said he had nothing to drop. His shilling had gone for his sandwiches, and the change had gone through a hole in his pocket. (One does need a wife for holes.) And that was all he had, apart from himself. So he couldn’t have dropped anything, could he?
But the policeman had found something, and as he came up from his stoop and slowly straightened himself, Ben saw what he held in his hand. It was a jemmy.
‘Yours?’ inquired the constable.
Perhaps if Ben’s thumbs had behaved themselves that morning he would have acted differently, and the course of events for himself and for several other people during the period ahead would have followed a very different pattern. For himself, undoubtedly. He would never have met the other people. But those thumbs had become far more of a superstition to Ben than spilling salt or walking under ladders, and the sense of impending trouble was increased by a sudden movement of the constable’s hand towards Ben’s shoulder. And so, instead of denying ownership—to be believed or not as the case might be—he decided that This Was It, wriggled away, and ran.
Nothing could have been sillier. Of course the constable ran after him. To a constable Ben, running, was as irresistible as an electric hare to a greyhound, but when it came to making the pace the electric hare wasn’t in it, and although policemen are experienced in pursuing, Ben was far more experienced in being pursued. From all of which it may be deduced that our present policeman, with the added handicap of fog, had no chance.
There was, however, one serious flaw in Ben’s defensive process. He could run fast, but he could not run for long, and although he always got away the first time he did not always get away the second. No legs could last indefinitely at the pace Ben’s were driven, so when his legs and his breath gave out he was forced to seek the nearest sanctuary in the hope that heaven would be kind and send him a good one. If heaven had given Ben his desserts it would always have been kind to him, because strange though this may seem in a difficult world where poverty can be so sorely tempted, Ben had never performed an illegal act for which God might not have forgiven him, and never a mean one. But the luck varied.
This time the luck seemed good. Appearances, unfortunately, can be deceptive. Having evaded the pursuing bobby and vanished temporarily out of his life, Ben’s knees went back on him, or down under him, outside the kind of building that he loved above all others. An empty building, useless to all save human derelicts. There were other empty buildings on either side, but at the moment Ben did not know this, for when you are running away all you see is where you stop, and on a misty afternoon you don’t see even that very clearly. But what Ben saw was enough to satisfy him, and after crawling through two tall gate-posts that had lost their gate, he slumped behind one of them as hurried footsteps grew into his drumming ears.
The footsteps came closer. Lummy, ’ow many was makin’ ’em? More’n one? Voices soon proved this point. Policemen don’t talk to themselves.
‘Are you sure he turned down this street, sir?’
‘Well, you can’t be sure of anything in a fog.’
‘That’s a fact, but I had an idea he took the other turning.’
‘He may have done, but I don’t think so. It was because I thought I saw somebody bunk round the corner that I spoke when I saw you running.’
The speakers were now just on the other side of Ben’s post. Thank Gawd it was a thick ’un! One of the speakers was the constable; the other, assumedly, a passer-by. Unsporting blokes, passers-by, turning even odds into two to one. There ought to be a law agin’ ’em!
Crumbs! They’d stopped!
‘Wonder if I was wrong?’
(‘Keep on wunnerin’!’ thought Ben.)
‘No sign of him, sir.’
‘Think we ought to go back?’
‘I think that’s the best idea.’
(‘Don’t lose the idea,’ thought Ben.)
‘What was he like?’
‘Oh—smallish chap. Put him on a stick and he’d make a good scarecrow.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘That’s what I’m after finding out, sir.’
‘Then what are you chasing him for?’
There was a tiny pause after that, and then a low whistle.
‘Where did you find that?’
‘On the ground, where I picked him up. He dropped it. He spun some yarn about somebody bumping into him.’
‘Then perhaps—’
‘No, sir, he bunked the moment I showed him this jemmy. There’s been a gang working the district—’
‘Hey! Isn’t that someone?’
‘Where?’
‘End of the road! Now he’s gone! But I swear—’
The next moment they were gone, too.
For a few seconds Ben remained motionless behind his post, enjoying the blessed silence, and grateful to the red herring that had started them off again on a wrong scent. But he couldn’t remain motionless for long, in case they came back. And, lummy, wasn’t that somebody coming back? Or was it just a tree dripping? Trees often played tricks on you like that! Yes, it was a tree dripping? No, it wasn’t! A tree goes on dripping in the same place, and this wasn’t sticking to the same place, and he couldn’t be quite certain where the place was, anyhow. Of course, it mightn’t be the copper …
The new approaching sound ceased, then came on again. Ben hesitated no longer. He twisted round and shot up a side path to the back of the building.
At Ben’s next stop, after hitting a back wall—his progress was rather like that of a billiard-ball bouncing off cushions—he found himself facing a back door. Behind him was the back wall off which he had bounced. It was a very high wall, but as it was behind him and he had seen nothing but stars when he had hit it, he did not know that. What he did know was that the back door, set in prison-like bricks, was just ajar. A thin, dark, vertical slit, contrasting with the filmy white mist, indicated the fact.
He could not decide, as he fixed his dizzy gaze on the door, whether the fact was a comfortable or uncomfortable one. A door that is ajar may always be useful to pop into, but you have to remember that before you pop into it, something may pop out of it. There was that time, for instance, when a Chinaman had popped out. And then there was that time when four constables had popped out. And then there was that time when a headless chicken had popped out. Or had that one been a dream? Yes, that one had possibly been a dream, but even so it only went to prove that, waking or sleeping, you could never be sure with a door that was ajar.
The great question of the moment, therefore, was, ‘Do I go in or don’t I?’ He certainly felt very queer, and was quite ready to sit down again. ‘Wunner if them sanderwiches ’as anythink ter do with it?’ he reflected. Perhaps he ought to have explored a bit longer and taken out whatever was inside ’em. You couldn’t be sure with sanderwiches, either. Life teems with uncertainties.
He did not have to wait long to make up his mind. It was made up for him by a sound like a pail being kicked over. He did not know that he had just missed that pail himself—occasionally he was spared something—as he had shot through the side passage, but since the sound came from outside and not from inside, the inside now proved the preferable location, and once more Ben shot and bounced.
But this time he went on bouncing, with the object of bouncing as far away from the