The conductor, testing it with the aid of his teeth, announced he was able to make nothing of it; he doubted whether the owner would succeed. Alarmed, the rest of the passengers searched muffs and pockets; three purses were missing, and some articles of less value. Frantic inquiries for the nearest police-station. A man who had lost nothing said he suspected the country lady all along.
“What we ought to be uncommon thankful for,” said the conductor, stopping near Edgware Road, “is that she didn’t pinch the blooming ’bus!”
III—MOVING PICTURES
“I should never have come to you,” he said, making a furious dash under his signature, “only that I’ve been rather annoyed and upset.”
“She was clearly in the wrong, I suppose?”
“Absolutely!” he declared, with emphasis. “It’s made me feel that I want to get away for a time from everything and everybody. And yours is the only establishment of its kind. Cheque’s all right, I hope?”
“I hope so, too,” said the voice. And called out, “Pass one!” A curtain pulled aside and the young man, his chin out determinedly, moved. “Take the four slips, please. You’ll have to fill them in.”
A reading candlestick with a reflector stood in the corner of the dark room, which had a faint scent of burnt hay, and he went across to it carefully, but not so carefully as to escape collision, in which a hassock appeared to be the less injured party. An extended easy-chair permitted itself to be seen within reach of the shaded light, and he sat upon this and read the instructions printed at the head of slip Number One. “Please Write Distinctly” prefaced the three or four precise and dogmatically worded rules. He took a pencil, wrote out his desire, and settled back in the long chair. A hand presented to him a pipe that looked a ruler, and he took two short whiffs.
His feeling of accumulated annoyance vanished on realising the instant result. Here he was, in the very centre of the old-fashioned winter he had ordered, stamping up and down in the snow that powdered the courtyard; through the archway he identified the main thoroughfare as Holborn. A cheerful cloud and an agreeable scent of coffee came from the doorway, and through the doorway came also at intervals apprehensive travellers, who gave a look of relief on discovering that the stage coach had not set off without them. Ostlers brought sturdy horses from the stables, horses that seemed anxious to do right, but somehow failed at every point to conciliate the men, who on their side did not attempt to hide opinions. The youth advanced across the cobble-stones and inquired at what hour the stage coach was supposed to start; the ostler gave an answer almost identical in terms with the fierce denunciation used to the animals. The coarseness staggered him until he remembered the year, and the absence of education in the lives of the class to which the ostler belonged. He turned to speak to the driver.
“Not what I call cold,” answered the driver, snatching a piece of straw from a truss and starting to chew it. “Remember January in ’27?”