a little split.
‘Now, then—stop that!’ ordered a voice from outside.
‘Yus, likely, ain’t it?’ retorted Ben, and went on kicking.
‘Stop it. D’you ’ear?’
‘Corse I don’t ’ear? ’Ow can I? I’m lyin’ on yer blinkin’ bed drugged, ain’t I?’
‘You’ll lie there again in a minute, if you’re not careful!’ threatened the voice. ‘You’d better do as I tell you!’
‘Yus, why shouldn’t I do wot you tells me? Yer bin so nice ter me, ain’t yer? Taken me fer a nice ride and ain’t charged me nothin’. Why, I’m so fond o’ yer I’ll black yer boots fer yer—and then yer two eyes arterwards!’
It wasn’t polished repartee, but it assisted the kicking, and evidently it worried the person outside. Someone joined him, and there was whispering.
‘Yus, and ’ere’s somethin’ ter whisper abart!’ bellowed Ben suddenly. ‘Good-bye to yer ’appy ’ome!’
He staggered back to the water jug, seized it, and hurled it to the ground. It splintered with a crash. Then he seized the water bottle. There was another crash.
‘Tinkle-tinkle!’ cried Ben deliriously. There is a special form of delirium that accompanies the act of breaking things. ‘Didyer ’ear it? Now listen agin! This is goin’ ter be the soap dish. It’s ’ole.’ Smash! ‘Now it ain’t.’
Agitation grew in the passage. A chair followed the soap dish. ‘Yer’ll ’ave some nice firewood in the mornin’,’ cackled Ben; ‘but I’m afraid yer’ll ’ave ter buy a noo dressin’-table.’
The dressing table crashed over on its side. A leg splintered with a tearing sound. Ben seized another chair, and began to hammer the remains of the dressing table with it. Then he swung round …
The door was open. The taximan had entered, in a towering rage. Behind him, providing the light for his ferocious silhouette, stood a woman with a candle. Evidently Mrs Taximan.
Not another word was spoken. Deeds became the important matters, and the first deed came from Ben, with the raised chair. He hurled it across at the oncoming taximan.
It struck his adversary, but it did not stop him. He still came on. ‘That’s a pity,’ thought Ben, and lunged. There was a long clinch. Its length might have rendered Albert Hall indignant, but in a little room you cannot be really sporting. ‘Well, if ’e’s ’urtin’ me I’m ’urtin’ ’im,’ thought Ben. They swayed and pummelled and jabbed. Then they rolled over, and the woman joined in.
That wasn’t fair! Even for a little room! She had put down the candle near the door, and was kicking Ben. It is possible that she was doing so to preserve her husband’s life, for Ben was conscious that the man he was wound round was writhing desperately. Still, two against one wasn’t cricket, however you looked at it.
Something sharp touched Ben’s hand. It gave him a nasty shock, for he thought at first a knife was being used on him. Then he realised that the cause was two half-rows of teeth. The woman was biting him.
He saw red. Not for the first time that day, or the last. He heaved himself up superhumanly, and shoved the woman away from him. It was odd, but even after she had bitten him he couldn’t strike her. One day, the Noah-like old man with wings will have to remember that. He just shoved her, with the force of an enraged elephant, and she fell on to the broken dressing table. The next instant, Ben found himself erect, by the candle.
He blew it out. He staggered into the passage and slammed the door. He turned the key that had been turned on him. And, choking and gasping, he tottered down the stairs.
His one object was to gain the street before a little goblin with seventeen hundred and sixty bright eyes got hold of him, and swallowed him …
FOR a brief moment we will leave Ben and take a peep into another world. The world of a good-looking young man and a more than good-looking young girl, who sat on a bottom stair and talked.
It was not the bottom stair to which the reader has already been introduced. It was so different, in fact, that it really ought to be designated by some other name. Perhaps one day in years to come, when the surrounding walls had fallen into decay and the wallpaper was peeling and the balustrade was rocky, this stair would creak its swan song and be as dismal and as neglected as the stairs of No. 29 Jowle Street. Houses, like humans, return to dust through processes not kind or gracious. But on this particular evening it was a stair of luxury and delight—soft-carpeted, soundless, and mellow with pleasant little memories.
From the bottom stair of No. 29 Jowle Street, you would at this instant have heard a window rattling in its loose frame, and a rat scuttling under a board. From this happier stair the young man and the girl heard dance music and rippling laughter. They were not very interested in either the music or the laughter, however, and they had actually sought their bottom stair in an effort to escape from them. The world we are momentarily peeping into comprised just their two selves, and they did not want to be reminded of any other personalities.
‘Oh, for a desert!’ sighed the young man.
‘Or the North Pole!’ added the girl.
‘Or the moon,’ suggested the young man. ‘But, you know, I believe people would follow us even there! Why is it, Ruth, that when two persons want to be alone, the entire population of the globe insists on pursuing them?’
‘Well, we’re alone now,’ the girl pointed out.
‘So we are!’ smiled the young man.
But before he could celebrate the fact a door opened, and more population poured towards them.
‘Look here—I’ve an idea!’ whispered the young man.
‘It sounds splendid,’ the girl whispered back.
‘It is splendid,’ said the young man. ‘Are you game?’
‘For anything!’
‘Right! Then do you remember that seat where we had our first real chat?’
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