He swerved a little too far from the wall, and got off the pavement. A bus-driver shouted at him. He shouted back, and returned to the pavement. Progress grew more difficult. Instinctively, he groped about for some quiet district, where the traffic would be less and the expectation of life greater. He walked mechanically for ten minutes, or an hour, or two hours—he couldn’t say which. And then, abruptly, a practical sense entered into him, he realised that he was tired, and that he needed a plan.
‘This ain’t no night fer the Embankment,’ he pondered. ‘Besides, ’ow’d one find the blinkin’ Embankment?’
It would be a pity, too, to waste precious coppers in an apology for a bed—even if he could find that, either. Maybe, if he set seriously to work, he could discover some odd corner to curl into for the night, a corner that would cost him nothing and would allow him to wake up no poorer than he had been when he went to sleep. Somewhere round about here, perhaps. It was quiet enough. Not a sound came to him, not a movement. Even the fog itself hung heavy and static.
‘Yus, I’ll ’ave a look rahnd,’ thought Ben, and suddenly stopped dead.
He was standing by a lamp-post, the light of which revealed dimly the lower portion of an empty house. The door of the house was ajar, and upon it was the number ‘Seventeen.’
4
The Empty House
Ben stared at the number, closed his eyes, opened them again, and then emitted a simple but expressive exclamation.
‘Well, I’ll be blowed!’ he gasped. ‘There ain’t no gettin’ away from it!’
A queer sensation passed through him as he stood on the narrow strip of pavement that divided the lamp-post from the railings, and blinked at the number that had dogged him ever since he had entered the arena of fog. But, after all—why should he get away from it? The number had not hurt him yet. There were hundreds of houses numbered ‘Seventeen.’ And this house was an empty house, with the door ajar!
‘Come in!’ the door seemed to say. ‘Here’s your free lodging. I’ve been waiting for you!’
Ben hesitated, annoyed with himself for his hesitation. This was the very thing he had been looking for. A gift from the gods! Just because …
‘G’arn!’ he muttered to himself, and walked to the front steps.
Now he was on them—there were only four—and the half-open door was two feet in front of his nose. He turned his head, and glanced back into the fog. It was so thick that he could not see the railings he had passed through. The dim light from the lamp-post sent its feeble rays above them, appearing to have no object in the world but to tell a wayfaring seaman that this house was No. 17, and that he must not pass it by. It would hardly have surprised Ben if the lamp-post had suddenly gone out now, its mission done. It appeared to be waning from where he stood.
Satisfied that nobody was immediately behind him, Ben turned to the door again, crept up to it, and gave it a careful, gentle push. It yielded rather more easily than he had expected, and he prepared to spring back. But nothing jumped out at him. A dark, narrow passage was revealed, and the beginning of an ascending staircase.
Rounding upon himself once more for his fears, he entered; and as soon as he entered, his fears returned.
‘’Ow do I know there ain’t nobody be’ind that door?’ he thought.
Anxiously, he peeped. Nobody was hiding behind the door. The house was as silent as a tomb.
‘Well, we’ll keep the fog aht, any’ow,’ muttered Ben, and closed the front door quickly.
That was better! Now no one could leap in from the street. To ensure further against this unpleasant possibility, Ben bolted the door, and then turned to other places where leaping creatures might lurk. It will have been noted, long before now, that Ben was not a man of iron; but even a man made of sterner stuff than Ben might be forgiven for a few qualms in a strange, empty house, with a thick fog outside, and no illumination inside.
To remedy the latter evil—temporarily—Ben struck a match.
‘Oi!’ he shouted, as something rose and jumped at him.
He dropped the match, and it went out. He lunged, and hit nothing. Whatever had jumped at him had not repeated the attack.
Trembling, he struck another match, holding it behind him ready to hurl at the oncomer. Something stood against the wall … His shadow.
‘Oh, my Gawd!’ chattered Ben, and gave himself ten seconds to recover.
A thought came to him. Until he was quite certain that the house was unoccupied, was it wise, after all, to have the front door bolted? A bolted door would militate against his speed if, by chance, he desired a sudden exit. Napoleon, working out the tactics of Waterloo, was no more earnestly absorbed than was Ben, working out the tactics of a bolted door.
‘Yus, I better hunbolt it, I reckons,’ he concluded, at last. ‘Yus—that’s the idea. Hunbolt it.’
So he unbolted the front door, suppressing a shiver as he did so, and then, striking another match, surveyed the passage in detail.
On his right was a door. A little farther along on the right, where the hall narrowed to accommodate the rickety stairway that ascended by the left wall, was another door. And opposite the second door was a gap, presumably leading down to the basement.
He approached the first door. ‘Wot’s wrong with knockin’?’ he thought. He knocked. There was no response. Opening the door slowly, he inserted his head, holding his match about him. An empty, furnitureless room greeted his eyes. The match flickered out.
‘’Andsome dining-room,’ he commented, ‘with ceiling comin’ dahn.’
Closing the door, he proceeded to the second door, farther along the passage, and repeated the operation. The result was similar, only this time it was a ‘’andsome drawing-room, with piper peelin’ orf.’ Having closed the drawing-room door, he turned and peered into the inky gap that led down to the basement.
‘Oh, well—’ere goes!’ he murmured. ‘Sailors was made ter go dahn!’
He descended into the unpleasant abyss, and spent five more matches on it. They revealed the usual rooms one finds in a basement, bare and tenantless; but there was one door he could not open. It was a stout door, evidently locked, though his match went out before he could find the keyhole. Deciding not to waste any more matches—for they were growing precious—he felt about in the darkness, even running his fingers along the bottom of the door.
‘Cupboard, I hexpeck,’ he muttered. ‘But it’s got a ’ell of a draught!’
The next moment, he bounded back. Something was happening beneath him. The floor was vibrating, and a faint, rhythmic clack came to his ears. Then, suddenly, the vibration increased, a dull roar grew out of the bowels of the earth, and something rushed beneath him. Ben wiped his damp forehead.
‘If I ’ad the bloke ’ere,’ he thought, ‘wot hinvented trines, I’d give ’im somethin’.’
He ascended from the basement to the ground floor. He walked to the foot of the stairs leading to the upper floors. He raised his eyes, and peered, and listened.
And, as he listened, it began to dawn upon Ben that he had done about as much exploring as his nerves would stand. Why go over the entire house? He wasn’t bringing a whole family in! One floor was sufficient for him, and the drawing-room with the paper peeling off was quite good enough for his unfastidious taste.
So he sent his voice upstairs, instead of his person.
‘Oi!’ he shouted. ‘Oi! Hennybody hup there?’
Apparently not. Still, he tried again.
‘If hennybody’s hup there,’ he called, ‘this is ter let ’em know as I’m dahn ’ere!’
Again no response. Ben sighed with relief.
‘Well, it ain’t so bad,’ he observed, to the unheeding walls. ‘I reckons this is a little bit of orl right! I’m a bloomin’ ’ouse-holder. And nah, wot abart goin’ aht and gettin’ a bit o’ food?’
He went to the front door, and opened it. Fog poured in. ‘Lummy!’ he thought. ‘It’s gettin’ wuss!’ Wedging a piece of wood, of which the
re was plenty about, under the door to keep it open, he walked down the steps and into the street again. And, just as he reached the pavement, the door of the adjoining house opened, and a figure emerged.
‘Don’t be long, father!’ cried someone, evidently standing in the hall.
‘I’ll be as quick as I can, my dear,’ the figure answered. ‘Run in, or you’ll catch your death of cold.’
The door closed with a muffled bang, and Ben drew himself close against the railings. The figure reached him abruptly, and paused in passing.
‘Hallo—where did you spring from?’ asked the figure.
Ben made no reply. He did not see why he should. A fellow didn’t have to explain himself to every passer-by, did he, even if he had just been exploring an empty house that wasn’t his! The figure looked at him suspiciously, and barked:
‘Be off!’
And then, without waiting to find out whether this somewhat peremptory order was obeyed, went off himself.
A few seconds later, the front door of the next house again opened. Quickly, this time, as though on urgent business.
‘Father!’ called the voice he had heard before. ‘Father! I want you to …’
There was no response, and the voice trailed off.
‘Like me ter go arter ’im, miss?’ asked Ben. ‘Oi!’
The girl started at Ben’s voice, and he slipped after the vanished figure. The fog beat him, however. He returned a minute later to report failure.
‘Sorry, miss,’ he said. ‘’E was too quick fer me. It’s a reg’ler needle in a ’aystack in this fog, ain’t it?’
‘Never mind,’ replied the girl. ‘Thanks very much. It doesn’t matter.’
She was a pretty girl, with nothing swanky about her. Quite a good sort, Ben concluded. Ripe for a little human intercourse, he attempted to prolong the conversation.
‘Anythin’ I can do for yer, miss?’ he asked.
She peered down at him, and shook her head.
‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t important—only a letter.’
‘Like me ter post it?’
‘No—but thank you very much.’
The door began to close. Ben felt as though a glint of sunlight had suddenly appeared, and were now vanishing.
‘Shockin’ dye, ain’t it!’ he called. The door, however, was now shut. ‘Well, that’s orl there is abart that!’ he mumbled. ‘That’s the larst I’ll see of ’er!’
An extraordinarily poor prediction, as subsequent events proved. And had Ben realised the conditions of their next meeting, he would have sat down very promptly in the middle of the road.
Alone once more, he took careful bearings, and felt his way along the street, his idea being to keep a straight line until he hit a shop. He did not hit a shop until he had crossed three roads, and then it was not much of a shop. True, it called itself an Emporium, in virtue of the fact that the old lady who kept it had blossomed out from sweets to postcards and a small selection of tinned foods; but the sweets and the post-cards were of modest quality, while the tinned foods were reduced to the single selection of pork and beans.
‘’Ow much?’ demanded Ben, taking up the single selection.
‘One-and-two, or one-and-three, I think,’ replied the old lady. ‘Dear me, I must get some more.’
‘Let it go fer a shillin’, ma?’ asked Ben.
‘We’ll say one-and-two, then.’
‘But I ain’t got one-and-two. I got a shillin’.’
She looked at him, over her glasses. He was very shabby. And it was very foggy. And she was very old. Details don’t matter quite so much when you are old.
‘All right, then—a shilling,’ she said; and the bargain was struck.
He groped his way back to the empty house, noted with satisfaction that the door was as he had left it, and slipped in with his precious packet. This time, he bolted the front door behind him and, after depositing his parcel in the back reception-room, he descended to the basement to make certain that the back door was bolted also. This settled, he returned to the back reception-room, and prepared to make himself comfortable.
He tested the floor by sitting down in a corner of it. Not at all bad. Quite decent, in fact. So decent, that he had no immediate impulse to get up again. Of course, he’d get up soon. He’d find some wood and make a fire. Then, a little later, he would heat the pork and beans on the fire … that would be good … but not just yet … a little later …
He began to nod. His head drooped forward. Ben had walked a good many miles that day. A clock outside chimed six.
Ben did not hear it—he was fast asleep.
He awoke suddenly, with a start. The clock was striking again—midnight. But that had not awakened him. Someone was walking in the basement below.
5
Up and Down
‘G’arn—I’m dreamin’,’ thought Ben. ‘Orl them doors is bolted!’
He stayed quite still, listening, and hoping to be awakened from the dream. But the footsteps continued, and grew louder, and all at once Ben realised that this was no dream, but stark reality. The knowledge produced a frank sweat.
The moment when the dream theory fails is always a nasty one.
‘S’elp me, there’s a bloke dahn there,’ gasped Ben, and clambered clumsily to his feet.
Then he stood motionless, and listened again. Now he heard no sound. The footsteps had stopped. Was the producer of the footsteps also listening, standing somewhere below as motionless as he?
Ben crept to the door, and softly opened it. As he did so, a dull clank-clank in the distance grew nearer and louder. A goods train, obviously. It rattled under the house, shaking it, and under cover of the noise Ben left the room and stepped out into the passage.
‘P’r’aps it was the trine, orl the time,’ thought Ben, as the rattle and clank decreased.
But this hope was soon dissipated. Even before the sound of the train had dwindled away, the footsteps below recommenced—less heavily, this time more stealthily.
‘’Ere, I’ve ’ad enuff o’ this!’ reflected the seaman, and tiptoed quickly along the passage.
Should he dash out of the house? This would mean unbolting the front door—a noisy operation—and it would also mean the rest of the night in the fog. A speedier, and probably better, sanctuary was suggested by the staircase. Almost before he realised it, he was ascending the stairs, and he did not pause in his ascent until he had reached the top of the house.
He found himself now on a small landing with a skylight above him, and a door on his right. There was only one door, leading assumedly to an attic.
Before entering the door, he turned and peered down the stairs up which he had come. All was quiet. He waited, so it seemed to him, five minutes, but probably it was only one. Then he turned to the attic door again, and regarded it.
Risking the sound, he struck a match. A key was in the door, and this immediately suggested his plan. He stretched his hand forward, and turned the key. The door was now locked, with the initiative on his side, and he was free to negotiate.
‘Oi!’ he whispered, through the keyhole. ‘Hennybody there?’
No answer came. He repeated the inquiry, a little more loudly, but not too loudly, lest the thing below stairs should hear. Then, as again no answer came, and as he heard neither breathing nor snoring, he felt free to turn the key, and open the door.
Another match revealed the chamber, and proved that, although less pretentious from the architect’s point of view, it had certain advantages over the lower rooms he had already sampled. The first advantage was a half-used candle, sticking upright in a pool of its own grease on the mantelpiece across the floor. Ben made for the candle promptly, and by its comparatively brilliant glare noted the other advantages of the attic.
An old chair, battered but still serviceable, was near the fireplace. Three or four packing-cases, which could be used as tables or firewood, stood about. And the key in the door was another advantage, for it offered securit
y.
But before Ben could finally approve of the room, two other doors had to be investigated.
One door, by the fireplace, led to an inner room somewhat similar to the outer room. Rendered courageous by his candle, he made a thorough examination of this inner chamber, discovering that it possessed no other entrance, and that it contained a fair-sized cupboard.
The other door of the outer room, at right angles to the passage door, and close to it, refused to open. It was locked—as the door down in the basement had been—and there was no key.
‘This is a better pitch,’ thought Ben. ‘I’ll stay ’ere till the mornin’, any’ow, and the feller dahnstairs can ’ave the bottom ’arf. Sort o’ maisonette.’
Some packing-cases stood under a rather high window. He climbed on to them, and peered out. Fog still as thick as ever. Climbing down again, he selected the most dilapidated case, and split it up.
‘Might as well ’ave a bit o’ cheer,’ he muttered. ‘And it’s time, I reckons, fer them pork an’ beans.’
Fortunately, there were some odd scraps of paper in the packing-case, and these served to start the fire. Throwing some wood on top, he soon had a good blaze, and the warmth welled into him, making life good once more, and dispelling some of his tremors. Thus many another has enjoyed the calm before the storm, smiling for a short period in the false assurance of a temporary security.
His good humour increased when he opened the packet which contained the tin of pork and beans. The old proprietress of the Emporium had added a chunk of bread and a slice of cheese. Best bob’s-worth he’d ever known. This was a bit of all right!
‘Me own mother wouldn’t ’ave done more fer me,’ thought Ben. ‘Wot it is ter ’ave a ’andsome fice!’
But, although he made light of it, the old woman’s kindliness warmed that bare, uncomfortable room almost as much as did the crackling blaze. In the midst of all this uncouthness and uncanniness, of fearful possibilities and tremulous thoughts, a peaceful, human smile lurked somewhere. It stood for the tiny gleam that no blackness can ever totally extinguish, though often enough we seem to lose it in our groping, and forget that it is there. Yet, however faintly it burns, it never flickers out, for it is independent of material substance.
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