite a fair gathering of customers, most of whom seemed to be spinning out their purchasing operations with the air of people who had very little to do with their time. In a voice that was heard all over the shop, perhaps because everybody was intently listening, he asked for a pound of honey and a packet of quail seed.
“More quail seed!” said Miss Fritten. “Those quails must be voracious, or else it isn’t quail seed at all.’
“I believe it’s opium, and the bearded man is a detective,” said Mrs. Greyes brilliantly.
“I don’t,” said Laura Lipping; “I’m sure it’s something to do with the Portuguese Throne.”
“More likely to be a Persian intrigue on behalf of the ex-Shah,” said Miss Fritten; “the bearded man belongs to the Government Party. The quail seed is a countersign, of course; Persia is almost next door to Palestine, and quails come into the Old Testament, you know.”
“Only as a miracle,” said her well-informed younger sister; “I’ve thought all along it was part of a love intrigue.”
The boy who had so much interest and speculation centred on him was on the point of departing with his purchases when he was waylaid by Jimmy, the nephew-apprentice, who, from his post at the cheese and bacon counter, commanded a good view of the street.
“We have some very fine Jaffa oranges,” he said hurriedly, pointing to a corner where they were stored, behind a high rampart of biscuit tins. There was evidently more in the remark than met the ear. The boy flew at the oranges with the enthusiasm of a ferret finding a rabbit family at home after a long day of fruitless subterranean research. Almost at the same moment the bearded stranger stalked into the shop, and flung an order for a pound of dates and a tin of the best Smyrna halva across the counter. The most adventurous housewife in the locality had never heard of halva, but Mr. Scarrick was apparently able to produce the best Smyrna variety of it without a moment’s hesitation.
“We might be living in the Arabian Nights,” said Miss Fritten excitedly.
“Hush! Listen,” beseeched Mrs. Greyes.
“Has the dark-faced boy, of whom I spoke yesterday, been here today?” asked the stranger.
“We’ve had rather more people than usual in the shop today,” said Mr. Scarrick, “but I can’t recall a boy such as you describe.”
Mrs. Greyes and Miss Fritten looked round triumphantly at their friends. It was, of course, deplorable that any one should treat the truth as an article temporarily and excusably out of stock, but they felt gratified that the vivid accounts they had given of Mr. Scarrick’s traffic in falsehoods should receive confirmation at first hand.
“I shall never again be able to believe what he tells me about the absence of colouring matter in the jam,” whispered an aunt of Mrs. Greyes tragically.
The mysterious stranger took his departure; Laura Lipping distinctly saw a snarl of baffled rage reveal itself behind his heavy moustache and upturned astrachan collar. After a cautious interval the seeker after oranges emerged from behind the biscuit tins, having apparently failed to find any individual orange that satisfied his requirements. He, too, took his departure, and the shop was slowly emptied of its parcel and gossip laden customers. It was Emily Yorling’s “day,” and most of the shoppers made their way to her drawing-room. To go direct from a shopping expedition to a tea-party was what was known locally as “living in a whirl.”
Two extra assistants had been engaged for the following afternoon, and their services were in brisk demand; the shop was crowded. People bought and bought, and never seemed to get to the end of their lists. Mr. Scarrick had never had so little difficulty in persuading customers to embark on new experiences in grocery wares. Even those women whose purchases were of modest proportions dawdled over them as though they had brutal, drunken husbands to go home to. The afternoon had dragged uneventfully on, and there was a distinct buzz of unpent excitement when a dark-eyed boy carrying a brass bowl entered the shop. The excitement seemed to have communicated itself to Mr. Scarrick; abruptly deserting a lady who was making insincere inquiries about the home life of the Bombay duck, he intercepted the newcomer on his way to the accustomed counter and informed him, amid a deathlike hush, that he had run out of quail seed.
The boy looked nervously round the shop, and turned hesitatingly to go. He was again intercepted, this time by the nephew, who darted out from behind his counter and said something about a better line of oranges. The boy’s hesitation vanished; he almost scuttled into the obscurity of the orange corner. There was an expectant turn of public attention towards the door, and the tall, bearded stranger made a really effective entrance. The aunt of Mrs. Greyes declared afterwards that she found herself subconsciously repeating “The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold” under her breath, and she was generally bel
ieved.
The newcomer, too, was stopped before he reached the counter, but not by Mr. Scarrick or his assistant. A heavily veiled lady, whom no one had hitherto noticed, rose languidly from a seat and greeted him in a clear, penetrating voice.
“Your Excellency does his shopping himself?” she said.
“I order the things myself,” he explained; “I find it difficult to make my servants understand.”
In a lower, but still perfectly audible, voice the veiled lady gave him a piece of casual information.
“They have some excellent Jaffa oranges here.” Then with a tinkling laugh she passed out of the shop.
The man glared all round the shop, and then, fixing his eyes instinctively on the barrier of biscuit tins, demanded loudly of the grocer: “You have, perhaps, some good Jaffa oranges?”
Every one expected an instant denial on the part of Mr. Scarrick of any such possession. Before he could answer, however, the boy had broken forth from his sanctuary. Holding his empty brass bowl before him he passed out into the street. His face was variously described afterwards as masked with studied indifference, overspread with ghastly pallor, and blazing with defiance. Some said that his teeth chattered, others that he went out whistling the Persian National Hymn. There was no mistaking, however, the effect produced by the encounter on the man who had seemed to force it. If a rabid dog or a rattlesnake had suddenly thrust its companionship on him he could scarcely have displayed a greater access of terror. His air of authority and assertiveness had gone, his masterful stride had given way to a furtive pacing to and fro, as of an animal seeking an outlet for escape. In a dazed perfunctory manner, always with his eyes turning to watch the shop entrance, he gave a few random orders, which the grocer made a show of entering in his book. Now and then he walked out into the street, looked anxiously in all directions, and hurried back to keep up his pretence of shopping. From one of these sorties he did not return; he had dashed away into the dusk, and neither he nor the dark-faced boy nor the veiled lady were seen again by the expectant crowds that continued to throng the Scarrick establishment for days to come.
“I can never thank you and your sister sufficiently,” said the grocer.
“We enjoyed the fun of it,” said the artist modestly, “and as for the model, it was a welcome variation on posing for hours for ‘The Lost Hylas.’”
“At any rate,” said the grocer, “I insist on paying for the hire of the black beard.”
CANOSSA
DEMOSTHENES PLATTEBRAFF, the eminent Unrest Inducer, stood on his trial for a serious offence, and the eyes of the political world were focussed on the jury. The offence, it should be stated, was serious for the Government rather than for the prisoner. He had blown up the Albert Hall on the eve of the great Liberal Federation Tango Tea, the occasion on which the Chancellor of the Exchequer was expected to propound his new theory: “Do partridges spread infectious diseases?” Platterbaff had chosen his time well; the Tango Tea had been hurriedly postponed, but there were other political fixtures which could not be put off under any circumstances. The day after the trial there was to be a by-election at Nemesis-on-Hand, and it had been openly announced in the division that if Platterbaff were languishing in gaol on polling day the Government candidate would be “outed” to a certainty. Unfortunately, there could be no doubt or misconception as to Platterbaff’s guilt. He had not only pleaded guilty, but had expressed his intention of repeating his escapade in other directions as soon as circumstances permitted; throughout the trial he was busy examining a small model of the Free Trade Hall in Manchester. The jury could not possibly find that the prisoner had not deliberately and intentionally blown up the Albert Hall; the question was: Could they find any extenuating circumstances which would permit of an acquittal? Of course any sentence which the law might feel compelled to inflict would be followed by an immediate pardon, but it was highly desirable, from the Government’s point of view, that the necessity for such an exercise of clemency should not arise. A headlong pardon, on the eve of a by-election, with threats of a heavy voting defection if it were withheld or even delayed, would not necessarily be a surrender, but it would look like one. Opponents would be only to ready to attribute ungenerous motives. Hence the anxiety in the crowded Court, and in the little groups gathered round the tape-machines in Whitehall and Downing Street and other affected centres.
The jury returned from considering their verdict; there was a flutter, an excited murmur, a death-like hush. The foreman delivered his message:
“The jury find the prisoner guilty of blowing up the Albert Hall. The jury wish to add a rider drawing attention to the fact that a by-election is pending in the Parliamentary division of Nemesis-on-Hand.”
“That, of course,” said the Government Prosecutor, springing to his feet, “is equivalent to an acquittal?”
“I hardly think so,” said the Judge coldly: “I feel obliged to sentence the prisoner to a week’s imprisonment.”
“And may the Lord have mercy on the poll,” a Junior Counsel exclaimed irreverently.
It was a scandalous sentence, but then the Judge was not on the Ministerial side in politics.
The verdict and sentence were made known to the public at twenty minutes past five in the afternoon; at half-past five a dense crowd was massed outside the Prime Minister’s residence lustily singing, to the air of “Trelawney”:
“And should our Hero rot in gaol,
For e’en a single day,
There’s Fifteen Hundred Voting Men
Will vote the other way.”
“Fifteen hundred,” said the Prime Minister, with a shudder; “it’s too horrible to think of. Our majority last time was only a thousand and seven.”
“The poll opens at eight tomorrow morning,” said the Chief Organizer; “we must have him out by 7 a.m.”
“Seven-thirty,” amended the Prime Minister; “we must avoid any appearance of precipitancy.”
“Not later than seven-thirty, then,” said the Chief Organizer; “I have promised the agent down there that he shall be able to display posters announcing ‘Platterbaff is Out,’ before the poll opens. He said it was our only chance of getting a telegram ‘Radprop is In’ tonight.”
At half-past seven the next morning the Prime Minister and the Chief Organizer sat at breakfast, making a perfunctory meal, and awaiting the return of the Home Secretary, who had gone in person to superintend the releasing of Platterbaff. Despite the earliness of the hour, a small crowd had gathered in the street outside, and the horrible menacing Trelawney refrain of the “Fifteen Hundred Voting Men” came in a steady, monotonous chant.
“They will cheer presently when they hear the news,” said the Prime Minister hopefully. “Hark! They are booing some one now! That must be McKenna.”
The Home Secretary entered the room a moment later, disaster written on his face.
“He won’t go!” he exclaimed.
“Won’t go? Won’t leave gaol?”
“He won’t go unless he has a brass band. He says he never has left prison without a brass band to play him out, and he’s not going to go without one now.”
“But surely that sort of thing is provided by his supporters and admirers?” said the Prime Minister; “we can hardly be supposed to supply a released prisoner with a brass band. How on earth could we defend it on the Estimates?”
“His supporters say it is up to us to provide the music,” said the Home Secretary; “they say we put him in prison, and it’s our affair to see that he leaves it in a respectable manner. Anyway, he won’t go unless he has a band.”
The telephone squealed shrilly; it was a trunk call from Nemesis.
“Poll opens in five minutes. Is Platterbaff out yet? In Heaven’s name, why—”
The Chief Organizer rang off.
“This is not a moment for standing on dignity,” he observed bluntly; “musicians must be supplied at once. Platterbaff must have his band.”
“Where are you going to find the musicia
ns?” asked the Home Secretary wearily; “we can’t employ a military band; in fact, I don’t think he’d have one if we offered it, and there aren’t any others. There’s a musicians’ strike on, I suppose you know.”
“Can’t you get a strike permit?” asked the Organizer.
“I’ll try,” said the Home Secretary, and went to the telephone.
Eight o’clock struck. The crowd outside chanted with an increasing volume of sound:
“Will vote the other way.”
A telegram was brought in. It was from the central committee rooms at Nemesis. “Losing twenty votes per minute,” was its brief message.
Ten o’clock struck. The Prime Minister, the Home Secretary, the Chief Organizer, and several earnest helpful friends were gathered in the inner gateway of the prison, talking volubly to Demosthenes Platterbaff, who stood with folded arms and squarely planted feet, silent in their midst. Golden-tongued legislators whose eloquence had swayed the Marconi Inquiry Committee, or at any rate the greater part of it, expended their arts of oratory in vain on this stubborn unyielding man. Without a band he would not go; and they had no band.
A quarter-past ten, half-past. A constant stream of telegraph boys poured in through the prison gates.
“Yamley’s factory hands just voted you can guess how,” ran a despairing message, and the others were all of the same tenor. Nemesis was going the way of Reading.
“Have you any band instruments of an easy nature to play?” demanded the Chief Organizer of the Prison Governor; “drums, cymbals, those sort of things?”
“The warders have a private band of their own,” said the Governor, “but of course I couldn’t allow the men themselves—”
“Lend us the instruments,” said the Chief Organizer.
One of the earnest helpful friends was a skilled performer on the cornet, the Cabinet Ministers were able to clash cymbals more or less in tune, and the Chief Organizer had some knowledge of the drum.
“What tune would you prefer?” he asked Platterbaff.