Short Fiction, P. G. Wodehouse [books for 20 year olds .txt] 📗

said three o’clock, he meant three o’clock. It was now three-fifteen, and she had not appeared. Alf Brooks swore an impatient oath, and the thought crossed his mind, as it had sometimes crossed it before, that Ellen Brown was not the only girl in the world.

“Give her another five min⁠—”

Ellen Brown, with escort, at that moment turned the corner.

Rage was the first emotion which the spectacle aroused in Alf Brooks. Girls who kept a fellow waiting about while they fooled around with policemen were no girls for him. They could understand once and for all that he was a man who could pick and choose.

And then an electric shock set the world dancing mistily before his eyes. This policeman was wearing his belt; he was on duty. And Ellen’s face was not the face of a girl strolling with the Force for pleasure.

His heart stopped, and then began to race. His cheeks flushed a dusky crimson. His jaw fell, and a prickly warmth glowed in the parts about his spine.

“Goo’!”

His fingers sought his collar.

“Crumbs!”

He was hot all over.

“Goo’ Lor’! She’s been pinched!”

He tugged at his collar. It was choking him.

Alf Brooks did not show up well in the first real crisis which life had forced upon him. That must be admitted. Later, when it was over, and he had leisure for self-examination, he admitted it to himself. But even then he excused himself by asking Space in a blustering manner what else he could ha’ done. And if the question did not bring much balm to his soul at the first time of asking, it proved wonderfully soothing on constant repetition. He repeated it at intervals for the next two days, and by the end of that time his cure was complete. On the third morning his “Milk⁠—oo⁠—oo” had regained its customary carefree ring, and he was feeling that he had acted in difficult circumstances in the only possible manner.

Consider. He was Alf Brooks, well known and respected in the neighbourhood; a singer in the choir on Sundays; owner of a milk-walk in the most fashionable part of Battersea; to all practical purposes a public man. Was he to recognize, in broad daylight and in open street, a girl who walked with a policeman because she had to, a malefactor, a girl who had been pinched?

Ellen, Constable Plimmer woodenly at her side, came towards him. She was ten yards off⁠—seven⁠—five⁠—three⁠—Alf Brooks tilted his hat over his eyes and walked past her, unseeing, a stranger.

He hurried on. He was conscious of a curious feeling that somebody was just going to kick him, but he dared not look round.

Constable Plimmer eyed the middle distance with an earnest gaze. His face was redder than ever. Beneath his blue tunic strange emotions were at work. Something seemed to be filling his throat. He tried to swallow it.

He stopped in his stride. The girl glanced up at him in a kind of dull, questioning way. Their eyes met for the first time that afternoon, and it seemed to Constable Plimmer that whatever it was that was interfering with the inside of his throat had grown larger, and more unmanageable.

There was the misery of the stricken animal in her gaze. He had seen women look like that in Whitechapel. The woman to whom, indirectly, he owed his broken nose had looked like that. As his hand had fallen on the collar of the man who was kicking her to death, he had seen her eyes. They were Ellen’s eyes, as she stood there now⁠—tortured, crushed, yet uncomplaining.

Constable Plimmer looked at Ellen, and Ellen looked at Constable Plimmer. Down the street some children were playing with a dog. In one of the flats a woman began to sing.

“Hop it,” said Constable Plimmer.

He spoke gruffly. He found speech difficult.

The girl started.

“What say?”

“Hop it. Get along. Run away.”

“What do you mean?”

Constable Plimmer scowled. His face was scarlet. His jaw protruded like a granite breakwater.

“Go on,” he growled. “Hop it. Tell him it was all a joke. I’ll explain at the station.”

Understanding seemed to come to her slowly.

“Do you mean I’m to go?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean? You aren’t going to take me to the station?”

“No.”

She stared at him. Then, suddenly, she broke down,

“He wouldn’t look at me. He was ashamed of me. He pretended not to see me.”

She leaned against the wall, her back shaking.

“Well, run after him, and tell him it was all⁠—”

“No, no, no.”

Constable Plimmer looked morosely at the sidewalk. He kicked it.

She turned. Her eyes were red, but she was no longer crying. Her chin had a brave tilt.

“I couldn’t⁠—not after what he did. Let’s go along. I⁠—I don’t care.”

She looked at him curiously.

“Were you really going to have let me go?”

Constable Plimmer nodded. He was aware of her eyes searching his face, but he did not meet them.

“Why?”

He did not answer.

“What would have happened to you, if you had have done?”

Constable Plimmer’s scowl was of the stuff of which nightmares are made. He kicked the unoffending sidewalk with an increased viciousness.

“Dismissed the Force,” he said curtly.

“And sent to prison, too, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Maybe.”

He heard her draw a deep breath, and silence fell upon them again. The dog down the road had stopped barking. The woman in the flat had stopped singing. They were curiously alone.

“Would you have done all that for me?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think you ever did it. Stole that money, I mean. Nor the brooch, neither.”

“Was that all?”

“What do you mean⁠—all?”

“Was that the only reason?”

He swung round on her, almost threateningly.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “No, it wasn’t, and you know it wasn’t. Well, if you want it, you can have it. It was because I love you. There! Now I’ve said it, and now you can go on and laugh at me as much as you want.”

“I’m not laughing,” she said soberly.

“You think I’m a fool!”

“No, I don’t.”

“I’m nothing to you. He’s the fellow you’re stuck on.”

She gave a little shudder.

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve changed.” She paused. “I think I shall have