“Look,” said Ashling as the cab stopped, “you go and get yourself a seat. I’ll go and get you some papers at the bookstall and bring ’em to the train. See you in a minute.” He dodged round two piles of luggage into the station and hid himself behind a notice board.
Smith came into the station and walked straight across to the departure platform for the Continental train. As he neared the gates two unobtrusive men stirred from their lounging positions and approached him, one on each side. They reached him at the same moment; one of them tapped him on the shoulder; Ashling saw his lips move. Smith glanced right and left, but the men closed in on him; they wheeled about, and all three walked back towards the entrance.
Ashling immediately dived into the Underground Station, took a ticket from the first automatic machine he saw, and jumped into the first train that came in, regardless of where it was going.
6. The Man with the Fur Collar
Ashling never had any very clear idea of where he went after leaving Victoria except that he seemed to have circumnavigated the London Underground Railway system. He changed trains repeatedly, leaping out at the last moment as the train was starting again to make sure no one jumped out after him, and being the last to enter a train after pretending he didn’t want that one. After visiting places as mutually incompatible as Latimer Road and Moorgate Street without ever seeing the same man twice, he calmed down a little; when he reached King’s Cross he remembered he was hungry. He came out in the main station and looked cautiously about him.
Nobody took the faintest interest in him, so he went into a refreshment room and ate meat pies, with beer. His spirits rose with returning energy and he diverted his mind by watching the people. There were a number of Americans there, men and women together; they wore badges pinned to their coats and were talking about boarding a train at this depot. They disapproved of the coffee and drank other things instead. Presently they all trooped out together, and Ashling sat still, trying to make up his mind that it was safe to go home. Something white on the ground caught his eye; it was a badge which one of the Americans had dropped. He picked it up and idly stuck it in his lapel.
There was a man leaning against the bar who appeared to Ashling to be watching him, and his budding peace of mind withered again. Refreshment rooms were not places where one expected to meet the police, but probably these plain-clothed fellows were different; they popped up all over the place; you’d think half the population of London was in the pay of Scotland Yard. Ashling got up slowly and walked out. The moment he put his head outside the door he was seized upon by a porter.
“This way, sir, quick; you’ll lose your train. You’ll ’ave to run, sir, come on.”
“ ’Ere,” began Ashling, but the porter took no notice. “Run!” he said, propelling him with a firm grip on his elbow. Ashling, feeling as though life had become a nightmare in which people incessantly pushed him into places he did not wish to enter, passed through the platform gates in a kind of dream and was expertly heaved into the already moving train. Several hands reached out and received him.
“You cert’nly do cut things fine, Mr. Harrison of—where is it?—of Winslow, Arizona. I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Harrison. I have never yet had the opportunity to visit your home town, but my dad knew Winslow when it was just a depot, a water tower, and a tin store, that’s all. Now they tell me it’s a real progressive town.”
Certainly a dream. Ashling began to think that if he composed himself and kept quiet for a little while this torrent of events would die down and he would awake to find himself in bed at the flat. Another voice broke in.
“Say, Mr. Harrison cert’nly does look queer. It’s running like that right after eating. Come and sit in this corner, Mr. Harrison, and stay quiet.”
Kind hands deposited him in the corner; there followed glugging noises, and somebody thrust a flask cup into his hand. “Put that where it’ll do most good, Mr. Harrison; it’s the real stuff.”
It had a curious flavour in Ashling’s opinion, for he had never encountered rye whisky before, but it did revive him. This was no dream; he was in a train with kind people with American accents, but why on earth did they address him as Mr. Harrison? However, he had wanted to dodge the police and he was certainly doing so, so why worry? His new friends good-naturedly left him in peace for some time while they talked among themselves; he gathered after a time that he and they were the A.O.L.S.B.s, the American Order of Loyal Sons of Boston, Lincs. As a general rule it is people from Boston, Massachusetts, who come to Boston on the River Witham, which once was the port of Boston on the North Sea, in that part of England which is justly called Holland. Mr. Leggatt from Connecticut, now in the corner opposite Ashling, explained that he had had a better idea. He had founded an association of those whose forefathers actually came from Boston, Lincs., and at long last he had been able to find a time when there would be enough of them in Europe all at the same time to make a joint expedition to the home town of their ancestors. “Yes, sir. Thirty-seven of us; I call that a very sizable party. And I consider that Boston in the old days must have been a sizable place, if you reckon up the number of residents that must have crossed the Atlantic to produce all the members of our association. No doubt there are many more who do not belong to it.”
Ashling settled himself in his corner, and the movement brought into his line of sight the badge with two ribbon tails which was pinned on his own coat collar. He had forgotten all about it till then. Mr. Leggatt, opposite, also wore one, and Ashling could read it from where he sat. It said, “A.O.L.S.B. Mr. Morris P. Leggatt of Connecticut, a Loyal Son of Boston, Is Pleased to Meet All Other L.S.B.s.” Light dawned on Ashling, who had not previously encountered this kind of thing. He was wearing the badge of Mr. Harrison of Winslow, Arizona, and had no business to be here at all. He was gate-crashing a party.
Embarrassment overcame him, for Ashling was not of the bumptious type. What is more, he was certain they would know he was an impostor by his accent the moment he opened his mouth to speak. Then, instead of being hauled in, he would be thrown out. Probably they would send for the guard, whom they called “conductor,” and he would ask for Ashling’s ticket and discover he hadn’t got one. He could pay, of course, thanks to Mrs. Ferne’s ten pounds, but it would look as if he’d tried not to. He sighed deeply and settled down to apparent slumber. Tracking down criminals had such unexpected difficulties.
Presently Mr. Leggatt got up and said he must now go and talk to some more Brothers in the other compartments; another man also rose and said he would like to introduce the president to his friend, Mr. Brewster of Wisconsin; yes, a descendant of the Brewsters. Ashling took advantage of the general stir to slip away down the corridor into a part of the train filled with quite ordinary people, not loyal sons of any particular place. He slipped his badge in his pocket and sat down with a sigh of relief.
Five minutes later the guard came along and said, “Tickets, please,” in a tired voice. Ashling said that he had caught the train at the last moment at King’s Cross and hadn’t had time to buy a ticket and pulled out a pound note.
The guard looked mildly surprised and asked how he managed to get past the barrier.
“I was pushed past,” said Ashling with perfect truth.
“Where to, please?”
“Er——” hesitated Ashling, who didn’t know where the train was going to except Boston and didn’t want to go there. He felt that, kind as the Americans were, there would be a certain awkwardness about meeting them. When Mr. Leggatt met the real Mr. Harrison of Winslow there would certainly be mention of a missing badge, and when Mr. Leggatt said that Mr. Harrison of Winslow was in his carriage farther back and not in the least like this Mr. Harrison to look at, enquiries would be made. Ashling felt he had had too many enquiries for one day already.
“Well?” said the guard impatiently.
“Er—I’ve forgotten its name.”
One or two people smiled, and Ashling turned bright pink. The guard looked at him wi
th the resigned expression of one who looks after mental deficients every day, only some are worse than others.
“ ’Aven’t you got the address you’re goin’ to?”
“I’m not going to any particular address. I’m—I’m going on a walking tour.”
“Oh. And where was you goin’ to start from?”
“That’s what I’ve forgotten.”
One of the other passengers leaned forward and suggested that if the guard had a list of stations at which the train was going to stop it might help the gentleman to remember.
“The next stop,” said the guard, disdaining printed lists, “is Peterborough, change for Boston; after that Grantham, Retford, Doncaster, Selby, York——”
“ ’Ere, stop,” said Ashling. “I’m not going——”
A tall form obstructed the light from the corridor. “Excuse me, Conductor, I was looking for a—— Ah, Mr. Harrison, there you are. We were afraid you were taken sick, so I said to Mr. Hawksworth of Michigan, who was sitting next to you, that I would just take a little walk down the corridor and see if I could hear any news of you.”
“Thanks a lot,” stammered Ashling, with the best American accent he could recall from the cinema. “That’s real kind of you. I was just telling the conductor——”
“Does this gentleman belong to your party, sir?” asked the guard.
“Certainly he does,” said Leggatt. “He’s got a badge. Haven’t you, Mr. Harrison? You were wearing it just now.”
“I—it fell off,” said Ashling, pulling it out of his pocket. “I’ll pin it on again,” which he did. The train began to slow down. Leggatt glanced out of the window and saw houses and streets approaching.
“What is this place, Conductor?”
“Peterborough.”
“Do we stop here?”
“Yes, sir. Your carriage will be detached from this train and put onto the local for Boston, which leaves at three twenty-two.”
“We’ll have some time at Peterborough,” said Leggatt, looking at his watch. “It’s only five past three now.”
“Four minutes past,” said the guard, pulling out his. “That’s when we’re due in.”
“I stand corrected,” said the American good-naturedly, “but does it matter?”
“This is the Scotch Express,” said the guard. “If you gentlemen will kindly return to your compartment——” He shepherded them firmly along the corridor to rejoin the other Loyal Sons of Boston.
“The first time ever I came across to Europe,” said Leggatt, “my dad said to me, ‘When you’re in England, son, you’ll find a lot of things that seem funny to you, but there’s only two things you mustn’t laugh at. One’s the Scotch Express and the other is the Army and Navy Stores.’ I must say I’ve always found he was perfectly correct.”
“I’ll say,” said Ashling, and stood in the corridor with the others to review Peterborough Station. Three-four till three twenty-two; if he couldn’t lose himself in eighteen minutes he’d know the reason why.
“Say, brother, d’you think they keep rye whisky in this refreshment bar? I want a flask of rye whisky.”
“I should say,” said Ashling. “If we don’t find it in one bar we can try another, can’t we? Come along, Mr. Waters of Chicago.” For Mr. Waters came from another compartment and would not bother to cherish him like Mr. Leggatt of Connecticut. So the Brothers set out together, but of course there was no alcoholic refreshment of any sort being sold at that hour. Then Mr. Waters found he had mislaid his companion somehow. Ashling would have left the station altogether, only there was a policeman at the door who looked at him. Besides, he’d got to get back to London, and probably the train was the only way. So he went to ground and read a paper till three twenty-two, and a very long time it seemed.
He came out when he was sure the coast was clear and looked at a timetable pasted on a board. The next train to London was three forty-seven, just nice time to buy his ticket. He put his badge in his pocket again, but, as bad luck would have it he sneezed and snatched out his handkerchief; the badge came too and fell to the ground and a ticket collector saw it.
“Excuse me, sir, this is yours, I think—— Oh! You’re one of that American party; ’ow did you come to get lef’ be’ind?”
“I—I got out to buy a paper,” said Ashling, losing his head.
“Well, you ’ad best part of ’alf an hour to do it,” said the ticket collector reproachfully. “Still, I expect our ways do seem strange to you gentlemen from foreign parts. Now, what can we do for you? Let me think.”
“It don’t matter a bit,” said Ashling. “I’d just as soon go straight back to Town; in fact, I ought to; I’ve just remembered——”
“Oh no, you can’t come all this way and jus’ go back an’ not see Boston at all; it’s a lovely place, Boston, and you’d ought to climb up the Stump.”
“Climb up the——”
“I ’ave it. There’s a special going through at three-forty; it’s stopping here to pick up someone. I’ll put you in one of the extra coaches; we always puts an extra couple of coaches on to steady the train, like. I’ll tell the guard; ’e’ll see you right. Come this way, sir.”
“But I don’t want——”
“No trouble, sir, at all. After all, if you American gentlemen come all this way to ’ave a look at the old country, we’d ought to ’elp you. Pin your badge on again, sir; you’ll lose it else.”
Ashling gave way. His one idea that day had been to remain as inconspicuous as possible, and never before in all his life had he attracted so much attention. It was very disheartening. He and the ticket collector waited on a platform otherwise only occupied by the Distinguished Guest for whom the special was stopping, one porter in attendance, and the station cat. The train came in, a short train of three coaches, and only the middle one was occupied. The ticket collector explained matters to the guard while the Distinguished Guest was being welcomed and handed in.
“O’ course,” said the guard, “the gentleman can come an’ welcome. If ’e won’t mind George they can travel together an’ I can get ’im out of the van where ’e’s no business to be.”
“What, old George?”
“Ah, old George.”
The ticket collector smiled, opened a door for Ashling, and said perhaps he wouldn’t mind if another gentleman travelled with him. Ashling said, “Of course not”; the other gentleman arrived suddenly; the door was slammed, and the train started off again.
The other gentleman was a tall thin man curiously dressed for August in a long overcoat with a fur collar, striped trousers, a bowler hat, and brown boots. He said, “Good afternoon, sir. I am glad to travel with a fellow guest.”
“Fellow guest,” said Ashling. “I don’t think I am anybody’s guest, not as I know of.”
“Aren’t you going to the wedding?”
“Wedding? No. What wedding?”
“The one I’m going to, o’ course. Be a sport and come, I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself. Nice wedding.”
Ashling came to the correct conclusion that George had been toasting the happy pair, but it didn’t matter. It was only as far as Boston.
“Is that what the special’s for?” he asked.
“Lord bless you, no. That’s for Lord What’s-his-name—can’t get it for the moment—going to open a flower show or a swimming pool or something. He doesn’t know he’s taking me to a wedding. Does he?”
“Doesn’t ’e?”
“He doesn’t, does he?”
Ashling thought he’d better change the subject. “Know the bridegroom, do you?”
The thin man burst into peals of laughter. “Do I know the bridegroom? That’s a good one. Do I know the bridegroom. I must tell him that one. I says to you, ‘I’m going to a wedding.’ Didn’t I? Yes. And you says, ‘Do you know the bridegroom!’ ” He rolled about in his seat.
Ashling began to see why the guard had not wanted to keep George in the guard’s van; a little of this would go a lon
g way. He wandered into the corridor, found a compartment as far from George as possible, and sat down to read the paper. It was some little time before he was discovered again.
“If you aren’t going to wedding,” said George, “what you going to Boston for?”
“Business,” said Ashling shortly.
“No. Can’t be. Nobody does business in Boston on Saturday evening. Today’s Saturday. Ain’t it? Must be, ’less they’ve altered the wedding. There you are, then. No business. Ever been in Boston before?”
“Never.”
“I’ll show you round. Take you Guildhall. Take you climb up Stump.”
“Listen ’ere,” said Ashling. “I’m not climbing up any stumps. What is it, anyway, custom o’ the natives, or what?”
George looked out of the window. “Come ’ere,” he said, and pointed to a tall tower soaring into the air above the houses and the flat plain beyond. “See that? That’s Boston Stump. Eve’ybody climb Boston Stump. Three hundred and sixty-five steps, same as the years in a day. Ain’t it?”
“Some climb,” said Ashling. He removed his badge from his coat lapel, meaning to throw it out of the window, and then put it back, remembering that it served him as a railway ticket to Boston.
“What for?”
“What?”
“Your prize.”
“That wasn’t a prize.”
“Looks like prize. Seen some like that at agricutter—agriculture shows. On pigs and cows and sheep and lambs and horses and dogs and——”
“Oh, put a sock in it,” said Ashling. When the train came to a stop he leaped out of the compartment and ran for it, meaning to leave his companion behind, but the ticket collector at the door had a word with him about his party having arrived earlier, and the thin man caught him up.
“This way,” he said.
“Where to?”
“Boston Stump, o’ course.”
“Listen,” said Ashling. “I am Not Going to Boston Stump. Got that?” He pulled his badge off and tossed it over a wall. The thin man grabbed him by the arm, but Ashling freed himself roughly and turned back. Directly behind him was a group of five Americans which included Mr. Waters of Chicago. Ashling turned hastily away, and the thin man fell into step alongside.
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