The room was empty. Just as he had left it. There was the closed window. There was the packing-case. There, even, were some familiar crumbs, including a bit of rind he remembered excommunicating to the corner. Each little sign that the room had not been entered during his absence gave him a reassuring sense of possession and of home.
Well, now it was time to start making a few more crumbs! He was sorry he had only got the cheese to make them with, because he had intended to buy a packet of biscuits and a bit of cake at the coffee stall; but the Indian, and then the stall keeper’s conversation, had upset his plans, and he had come away with his shopping only half done. Never mind. The cheese was something. He mightn’t even have had that.
‘Aht comes me little parcel!’ he murmured, fishing for it in a capacious pocket that was mainly hole.
Little parcel? Not so blinkin’ little, neither! Had he bought all that cheese? As he opened the parcel he hoped the contents would not lie as heavy on his chest as they lay in the paper …
‘Lord luvvaduck!’ gasped Ben.
The cheese had turned into a revolver.
‘WELL, I’m blowed!’ muttered Ben, in amazement. He had seen a rabbit turn into a Union Jack, but he had never seen a piece of cheese turn into a pistol. ‘Now wot ’appens?’
The next instant it occurred to him what would happen. The owner of the pistol would want his possession back. He was probably staring angrily at Ben’s cheese at this very moment!
‘Yus, ’e’ll want it back, but ’ow’s ’e goin’ ter git it back?’ reflected Ben.
Why, by coming across after it, of course.
‘Yus, but ’e don’t know I’m ’ere?’
Didn’t he?
Well, Ben would soon find that out. If the old man knew that Ben was here—if he had seen him in that meteoric flight through Jowle Street, or if he had divined it by means of some sixth sense—then he would very soon pop across the road. Why, he might be on his way across now! Gawd! Wot a night!
Slipping the weapon into his pocket—it was a very small one and went in easily—he crept to the window, keeping his head and body well below the level of the ledge. When he reached the window he discovered that one cannot see out of a window at such a meagre elevation. Grudgingly he increased the elevation till he was able to see more than sky and chimneys, and when he had increased it sufficiently to procure a view of the door of No. 26, he put himself swiftly into reverse and dropped down flat. For at that moment the old man had come flying out of the door, and his mood had not appeared pleasant.
In the most life-like guise of a pancake he could assume, Ben cogitated.
‘’E won’t come ’ere, ’e’ll go up the road,’ ran his thoughts, ‘but if ’e does come ’ere ’e won’t git in, ’cos if ’e rings it won’t ’elp ’im and ’e don’t know there’s a winder hopen at the back, and there ain’t no hother way—well, is there?’
The slamming of the front door answered him.
‘Golly! ’e’s in!’ gasped Ben. ‘’Ow the blazes—?’
But this was no time for theorising. The old man was certainly in, and just as certainly he was coming up!
‘’Ere—stop thinkin’,’ Ben rounded on himself, ‘and do somethin’!’
What?
Well, you could stay where you were and hope—that was one thing. Or you could rush out with a roar, pretending you were a madman or a murderer—that was another. Or you could dart quickly up to the third floor—that was another—only you’d have to do that at once because the stairs at the top of the first flight were already creaking, which meant that in another moment the stairs at the bottom of the second flight would start, and when anyone got round the bend of the second flight they’d spot you. Or you could say to yourself, ‘Wot ’ave I done, any’ow? ’Oo’s ’e, any’ow? Boo!’ And wait, calm like.
Ben chose the last idea. He chose it largely because he was too late to choose most of the others, but even if the choice had been forced upon him by circumstances he came to the conclusion that it really was the best one. For, after all, what was he afraid of? The old man, if he possessed the right to warn him away, had not done so yet, and when it came to a direct battle of wits Ben’s weren’t so bad. Anyway, your brain worked better in the open than in a cupboard.
‘Seven more, and ’e’ll be ’ere,’ Ben counted the steps. ‘If ’e don’t tread clear of No. Five ’e’ll git a jump!… There she goes … Good, ’e’s swearin’ … Three more … One … Now ’e’s up—’
The door was shoved open. A figure stood in the doorway.
It was the old man all right.
‘So! You are here!’ he cried, glaring.
‘Well, I’m blowed!’ answered Ben.
‘What are you doing?’
‘No ’arm.’
‘I’ll judge that, my man! Answer me! What are you doing?’
For the first time Ben had authority for saying that he was the caretaker, and for the first time he had no inclination to make the statement. He didn’t mind lying himself, but he wasn’t so ready to involve other people. If the old man had got in with a latch-key the house presumably belonged to him; and if the house belonged to him, then it couldn’t belong to the girl; and if it didn’t belong to the girl, then he couldn’t really be her caretaker, could he? Well, there you were!…
‘Are you going to answer me, or aren’t you?’ demanded the old man.
‘Lummy, don’t you ’urry one?’ retorted Ben. ‘I’ll tell you why I’m ’ere, guv’nor. I come in ’ere ter eat a bit o’ cheese, and fahnd it rather ’ard.’
Now the old man looked at him sharply.
‘Try speaking a little more clearly?’ he suggested.
‘’Ow’s this fer clear?’ returned Ben, and brought the revolver from his pocket.
To Ben’s disappointment the old man did not jump. Instead he darted forward with amazing nimbleness and snatched the weapon from Ben’s hand.
‘You rascal!’ he barked.
‘Go on,’ responded Ben indignantly. ‘You got my cheese. And, come ter that,’ he added, ‘I want it!’
‘Bah!’
‘Where is it?’
‘Do you think I can worry about your bit of cheese, you fool? Clear out this minute, or I’ll have the police after you.’
‘Yus, but—’
‘Do you hear? Or must I speak more plainly, too?’
Ben’s indignation increased. Fair’s fair! He had given the old man his pistol, and he wanted his cheese … But, all at once, his indignation began to yield to another emotion. What was the old man doing with the pistol?
‘Nah, then!’ muttered Ben. ‘We don’t want none o’ that!’
‘Don’t we?’ answered the old man, and raised the little weapon.
‘I know it ain’t loaded!’ blustered Ben,