Chapter 23: On the Stairs Again
Chapter 24: The ‘Royal Cellars’
Chapter 26: The Necklace Turns Up
I usually avoid dedications because, if they are not bare statements, they are too apt to involve a grace of florid expression at variance with sincerity; but this novel seems to me to be insisting on a few words, since it is based on a play the success of which has formed one of the happiest and most important milestones of my career. At once, however, I find myself confounded. To whom shall I dedicate the book? To my wife, who shares with me the fruits of this success? To Mr Leon M. Lion, whose skill and experience materialised those fruits? To the actors and actresses, without whose co-operation all this good fortune could not have been achieved? Or to the original ‘Ben,’ who could never have been born in my mind had I not met him somewhere—but I cannot say where—on some uncharted, unrecorded journey?
The task of selection is beyond me. In joyous despair I dedicate this book to all!
J.J.F.
Fog had London by the throat. It blinded its eyes and muffled its ears. Such traffic as was not at a standstill groped its way with scarcely a sound through the jaundiced streets, and to cross a road was no longer a casual matter, but an adventure into the unknown. For this reason, the timid stayed indoors, while the more daring, and those who had no choice, groped gingerly along the pavements. The pickpockets were busy.
But it is not in the heart of London that our story commences. The fog had stretched its fingers far and wide, and a man who was approaching along one of the arteries that led Londonwards from the north-east paused for a few moments to rub his eyes, and then his stubby chin.
‘Gawd ’elp us!’ he muttered, staring into the great, gloomy smudge ahead of him. ‘If that ain’t the Yeller Peril, wot is?’
He had trudged out of a land of sunshine into a land of white mist, and now the white mist was becoming opaque orange. The prospect was so thoroughly unappetising that he even considered the idea of turning back. Had he known what awaited him in that gloomy smudge he would have acted very promptly on the idea, but the future itself is as impenetrable as a fog, and he decided to go on.
‘Arter all,’ he argued to himself, ‘one plice is as good as another, when you ain’t got nowhere helse!’
So he lit his best cigarette—barely more than half of it had been smoked by its previous owner—and resumed his way.
A figure suddenly loomed towards him, out of the mist.
‘Oi!’ exclaimed our traveller, and jumped. His nerves were never of the best, and hunger was beginning to tell on him. But he reacted quickly, and grinned as the figure stopped. ‘Why didn’t yer sound yer ’ooter?’
The figure grinned, too.
‘A bit thick, mate, isn’t it?’ said the stranger.
‘Thick as cheese. Cheese! Lummy, I wish I ’ad a bit o’ cheese!’
‘Hungry?’
‘Not ’arf! Yer ain’t got sich a thing as a leg o’ beef on yer, I s’pose?’
The other laughed.
‘There’s an inn a little way up the road.’
‘Ah! Well, jest run back and tell ’em to put dahn the red carpet, will yer? Ben, o’ the Merchant Service, is a-comin’. And ’e’s got fourpence to spend. Oi! Where yer goin’? Oi!’
The stranger had turned, and darted off. Ben, of the Merchant Service, stared after him.
‘Well, if that don’t tike the bloomin’ ticket!’ he murmured. ‘Seemed like as if ’e thort I meant it!’
Once more, an instinct rose in him to turn back. He was just entering the fringe of the thick fog belt, and its uncanniness depressed him. He recalled that the stranger had stood almost next to him, yet he had not seen his face. Out of the fog he had come, and back into the fog he had returned. A shadow with a voice—that was all.
But the glory of the Merchant Service, however humble your position in it, must be maintained. You could not let it down; not, at least, until you were sure you were going to get hurt! And, after all, what was a little bit of fog? So, deriding himself for his fears, the subtle source of which he was not fitted to understand, he again ignored the kindly warning, and resumed his onward trudge.
The thought of the inn a little way up the road certainly did something to dissipate the gloom. Fourpence wouldn’t go far, but a friendly innkeeper might make it go a little further. Then he might earn a few coppers by doing something. You never knew. Ben, of the Merchant Service—perhaps it should be explained, late of the Merchant Service—was not in love with work. The stomach, however, drives.
He came upon the inn abruptly. All meetings are abrupt in a fog. It loomed up, a vague, shadowy outline, on his right, and a feeble lamp burned over the door. Ben plunged his hand into his pocket, to corroborate his impression of his bank balance, found the impression correct, and entered.
If he hoped to escape the fog inside, he was disappointed.
