Chapter I

Through the uncurtained window the yellow light of the bar parlour streamed out into the darkness of the November night. Standing in the road, his hand fingering the two odd coppers in his trousers pocket, Mr. William Bates gazed irresolutely at the inviting gleam. He was weighing the relative merits of a fire and a glass of beer at the present moment against those of a crude but satisfying breakfast of bread and cheese on the following morning. A clink of glasses, followed by a sudden burst of laughter, seemed to decide the matter, for, casting forethought aside, he advanced up the cobbled pathway and pushed open the door of the little country inn.

He found himself in a small, low-ceilinged room, lit by a hanging lamp. A wood fire was smouldering away on the open hearth, and round its fragrant glow two or three men were seated in various attitudes of convivial comfort. They all looked up as he entered.

Mr. Bates, being an unobtrusive person by nature, seated himself quietly on an oak settle against the wall. An enormously stout man, who had discarded his coat and was smoking a much-coloured churchwarden, rose slowly from his chair.

"Even," he remarked in a genial rumble. "Nasty night, ain't it?"

Mr. Bates nodded and shivered.

"Come a bit closer to the fire, mate," went on the landlord, for such was evidently the stout gentleman's calling. "You look fair perished."

Two of the men moved back their chairs, and Mr. Bates, accepting the invitation, shifted into a vacant seat at the corner of the hearth.

"Glass of beer, please," he said, as the landlord, with an interrogative glance, threw up a small wooden partition that communicated with the bar.

The refreshment having arrived, and Mr. Bates having parted with three of his four last half-pennies, the general conversation interrupted by his entrance was resumed.

"Seems to be something funny about it," observed the landlord, looking across at the thin man with gaiters who was sitting on the edge of the table.

"Blooming funny!" emphasized the local postman.

"Well, that were his message, any'ow. 'E says: 'Tell 'Orniman that I'll be along with my box by 'alf-past nine, and that I'll be wanting to sleep the night,' 'E's 'ad a proper row with the old man and chucked 'is job--that's what 'e's done."

"Got the sack, more like," observed the postman, spitting ironically into the fire.

"That's as it may be; anyway, I've gived the message."

"What's the Professor going to do?" inquired the landlord.

"Ah," said the man with gaiters. "Advertise for summon else, I suppose. 'E won't 'ave no women about the place, that's certain."

"Job worth 'aving," put in a red-whiskered man who had not previously spoken--"at least, judgin' by the amount o' drink Andrew got through."

"No one can say as Andrew weren't free with 'is money," observed the gaitered man.

"If it _were_ 'is money," put in the postman unkindly.

There was a sound of steps outside, and the sudden thud of a heavy weight on the ground.

"Here 'i is," said the landlord.

The door swung open, and Mr. Bates, looking up, saw a man enter. He was a pale-faced, sandy-haired individual, with a sharp nose, watery eyes, and a general air of somewhat dissipated insolence.

"Good 'evenin', gentlemen all," he remarked. "Hallo, Potter! Give me message to Horniman?"

"That's all right, Mr. Andrew," answered the landlord. "There's a room upstairs if you want one. I'll send George along to get your box in."

"Wot's the meanin' of all this 'ere bust up?" inquired the red-whiskered man, as the new-comer settled himself down with a large glass of Hollands in front of him.

Mr. Andrew laughed with a fine assumption of independence. "Jest got sick of the old swine, and told 'im so," he replied. "Nearly 'ad a fit when I gave 'im notice."

"Must 'a' bin a blow to 'im," said the postman. "Did you get your last week's wages?"

Mr. Andrew looked across coldly. "He offered me a cheque," he said, "but I told 'im to keep it and get 'is 'air cut."

"And then you woke up, I s'pose," added the postman.

"What'll the Professor do without you, Mr. Andrew?" inquired the landlord, anxious to relieve the somewhat strained situation.

"Have to look after 'imself for a day or two, I 'ope, and I've left some work for 'im, I'll warrant you. There's all yesterday's things unwashed, 'is rotten old boots dirty, the stores mixed up, and every window and door in the place unfastened. I only 'ope," he added viciously, "as some tramp'll come along and clean out the whole place before 'e finds out! I'd 'alf a mind to chalk up a notice on the gate opposite, sayin' that the kitchen windows at The Firs was unlatched, and that there was plenty of grub and drink for any one who chose to walk in and 'elp themselves."

In the laughter that followed this spirited harangue, Mr. Bates turned to his next-door neighbour, a quiet man who had not spoken yet, and inquired in a subdued voice:

"The Firs? Ain't that the house I passed coming along--a little white place standing back on the left?"

"That's it, mate," answered the other. "Professor Stenson's. Andrew 'ere was 'is servant."

"Seems to me," observed the gentleman with gaiters, addressing the hero of the evening, "as you've got your own back out of him."

Mr. Andrew grinned complacently. "I don't believe in bein' put on," he admitted. "One man's as good as another, I say, and I like to be treated with proper respect."

"And not kicked out of the 'ouse, like a thief, at a minute's notice," added the postman.

There was a moment of unpleasant silence.

"If you're trying to insinooate--" began Mr. Andrew hotly.

"I ain't trying to insinooate nothing," said the postman. "It's my opinion as the Professor's a gentleman--a proper gentleman 'e is, and 'e always treated you a sight too well. If I'd been in 's shoes, you'd 'ave been out of it long ago. That's my opinion, Mister Andrew, and if you don't like it, you can shove it in your pipe and dam well smoke it."

So saying, the postman emptied his pot of beer, and, buttoning his uniform, rose defiantly to his feet. Before the heated atmosphere had a chance to burst, however, the landlord again intervened, this time with the full majesty of law behind him.

"One minute past ten!" he cried, snapping a huge watch which he had extracted from the depths of his waistcoat. "I'll be losin' my licence, standin' 'ere listenin' to your jokin'. Come along, George--get up the shutters."

George, an aged, lop-sided gentleman, shuffled out from the bar, and the whole company, with the exception of the indignant and heavily breathing Mr. Andrew, rose reluctantly to their feet. There was a general feeling of disappointment that such a promising situation should have come to so tame a conclusion.

Mr. Bates passed through the door with the rest into the darkness outside.

Though it was not actually raining, only a shameless optimist could have described it as a fine night. A raw November mist brooded unpleasantly over everything, offering a dismal contrast to the warmth and brightness of the little bar-parlour. Under the circumstances, nobody stayed to gossip on the doorstep, even the thrilling topic of Mr. Andrew's resignation being mutually abandoned. There was a general turning up of coat-collars, the flare of a match, a "Good-night, Tom!"--"Comin' my way, Potter?" and all the late revellers clumped away to their respective homes--all of them, that is to say, except Mr. Bates. He, unfortunately, had no home to go to.

He stood still, listening to the retreating footsteps. Then, with a faint sigh, he thrust his hands into his pockets and began to walk slowly back along the road in the direction from which he had arrived at the inn.

He had covered nearly a quarter of a mile in this fashion when a few yards ahead the dull yellow blue of an oil lamp suddenly appeared through the mist. Mr. Bates stopped and began to peer anxiously through the gloom on his left.

"Ought to be jest about here," he muttered, "if I ain't made a mistake." The shadowy outline of a white gate rewarded his efforts. He climbed carefully over it, and feeling his way by means of a wall that ran at right angles to the road, arrived at a low stone building, which, as far as could be seen in the darkness, bore the appearance of a discarded cowshed.

Through an aperture that in more spacious days had probably been the site of a doorway, Mr. Bates passed in to his hotel. It was black inside, with that peculiar quality of blackness which seems to affect the breathing power, and there was a faint odour of immemorial cows. Mr. Bates struck a match, and by its spluttering light glanced nervously about him. Against the opposite wall he detected a rough manger, which seemed to be free of some of the less pleasing features of the floor. A year ago Mr. Bates might have sniffed at its possibilities as a bedstead, but recent experience had rendered him less critical. Igniting a second match, he made a further inspection, which resulted in the discovery of a couple of indescribably filthy sacks. One of these he rolled up into a pillow and placed in the manger, and then, scrambling in himself and lying down, he drew the other luxuriously over his tired limbs. Some twenty minutes later the sound of deep, steady breathing showed that he was temporarily oblivious of the discomforts of the ill-arranged planet.