The Man Who Was Thursday (Penguin ed)

by G. K. Chesterton

  He struck the Secretary once with the lantern so that he staggered; and then, whirling it twice round his head, sent it flying far out to sea, where it flared like a roaring rocket and fell.

  ‘Swords!’ shouted Syme, turning his flaming face to the three behind him. ‘Let us charge these dogs, for our time has come to die.’

  His three companions came after him sword in hand. Syme’s sword was broken, but he rent a bludgeon from the fist of a fisherman, flinging him down. In a moment they would have flung themselves upon the face of the mob and perished, when an interruption came. The Secretary, ever since Syme’s speech, had stood with his hand to his stricken head as if dazed; now he suddenly pulled off his black mask.

  The pale face thus peeled in the lamplight revealed not so much rage as astonishment. He put up his hand with an anxious authority.

  ‘There is some mistake,’ he said. ‘Mr Syme, I hardly think you understand your position. I arrest you in the name of the law.’

  ‘Of the law?’ said Syme, and dropped his stick.

  ‘Certainly!’ said the Secretary. ‘I am a detective from Scotland Yard,’ and he took a small blue card from his pocket.

  ‘And what do you suppose we are?’ asked the Professor, and threw up his arms.

  ‘You,’ said the Secretary stiffly, ‘are, as I know for a fact, members of the Supreme Anarchist Council. Disguised as one of you, I—’

  Dr Bull tossed his sword into the sea.

  ‘There never was any Supreme Anarchist Council,’ he said. ‘We were all a lot of silly policemen looking at each other. And all these nice people who have been peppering us with shot thought we were the dynamiters. I knew I couldn’t be wrong about the mob,’ he said, beaming over the enormous multitude which stretched away to the distance on both sides. ‘Vulgar people are never mad. I’m vulgar myself, and I know. I am now going on shore to stand a drink to everybody here.’

  13

  The Pursuit of the President

  Next morning five bewildered but hilarious people took the boat for Dover. The poor old Colonel might have had some cause to complain, having been first forced to fight for two factions that didn’t exist, and then knocked down with an iron lantern. But he was a magnanimous old gentleman, and being much relieved that neither party had anything to do with dynamite, he saw them off on the pier with great geniality.

  The five reconciled detectives had a hundred details to explain to each other. The Secretary had to tell Syme how they had come to wear masks originally in order to approach the supposed enemy as fellow-conspirators; Syme had to explain how they had fled with such swiftness through a civilized country. But above all these matters of detail which could be explained rose the central mountain of the matter that they could not explain. What did it all mean? If they were all harmless officers, what was Sunday? If he had not seized the world, what on earth had he been up to? Inspector Ratcliffe was still gloomy about this.

  ‘I can’t make head or tail of old Sunday’s little game any more than you can,’ he said. ‘But whatever else Sunday is, he isn’t a blameless citizen. Damn it! Do you remember his face?’

  ‘I grant you,’ answered Syme, ‘that I have never been able to forget it.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Secretary, ‘I suppose we can find out soon, for tomorrow we have our next general meeting. You will excuse me,’ he said, with a rather ghastly smile, ‘for being well acquainted with my secretarial duties.’

  ‘I suppose you are right,’ said the Professor reflectively. ‘I suppose we might find it out from him; but I confess that I should feel a bit afraid of asking Sunday who he really is.’

  ‘Why?’ asked the Secretary; ‘for fear of bombs?’

  ‘No,’ said the Professor, ‘for fear he might tell me.’

  ‘Let us have some drinks,’ said Dr Bull, after a silence.

  Throughout their whole journey by boat and train they were highly convivial, but they instinctively kept together. Dr Bull, who had always been the optimist of the party, endeavoured to persuade the other four that the whole company could take the same hansom-cab from Victoria; but this was overruled, and they went in a four-wheeler, with Dr Bull on the box, singing. They finished their journey at an hotel in Piccadilly Circus, so as to be close to the early breakfast next morning in Leicester Square. Yet even then the adventures of the day were not entirely over. Dr Bull, discontented with the general proposal to go to bed, had strolled out of the hotel at about eleven to see and taste some of the beauties of London. Twenty minutes afterwards, however, he came back and made quite a clamour in the hall. Syme, who tried at first to soothe him, was forced at last to listen to his communication with quite new attention.

  ‘I tell you I’ve seen him!’ said Dr Bull, with thick emphasis.

  ‘Whom?’ asked Syme quickly. ‘Not the President?’

  ‘Not as bad as that,’ said Dr Bull, with unnecessary laughter, ‘not as bad as that. I’ve got him here.’

  ‘Got whom here?’ asked Syme impatiently.

  ‘Hairy man,’ said the other lucidly, ‘man that used to be hairy man – Gogol. Here he is,’ and he pulled forward by a reluctant elbow the identical young man who five days before had marched out of the Council with thin red hair and a pale face, the first of all the sham anarchists who had been exposed.

  ‘Why do you worry with me?’ he cried. ‘You have expelled me as a spy.’

  ‘We are all spies!’ whispered Syme.

  ‘We’re all spies!’ shouted Dr Bull. ‘Come and have a drink.’

  Next morning the battalion of the reunited six marched stolidly towards the hotel in Leicester Square.

  ‘This is more cheerful,’ said Dr Bull; ‘We are six men going to ask one man what he means.’

  ‘I think it is a bit queerer than that,’ said Syme. ‘I think it is six men going to ask one man what they mean.’

  They turned in silence into the Square, and, though the hotel was in the opposite corner, they saw at once the little balcony and a figure that looked too big for it. He was sitting alone with bent head, poring over a newspaper. But all his councillors, who had come to vote him down, crossed that Square as if they were watched out of heaven by a hundred eyes.

  They had disputed much upon their policy, about whether they should leave the unmasked Gogol without and begin diplomatically, or whether they should bring him in and blow up the gunpowder at once. The influence of Syme and Bull prevailed for the latter course, though the Secretary to the last asked them why they attacked Sunday so rashly.

  ‘My reason is quite simple,’ said Syme. ‘I attack him rashly because I am afraid of him.’

  They followed Syme up the dark stair in silence, and they all came out simultaneously into the broad sunlight of the morning and the broad daylight of Sunday’s smile.

  ‘Delightful!’ he said. ‘So pleased to see you all. What an exquisite day it is. Is the Czar dead?’

  The Secretary, who happened to be foremost, drew himself together for a dignified outburst.

  ‘No, sir,’ he said sternly, ‘there has been no massacre. I bring you news of no such disgusting spectacles.’

  ‘Disgusting spectacles?’ repeated the President, with a bright, inquiring smile. ‘You mean Dr Bull’s spectacles?’

  The Secretary choked for a moment, and the President went on with a sort of smooth appeal:

  ‘Of course, we all have our opinions and even our eyes, but really to call them disgusting before the man himself—’

  Dr Bull tore off his spectacles and broke them on the table.

  ‘My spectacles are blackguardly,’ he said, ‘but I’m not. Look at my face.’

  ‘I dare say it’s the sort of face that grows on one,’ said the President, ‘in fact, it grows on you; and who am I to quarrel with the wild fruits upon the Tree of Life?1 I dare say it will grow on me some day.’

  ‘We have no time for tomfoolery,’ said the Secretary, breaking in savagely. ‘We have come to know what all this means. Who are you? What are yo
u? Why did you get us all here? Do you know who and what we are? Are you a half-witted man playing the conspirator, or are you a clever man playing the fool? Answer me, I tell you.’

  ‘Candidates,’ murmured Sunday, ‘are only required to answer eight out of the seventeen questions on the paper. As far as I can make out, you want me to tell you what I am, and what you are, and what this table is, and what this Council is, and what this world is for all I know. Well, I will go so far as to rend the veil of one mystery. If you want to know what you are, you are a set of highly well-intentioned young jackasses.’

  ‘And you,’ said Syme, leaning forward, ‘what are you?’

  ‘I? What am I?’ roared the President, and he rose slowly to an incredible height, like some enormous wave about to arch above them and break. ‘You want to know what I am, do you? Bull, you are a man of science. Grub in the roots of those trees and find out the truth about them. Syme, you are a poet. Stare at those morning clouds. But I tell you this, that you will have found out the truth of the last tree and the topmost cloud before the truth about me. You will understand the sea, and I shall be still a riddle; you shall know what the stars are, and not know what I am. Since the beginning of the world all men have hunted me like a wolf – kings and sages, and poets and law-givers, all the churches, and all the philosophers. But I have never been caught yet, and the skies will fall in the time I turn to bay. I have given them a good run for their money, and I will now.’

  Before one of them could move, the monstrous man had swung himself like some huge orang-outang2 over the balustrade of the balcony. Yet before he dropped he pulled himself up again as on a horizontal bar, and thrusting his great chin over the edge of the balcony, said solemnly:

  ‘There’s one thing I’ll tell you, though, about who I am. I am the man in the dark room, who made you all policemen.’

  With that he fell from the balcony, bouncing on the stones below like a great ball of india-rubber,3 and went bounding towards the corner of the Alhambra, where he hailed a hansom-cab and sprang inside it. The six detectives had been standing thunderstruck and livid in the light of his last assertion: but when he disappeared into the cab, Syme’s practical senses returned to him, and leaping over the balcony so recklessly as almost to break his legs, he called another cab.

  He and Bull sprang into the cab together, the Professor and the Inspector into another, while the Secretary and the late Gogol scrambled into a third just in time to pursue the flying Syme, who was pursuing the flying President. Sunday led them a wild chase towards the north-west, his cabman, evidently under the influence of more than common inducements, urging the horse at breakneck speed. But Syme was in no mood for delicacies, and he stood up in his own cab shouting, ‘Stop thief!’ until crowds ran along beside his cab, and policemen began to stop and ask questions. All this had its influence upon the President’s cabman, who began to look dubious, and to slow down to a trot. He opened the trap to talk reasonably to his fare, and in so doing let the long whip droop over the front of the cab. Sunday leant forward, seized it, and jerked it violently out of the man’s hand. Then, standing up in front of the cab himself, he lashed the horse and roared aloud, so that they went down the streets like a flying storm. Through street after street and square after square went whirling this preposterous vehicle, in which the fare was urging the horse and the driver trying desperately to stop it. The other three cabs came after it (if the phrase be permissible of a cab) like panting hounds. Shops and streets shot by like rattling arrows.

  At the highest ecstasy of speed, Sunday turned round on the splashboard where he stood, and sticking his great grinning head out of the cab, with white hair whistling in the wind, he made a horrible face at his pursuers, like some colossal urchin. Then, raising his right hand swiftly, he flung a ball of paper in Syme’s face and vanished. Syme caught the thing while instinctively warding it off, and discovered that it consisted of two crumpled papers. One was addressed to himself, and the other to Dr Bull, with a very long, and it is to be feared partly ironical, string of letters after his name. Dr Bull’s address was, at any rate, considerably longer than his communication, for the communication consisted entirely of the words:

  What about Martin Tupper4 now?

  ‘What does the old maniac mean?’ asked Bull, staring at the words. ‘What does yours say, Syme?’

  Syme’s message was, at any rate, longer, and ran as follows:

  No one would regret anything in the nature of an interference by the Archdeacon more than I. I trust it will not come to that. But, for the last time, where are your goloshes.5 The thing is too bad, especially after what uncle said.

  The President’s cabman seemed to be regaining some control over his horse, and the pursuers gained a little as they swept round into the Edgware Road. And here there occurred what seemed to the allies a providential stoppage. Traffic of every kind was swerving to right or left or stopping, for down the long road was coming the unmistakable roar announcing the fire-engine, which in a few seconds went by like a brazen thunderbolt. But quick as it went by, Sunday had bounded out of his cab, sprung at the fire-engine, caught it, slung himself on to it, and was seen as he disappeared in the noisy distance talking to the astonished fireman with explanatory gestures.

  ‘After him!’ howled Syme. ‘He can’t go astray now. There’s no mistaking a fire-engine.’

  The three cabmen, who had been stunned for a moment, whipped up their horses and slightly decreased the distance between themselves and their disappearing prey. The President acknowledged this proximity by coming to the back of the car, bowing repeatedly, kissing his hand, and finally flinging a neatly folded note into the bosom of Inspector Ratcliffe. When that gentleman opened it, not without impatience, he found it contained the words:

  Fly at once. The truth about your trouser-stretchers is known. – A FRIEND.

  The fire-engine had struck still farther to the north, into a region that they did not recognize; and as it ran by a line of high railings shadowed with trees, the six friends were startled, but somewhat relieved, to see the President leap from the fire-engine, though whether through another whim or the increasing protest of his entertainers they could not see. Before the three cabs, however, could reach the spot, he had gone up the high railings like a huge grey cat, tossed himself over, and vanished in a darkness of leaves.

  Syme with a furious gesture stopped his cab, jumped out, and sprang also to the escalade. When he had one leg over the fence and his friends were following, he turned a face on them which shone quite pale in the shadow.

  ‘What place can this be?’ he asked. ‘Can it be the old devil’s house? I’ve heard he has a house in North London.’

  ‘All the better,’ said the Secretary grimly, planting a foot in a foothold, ‘we shall find him at home.’

  ‘No, but it isn’t that,’ said Syme, knitting his brows. ‘I hear the most horrible noises, like devils laughing and sneezing and blowing their devilish noses!’

  ‘His dogs barking, of course,’ said the Secretary.

  ‘Why not say his black-beetles barking!’ said Syme furiously, ‘snails barking! geraniums barking! Did you ever hear a dog bark like that?’

  He held up his hand, and there came out of the thicket a long growling roar that seemed to get under the skin and freeze the flesh – a low thrilling roar that made a throbbing in the air all about them.

  ‘The dogs of Sunday would be no ordinary dogs,’ said Gogol, and shuddered.

  Syme had jumped down on the other side, but he still stood listening impatiently.

  ‘Well, listen to that,’ he said, ‘is that a dog – anybody’s dog?’

  There broke upon their ear a hoarse screaming as of things protesting and clamouring in sudden pain; and then, far off like an echo, what sounded like a long nasal trumpet.

  ‘Well, his house ought to be hell!’ said the Secretary; ‘and if it is hell, I’m going in!’ and he sprang over the tall railings almost with one swing.

  The other
s followed. They broke through a tangle of plants and shrubs, and came out on an open path. Nothing was in sight, but Dr Bull suddenly struck his hands together.

  ‘Why, you asses,’ he cried, ‘it’s the Zoo!’

  As they were looking round wildly for any trace of their wild quarry, a keeper in uniform came running along the path with a man in plain clothes.

  ‘Has it come this way?’ gasped the keeper.

  ‘Has what?’ asked Syme.

  ‘The elephant!’6 cried the keeper. ‘An elephant has gone mad and run away!’

  ‘He has run away with an old gentleman,’ said the other stranger breathlessly, ‘a poor old gentleman with white hair!’

  ‘What sort of old gentleman?’ asked Syme, with great curiosity.

  ‘A very large and fat old gentleman in light grey clothes,’ said the keeper eagerly.

  ‘Well,’ said Syme, ‘if he’s that particular kind of old gentleman, if you’re quite sure that he’s a large and fat old gentleman in grey clothes, you may take my word for it that the elephant has not run away with him. He has run away with the elephant. The elephant is not made by God that could run away with him if he did not consent to the elopement. And, by thunder, there he is!’

  There was no doubt about it this time. Clean across the space of grass, about two hundred yards away, with a crowd screaming and scampering vainly at his heels, went a huge grey elephant at an awful stride, with his trunk thrown out as rigid as a ship’s bowsprit, and trumpeting like the trumpet of doom. On the back of the bellowing and plunging animal sat President Sunday with all the placidity of a sultan, but goading the animal to a furious speed with some sharp object in his hand.

  ‘Stop him!’ screamed the populace. ‘He’ll be out of the gate!’

  ‘Stop a landslide!’ said the keeper. ‘He is out of the gate!’

  And even as he spoke, a final crash and roar of terror announced that the great grey elephant had broken out of the gates of the Zoological Gardens, and was careering down Albany Street like a new swift sort of omnibus.