Short Fiction, H. G. Wells [i am malala young readers edition .TXT] 📗

sort of static clearness. What would they do tomorrow? He could not tell. What would Elizabeth think of his brutalisation? He could not tell. He was exhausted. He was aroused presently by a hand upon his arm.

He looked up, and saw the swart man seated beside him. He started. Surely he was safe from violence in the public way!

The swart man’s face retained no traces of his share in the fight; his expression was free from hostility⁠—seemed almost deferential. “ ’Scuse me,” he said, with a total absence of truculence. Denton realised that no assault was intended. He stared, awaiting the next development.

It was evident the next sentence was premeditated. “Whad⁠—I⁠—was⁠—going⁠—to say⁠—was this,” said the swart man, and sought through a silence for further words.

“Whad⁠—I⁠—was⁠—going⁠—to say⁠—was this,” he repeated.

Finally he abandoned that gambit. “You’re aw right,” he cried, laying a grimy hand on Denton’s grimy sleeve. “You’re aw right. You’re a ge’man. Sorry⁠—very sorry. Wanted to tell you that.”

Denton realised that there must exist motives beyond a mere impulse to abominable proceedings in the man. He meditated, and swallowed an unworthy pride.

“I did not mean to be offensive to you,” he said, “in refusing that bit of bread.”

“Meant it friendly,” said the swart man, recalling the scene; “but⁠—in front of that blarsted Whitey and his snigger⁠—Well⁠—I ’ad to scrap.”

“Yes,” said Denton with sudden fervour: “I was a fool.”

“Ah!” said the swart man, with great satisfaction. “That’s aw right. Shake!”

And Denton shook.

The moving platform was rushing by the establishment of a face moulder, and its lower front was a huge display of mirror, designed to stimulate the thirst for more symmetrical features. Denton caught the reflection of himself and his new friend, enormously twisted and broadened. His own face was puffed, one-sided, and bloodstained; a grin of idiotic and insincere amiability distorted its latitude. A wisp of hair occluded one eye. The trick of the mirror presented the swart man as a gross expansion of lip and nostril. They were linked by shaking hands. Then abruptly this vision passed⁠—to return to memory in the anaemic meditations of a waking dawn.

As he shook, the swart man made some muddled remark, to the effect that he had always known he could get on with a gentleman if one came his way. He prolonged the shaking until Denton, under the influence of the mirror, withdrew his hand. The swart man became pensive, spat impressively on the platform, and resumed his theme.

“Whad I was going to say was this,” he said; was gravelled, and shook his head at his foot.

Denton became curious. “Go on,” he said, attentive.

The swart man took the plunge. He grasped Denton’s arm, became intimate in his attitude. “ ’Scuse me,” he said. “Fact is, you done know ’ow to scrap. Done know ’ow to. Why⁠—you done know ’ow to begin. You’ll get killed if you don’t mind. ’Ouldin’ your ’ands⁠—There!”

He reinforced his statement by objurgation, watching the effect of each oath with a wary eye.

“F’r instance. You’re tall. Long arms. You get a longer reach than anyone in the brasted vault. Gobblimey, but I thought I’d got a Tough on. ’Stead of which⁠ ⁠… ’Scuse me. I wouldn’t have ’it you if I’d known. It’s like fighting sacks. ’Tisn’ right. Y’r arms seemed ’ung on ’ooks. Reg’lar⁠—‘ung on ’ooks. There!”

Denton stared, and then surprised and hurt his battered chin by a sudden laugh. Bitter tears came into his eyes.

“Go on,” he said.

The swart man reverted to his formula. He was good enough to say he liked the look of Denton, thought he had stood up “amazing plucky. On’y pluck ain’t no good⁠—ain’t no brasted good⁠—if you don’t ’old your ’ands.

“Whad I was going to say was this,” he said. “Lemme show you ’ow to scrap. Jest lemme. You’re ig’nant, you ain’t no class; but you might be a very decent scrapper⁠—very decent. Shown. That’s what I meant to say.”

Denton hesitated. “But⁠—” he said, “I can’t give you anything⁠—”

“That’s the ge’man all over,” said the swart man. “Who arst you to?”

“But your time?”

“If you don’t get learnt scrapping you’ll get killed⁠—don’t you make no bones of that.”

Denton thought. “I don’t know,” he said.

He looked at the face beside him, and all its native coarseness shouted at him. He felt a quick revulsion from his transient friendliness. It seemed to him incredible that it should be necessary for him to be indebted to such a creature.

“The chaps are always scrapping,” said the swart man. “Always. And, of course⁠—if one gets waxy and ’its you vital⁠ ⁠…”

“By God!” cried Denton; “I wish one would.”

“Of course, if you feel like that⁠—”

“You don’t understand.”

“P’raps I don’t,” said the swart man; and lapsed into a fuming silence.

When he spoke again his voice was less friendly, and he prodded Denton by way of address. “Look see!” he said: “are you going to let me show you ’ow to scrap?”

“It’s tremendously kind of you,” said Denton; “but⁠—”

There was a pause. The swart man rose and bent over Denton.

“Too much ge’man,” he said⁠—“eh? I got a red face⁠ ⁠… By gosh! you are⁠—you are a brasted fool!”

He turned away, and instantly Denton realised the truth of this remark.

The swart man descended with dignity to a cross way, and Denton, after a momentary impulse to pursuit, remained on the platform. For a time the things that had happened filled his mind. In one day his graceful system of resignation had been shattered beyond hope. Brute force, the final, the fundamental, had thrust its face through all his explanations and glosses and consolations and grinned enigmatically. Though he was hungry and tired, he did not go on directly to the Labour Hotel, where he would meet Elizabeth. He found he was beginning to think, he wanted very greatly to think; and so, wrapped in a monstrous cloud of meditation, he went the circuit of the city on his moving platform twice. You figure him, tearing through the glaring, thunder-voiced city at a pace of fifty miles an hour, the city upon the planet that spins along its