THE STORY OF HIS WALK WITH THEM.

THE chain of circumstances leading to the sudden and unexpected return of Mr. and Mrs. Penfound from their Continental holiday was in itself curious and even remarkable, but it has nothing to do with the present narrative, which begins with the actual arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Penfound before the portal of their suburban residence, No. 7, Munster Gardens, at a quarter before midnight on the 30th of August.

It was a detached house with a spacious triangular garden at the back; it had an air of comfort, of sobriety, of good form, of success; one divined by looking at it that the rent ran to about £80, and that the tenant was not a man who had to save up for quarter days. It was a credit to the street, which upon the whole, with its noble trees and its pretty curve, is distinctly the best street in Fulham. And, in fact, No. 7 in every way justified the innocent pride of the Penfounds.

“I can feel cobwebs all over me,” said Mrs. Penfound, crossly, as they entered the porch and Mr. Penfound took out his latchkey. She was hungry, hot, and tired, and she exhibited a certain pettishness—a pettishness which Mr. Penfound, whenever it occurred, found a particular pleasure in soothing. Mr. Penfound himself was seldom ruffled.

Most men would have been preoccupied with the discomforts of the arrival, but not George Penfound. Mr. Penfound was not, and had never been, of those who go daily into the city by a particular train, and think the world is coming to an end if the newsagent fails to put the newspaper on the doorstep before 8 a.m.

Mr. Penfound had lived. He had lived adventurously and he had lived everywhere. He had slept under the stars and over the throbbing screws of ocean steamers. He knew the harbours of the British Empire, and the waste places of the unpeopled West, and the mysterious environs of foreign cities. He had been first mate of a tramp steamer, wood sawyer in Ontario, ganger on the Canadian Pacific Railway, clerk at a Rand mine, and land agent in California.

It was the last occupation that had happened to yield the eighty thousand dollars which rendered him independent and established him so splendidly, at the age of forty, in Fulham, the place of his birth. Thin, shrewd, clear, and kindly, his face was the face of a man who has learnt the true philosophy of life. He took the world as he found it, and he found it good.

To such a man an unexpected journey, even though it ended at a deserted and unprepared home, whose larder proved as empty as his stomach, was really nothing.

By the time Mr. Penfound had locked up the house, turned out the light in the hall, and arrived in the bedroom, Mrs. Penfound was fast asleep. He sat down in the armchair by the window, charmed by the gentle radiance of the night, and unwilling to go to bed. Like most men who have seen the world, he had developed the instincts of a poet, and was something of a dreamer. Half an hour—or it might have been an hour: poets are oblivious of time—had passed, when into Mr. Penfound’s visions there entered a sinister element. He straightened himself stiffly in the chair and listened, smiling.

“By Jove!” he whispered. “I do believe it’s a burglar. I’ll give the beggar time to get fairly in, and then we’ll have some fun.”

It seemed to him that he heard a few clicking noises at the back of the house, and then a sound as if something was being shoved hard.

“The dining-room window,” he said.

In a few minutes it became perfectly evident to his trained and acute ear that a burglar occupied the dining-room, and accordingly he proceeded to carry out other arrangements.

Removing his boots, he assumed a pair of soft, woollen house slippers which lay under the bed. Then he went to a chest of drawers, and took out two revolvers. Handling these lovingly, he glanced once at his sleeping wife, and, shod in the silent woollen, passed noiselessly out of the room. By stepping very close to the wall, so as to put as slight a strain as possible upon the woodwork, he contrived to descend to the half-landing without causing a sound, but on the half-landing itself there occurred an awful creak—a creak that seemed to reverberate into infinite space. Mr. Penfound stopped a second, but, perceiving the unwisdom of a halt, immediately proceeded.

In that second of consternation he had remembered that only two chambers of one revolver and one chamber of the other were loaded. It was an unfortunate mischance. Should he return and load fully? Preposterous! He remembered with pride the sensation which he had caused one night ten years before in a private shooting-saloon in Paris. Three shots to cripple one burglar—for him; it was a positive extravagance of means. And he continued down the stairs, cautiously but rapidly feeling his way.

The next occurrence brought him up standing at the dining-room door, which was open. He heard voices in the dining-room. There were, then, two burglars. Three shots for two burglars? Pooh! Ample! This was what he heard:—

“Did you drink out of this glass, Jack?”

“Not I. I took a pull out of the bottle.”

“So did I.”

“Well?”

There was a pause. Mr. Penfound discovered that by putting an eye to the crack at the hinges he could see the burglars, who had lighted one gas jet, and were sitting at the table. They were his first burglars, and they rather shocked his preconceived notions of the type. They hadn’t the look of burglars—no bluish chins, no lowering eyes, no corduroy, no knotted red handkerchiefs.

One, the younger, dressed in blue serge, with linen collar and a soiled pink necktie, might have been a city clerk of the lower grade; he had light, bushy hair and a yellow moustache, his eyes were large and pale blue, his chin weak; altogether Mr. Penfound decided that had he seen the young man elsewhere than in that dining-room he would never have suspected him to be a burglar. The other was of middle age, neatly dressed in dark grey, but with a ruffian’s face, and black hair, cut extremely close; he wore a soft felt hat at a negligent poise, and was smoking a cigarette. He was examining the glass out of which Mr. Penfound had but recently drunk whisky.

“Look here, Jack,” the man in grey said to his companion. “You haven’t drunk out of this glass, and I haven’t; but someone’s drunk out of it. It’s wet.”

The young man paled, and with an oath snatched up the glass to look at it. Mr. Penfound noticed how suddenly his features writhed into a complicated expression of cowardice, cunning, and vice. He no longer doubted that the youth was an authentic burglar. The older man remained calm.

“This house isn’t so empty as we thought, my boy. There’s someone here.”

“Yes, gentlemen, there is,” remarked Mr. Penfound, quietly stepping into the room with a revolver upraised in each hand.

The young man dropped the glass, and, after rolling along the table, it fell on the floor and broke, making a marvellous noise in the silence.

“Well, I’m blowed!” exclaimed the burglar in grey, and turned to the window.

“Don’t stir; put your hands up, and look slippy—I mean business,” said Mr. Penfound steadily.

The burglar in grey made two hasty steps to the window. Mr. Penfound’s revolver spoke—it was the one in his left hand, containing two shots—and with a muffled howl the burglar suddenly halted, cursing with pain and anger.

“Hands up, both of you!” repeated Mr. Penfound imperturbably.

A few drops of blood appeared on the left wrist of the older burglar, showing where he had been hit. With evident pain he raised both hands to the level of his shoulders; the left hand clearly was useless; it hung sideways in a peculiar fashion. The youthful criminal was trembling like a spray of maidenhair, and had his hands high up over his head.

Mr. Penfound joyfully reflected that no London burglar had ever before found himself in such a ridiculous position as these two, and he took a genuine, artistic pleasure in the spectacle.

But what to do next.

The youth began to speak with a whine like that of a beggar.

“Silence!” said Mr. Penfound impressively, and proceeded with his cogitations, a revolver firm and steady in each hand. The shot had evidently not wakened his wife, and to disturb her now from a refreshing and long-needed sleep in order to send her for the police would not only be unchivalrous, it would disclose a lack of resource, a certain clumsiness of management, in an affair which Mr. Penfound felt sure he ought to be able to carry neatly to an effective conclusion.Besides, if a revolver-shot in the house had not wakened his wife, what could wake her? He could not go upstairs to her and leave the burglars to await his return.

Then an idea occurred to Mr. Penfound.

“Now, my men,” he said cheerfully, “I think you understand that I am not joking, and that I can shoot a bit, and that, whatever the laws of this country, I do shoot.” He waved the muzzle of one revolver in the direction of the grey man’s injured wrist.

“Look here, governor,” the owner of the wrist pleaded, “it hurts dreadful. I shall faint.”

“Faint, then. I know it hurts.”

The man’s face was white with pain, but Mr. Penfound had seen too many strange sights in his life to be greatly moved by the sight of a rascal with a bullet in his anatomy.

“To proceed. You will stand side by side and turn round. The young gentleman will open the window, and you will pass out into the garden. March! Slower, slower, I say. Halt!”

The burglars were now outside, while Mr. Penfound was still within the room. He followed them, and in doing so stumbled over a black bag which lay on the floor. Fortunately he recovered himself instantly. He noticed lying on the top of the bag a small bunch of skeleton keys, some putty, and what looked like a thong of raw hide. He also observed that three small panes of the French window had been forced inwards.

“Turn to your left, go down the pathway, and halt when you come to the side gate. And don’t hurry, mind you.”

They obeyed, without speaking even to each other. Mr. Penfound had no fear of their disobedience. He was within two yards of their heels, and he said to himself that his hands were superbly steady.

It was at this point that Mr. Penfound began to feel hungry, really hungry. The whisky had appeased the cravings of his stomach for a short time, but now its demands were imperious. Owing to the exigencies of the day’s journey he had not had a satisfying meal for thirty hours; and Mr. Penfound since settling down had developed a liking for regular meals. However, there was nothing to be done at present.

He therefore proceeded with and safely accomplished his plan of driving the burglars before him into the street.

“Here,” he thought, “we shall soon be seeing a policeman, or some late bird who will fetch a policeman.” And he drove his curious team up Munster Park Gardens towards Fulham Road, that interminable highway, once rural but rural no longer.

The thoroughfares seemed to be absolutely deserted. Mr. Penfound could scarcely believe that London, even in the dead of night, could be so lonely. The gas-lamps shone steady in the still, warm air, and above them the star-studded sky, with a thin sickle moon, at which, however, beautiful as it was, Mr. Penfound could not look. His gaze was fixed on the burglars. As he inspected their backs he wondered what their thoughts were.

He felt that in their place he should have been somewhat amused by the humour of the predicament. But their backs showed no sign of feeling, unless it were that of resignation. The older man had dropped his injured arm, with Mr. Penfound’s tacit consent, and it now hung loose by his side.

The procession moved slowly eastward along Fulham Road, the two burglars first, silent, glum, and disgusted, and Mr. Penfound with his revolvers close behind.

Still no policeman, no wayfarer. Mr. Penfound began to feel a little anxious. And his hunger was insufferable. This little procession of his could not move for ever. Something must occur, and Mr. Penfound said that something must occur quickly. He looked up at the houses with a swift glance, but these dark faces of brick, all with closed eyelids, gave him no sign of encouragement. He thought of firing his revolver in order to attract attention, but remembered in time that if he did so he would have only one shot left for his burglars, an insufficient allowance in case of contingencies.

But presently, as the clock of Fulham parish church struck three, Mr. Penfound beheld an oasis of waving palms and cool water in this desert; that is to say, he saw in the distance one of those coffee-stalls which just before midnight mysteriously dot themselves about London, only to disappear again at breakfast time. The burglars also saw it, and stopped almost involuntarily.

“Get on now,” said Mr. Penfound gruffly, “and stop five paces past the coffee-stall. D’ye hear?”

“Yes, sir,” whined the young burglar.

“Ay,” remarked the old burglar coolly.

As Mr. Penfound approached the coffee-stall, he observed that it was no ordinary coffee-stall. It belonged to the aristocracy of coffee-stalls. It was painted a lovely deep crimson, and on this crimson, amid flowers and scrolls, had been inscribed the names of the delicacies within:—Tea, coffee, cocoa, rolls, sandwiches, toast, sausages, even bacon and eggs. Mr. Penfound’s stomach called aloud within him at the rumour of these good things.

When the trio arrived, the stallkeeper happened to be bending over a tea-urn, and he did not notice the halt of the procession until Mr. Penfound spoke.

“I say,” Mr. Penfound began, holding the revolvers about the level of his top waistcoat button, and with his eyes fixed on the burglars—“I say!”

“Tea or coffee?” asked the stallkeeper shortly, looking up.

“Neither—that is, at present,” replied Mr. Penfound sweetly. “The fact is, I’ve got two burglars here.”

“Two what—where?”

Mr. Penfound then explained the whole circumstances. “And I want you to fetch a couple of policemen.”

The stallkeeper paused a moment. He was a grim fellow, so Mr. Penfound gathered from the corner of his eye.

“Well, that’s about the best story as I ever ’eard,” the stallkeeper said. “And you want me to fetch a policeman?”

“Yes; and I hope you’ll hurry up. I’m tired of holding these revolvers.”

“And I’m to leave my stall, am I?”

“Certainly.”

The stallkeeper placed the first finger of his left hand upright against his nose.

“Well, I just ain’t then. What d’ye take me for? A bloomin’ owl? Look ’ere, mister: no kid! Nigh every night some jokers tries to get me away from my stall, so as they can empty it and run off. But I ain’t been in this line nineteen year for nuthin’. No, you go and take yer tale and yer pistols and yer bloomin’ burglars somewhere else. ’Ear?”

“As you please,” said Mr. Penfound, with dignity. “Only I’ll wait here till a policeman comes, or someone. You will then learn that I have told you the truth. How soon will a policeman be along?”

“Might be a ’our, might be more. There ain’t likely to be no other people till four-thirty or thereabouts; that’s when my trade begins.”

Mr. Penfound was annoyed. His hunger, exasperated by the exquisite odours of the stall, increased every second, and the prospect of waiting an hour, even half an hour, was appalling.

Another idea occurred to him.

“Will you,” he said to the stallkeeper, “kindly put one of those sausages into my mouth? I daren’t loose these revolvers.”

“Not till I sees yer money.”

Hunger made Mr. Penfound humble, and he continued—

“Will you come round and take the money out of my pocket?”

“No, I won’t. I don’t leave this ’ere counter. I know yer dodges.”

“Very well, I will wait.”

“Steady on, governor. You aren’t the only chap that’s hungry.”Mr. Penfound turned sharply at the voice. It was the elder burglar who spoke, and the elder burglar had faced him and was approaching the stall, regardless of revolvers. Mr. Penfound noticed a twinkle in the man’s eye, a faint appreciation of the fact that the situation was funny, and Mr. Penfound gave way to a slight smile. He was being disobeyed flatly, but for the life of him he could not shoot. Besides, there was no occasion to shoot, as the burglar was certainly making no attempt to escape. The fellow was brave enough, after all.

“Two slabs and a pint o’ thick,” he said to the stallkeeper, and was immediately served with a jug of coffee and two huge pieces of bread-and-butter, for which he flung down twopence.

Mr. Penfound was astounded—he was too astounded to speak—by the coolness of this criminal.

“Look here,” the elder burglar continued, quietly handing one of the pieces of bread-and-butter to his companion in sin, who by this time had also crept up, “you can put down them revolvers and tuck in till the peeler comes along. We know when we’re copped, and we aren’t going to skip. You tuck in, governor.”

“Give it a name,” said the stallkeeper, with an eye to business.

Mr. Penfound, scarcely knowing what he did or why he did it, put down one revolver and then the other, fished a shilling from his pocket, and presently was engaged in the consumption of a ham sandwich and coffee.

“You’re a cool one,” he said at length, rather admiringly, to the elder burglar.

“So are you,” said the elder burglar; and he and Mr. Penfound both glanced somewhat scornfully at the other burglar, undersized, cringing, pale.

“Ever been caught before?” asked Mr. Penfound pleasantly.

“What’s that got to do with you?”

The retort was gruff, final—a snub, and Mr. Penfound felt it as such. He had the curious sensation that he was in the presence of a superior spirit, a stronger personality than his own.

“Here’s a policeman,” remarked the stallkeeper casually, and they all listened, and heard the noise of regular footfalls away round a distant corner.

Mr. Penfound struggled inwardly with a sudden overmastering impulse, and then yielded.

“You can go,” he said quietly to the elder burglar, “so clear off before the policeman sees you.”

“Straight?” the man said, looking him in the eyes to make sure there was no joking.

“Straight, my friend.... Here, shake.”So it happened that Mr. Penfound and the elder burglar shook hands. The next instant Mr. Penfound was alone with the stallkeeper; the other two, with the celerity born of practice, had vanished into the night.

“Did you ever see such a man?” said Mr. Penfound to the stallkeeper, putting the revolvers in his pocket, and feeling strangely happy, as one who has done a good action.

“Yer don’t kid me,” was the curt reply. “It was all a plant. Want anythink else? Because if not, ye’d best go.”

“Yes, I do,” said Mr. Penfound, for he had thought of his wife. He spent sevenpence in various good things, and was just gathering his purchases together when the policeman appeared.

“Good night, officer,” he called out blithely, and set off to run home, as though for his life.

As he re-entered the bedroom at No. 7 his wife sat up in bed, a beautiful but accusing figure.

“George,” she said, “where have you been?”

“My love,” he answered, “I’ve been out into the night to get you this sausage, and this cake, and this sandwich. Eat them. They will do you good.”