the gloaming. Never joyous at the best of times, Jowle Street looked at its worst just now, full of evil little glistenings as the damp night drew on. It was a forgotten road, and best forgotten. But the house opposite provided nothing especially sinister at the moment. The blind of the window of the second floor front was now drawn, presenting an expressionless face of opaque yellow. The doorstep was deserted. And there was no longer an Indian standing at the corner. The only movement visible in the street was that of a covered cart slowly jogging along through the slush.
Ben watched the cart idly. ‘Well, I’d sooner be ’oo I am than that there ’orse,’ he reflected. It was a poor, bony creature, a dismal relic of a noble race. Funny how some horses stirred and stimulated you, while the very sight of others almost made you lose your belief in the beneficence of Creation! ‘Wot does ’orses do when they gits old?’ wondered Ben. ‘Sit dahn, like us?’
But a moment later he ceased to dwell on the hard lot of horses. The cart had stopped outside No. 26.
Well, why shouldn’t it stop outside No. 26? Every day, millions of carts stopped outside millions of houses! Almost indignantly, Ben attempted to deride his interest. The interest held him, though. He could not tear himself away. He’d have to watch until he saw the cart move on again.
A man descended from the driver’s seat. He moved towards the house, but almost immediately the front door opened, and a servant came out. At least, Ben deduced he must be a servant. A few words passed between the servant and the driver. Then they both went to the back of the cart, and were busy for a while drawing something out. The hood of the cart hid the something from Ben’s view until the two men were actually carrying it towards the door. Then Ben saw it. It was a long object, covered with sacking.
About six feet long. About three feet wide. About three feet high.
Ben turned away. He didn’t like it. And as he turned away, the front door bell rang again.
‘’Ere, wot’s orl this abart?’ he demanded of the uncommunicative walls. ‘Wot’s ’appenin’?’
As once before, he was faced with the alternative of the front door and the back window. This time he was even more tempted to choose the back window. He might have done so had not a sudden thought deterred him, a thought that abruptly changed the bell from a sinister to a welcome sound.
‘’Corse—it’s on’y that young chap come back agin,’ he cogitated, ‘and ’e was bahnd ter come back some time or other, wasn’t ’e? Blimy, if I don’t ask ’im in and tell ’im orl abart it!’
Life is largely a matter of comparison. When first the young man had called he had been a nuisance. Now, contrasted with an old man’s back, a contortionist, an Indian, and a long, six-foot object, he became a thing of beauty! And even without the advantage of these comparisons, Ben recalled that his face had been pleasant enough, and his voice amiable.
‘Yes, that’s wot I’ll do!’ muttered Ben, on his way to the passage. ‘I’ll ’ave ’im in, and arsk ’im wot ’e thinks.’
He slithered down the stairs. As he neared the bottom, the bell rang again. ‘Orl right, orl right!’ he called. ‘I’m comin’, ain’t I?’
He opened the door. The Indian stood on the doorstep.
At some time or other your heart has probably missed a beat. Ben’s heart missed five. Meanwhile, the Indian regarded him without speaking, as though to give him time to recover. Then the Indian said, in surprisingly good English:
‘You live here?’
He spoke slowly and quietly, but with a strangely dominating accent. But for the dominating accent, Ben might have been a little longer in finding his voice.
‘Yus,’ he gulped.
‘It is your house?’ continued the Indian.
‘No,’ answered Ben.
He had tried to say another ‘yus’ but with the Indian’s eyes piercing him he was unable to.
‘You are, then, a tenant?’
This time Ben managed a ‘yus.’
‘And to whom do you pay your rent?’ inquired the Indian.
The inflexion was slightly acid. Ben fought hard.
‘That’s my bizziness, ain’t it?’ he retorted.
‘If you pay rent, it is your business,’ agreed the Indian, with the faintest possible smile. ‘But—if you do not?’
‘Wotcher mean?’
‘Then it would be—the police’s business?’
Police, eh? Ben decided he was bungling it.
‘Look ’ere!’ he exclaimed. ‘When I said I was a tenant, like you arst, I didn’t know as ’ow you knew orl the words, see? Wot I meant was that I live ’ere, see?’
‘But you pay no rent?’
‘Corse I don’t. Don’t they ’ave no caretakers in your country? If you’ve come ter look over the ’ouse, say so, and I’ll fetch a candle, but if you ain’t, then I can’t do nothing for you.’
The Indian considered the statement thoughtfully. Then he inquired:
‘And who engages you, may I ask, to take care of this beautiful house?’
‘No, yer mayn’t arsk!’
‘Pray oblige me. To whom do I write, to make an offer?’
Ben was bunkered.
‘So we complete the circle,’ said the Indian impassively. ‘You live here, but you do not pay rent, and you fulfil no office. And it becomes, as I said, a matter of interest to the police. Do we understand each other, or must I speak more plainly?’
‘P’r’aps I could do a bit o’ pline speakin’!’ muttered Ben.
‘Yes?’
‘Yus! P’r’aps I could arst yer ’oo yer are, and wot bizziness it is o’ yours, any’ow? People comin’ ’ere and torkin’ ter me as if I was dirt—’
‘People?’ interposed the Indian, his thin eyebrows suddenly rising. ‘Someone else, then, has been here—to inquire?’
‘Nobody’s bin ’ere,’ lied Ben. He did not know why he lied. Perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps he disliked telling the truth to one who was so bent on drawing it from him. ‘Nobody’s bin ’ere. I was speakin’—gen’ral, like.’ The Indian shrugged his shoulders, plainly unconvinced. ‘And now I’ll speak speshul, like. This ain’t my ’ouse—but is it your’n?’
‘It is not mine,’ answered the Indian.
‘Orl right, then! It’s goin’ ter be a nasty night, and I ain’t takin’ no horders from foreigners! See?’
Whatever the Indian felt, his face did not show it. He merely regarded Ben a little more intensely, while Ben struggled to maintain his Dutch courage.
The Indian did not speak for several seconds. Removing his eyes from Ben at last, he gazed at the hall and the staircase; then he brought his eyes back to Ben again.
‘It is going to be a very nasty night,’ he said, in an almost expressionless voice. ‘And you, my friend, will get out of it as quickly as you can. I speak for your good.’
‘Fer my good, eh?’ queried Ben, ‘Meanin’ yer love me, cocky?’
Now something did enter the Indian’s expression. A sudden flash, like the glint of a knife. But it was gone in an instant.
‘You are nothing,’ said the Indian.
‘And so are you, with knobs on!’ barked Ben, and slammed the door.
He had made a brave show, if not a wise one, but as soon as