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

his own soap, and wears a thundering great clerical collar. You are a blooming burglar, you are⁠—if ever there was one!”

“To be strictly accurate,” said Mr. Ledbetter, and suddenly his glasses slipped off and clattered against his vest buttons.

The fat man changed countenance, a flash of savage resolution crossed his face, and something in the revolver clicked. He put his other hand to the weapon. And then he looked at Mr. Ledbetter, and his eye went down to the dropped pince-nez.

“Full-cock now, anyhow,” said the fat man, after a pause, and his breath seemed to catch. “But I’ll tell you, you’ve never been so near death before. Lord! I’M almost glad. If it hadn’t been that the revolver wasn’t cocked you’d be lying dead there now.”

Mr. Ledbetter said nothing, but he felt that the room was swaying.

“A miss is as good as a mile. It’s lucky for both of us it wasn’t. Lord!” He blew noisily. “There’s no need for you to go pale-green for a little thing like that.”

“If I can assure you, sir⁠—” said Mr. Ledbetter, with an effort.

“There’s only one thing to do. If I call in the police, I’m bust⁠—a little game I’ve got on is bust. That won’t do. If I tie you up and leave you again, the thing may be out tomorrow. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and Monday’s Bank Holiday⁠—I’ve counted on three clear days. Shooting you’s murder⁠—and hanging; and besides, it will bust the whole blooming kernooze. I’m hanged if I can think what to do⁠—I’m hanged if I can.”

“Will you permit me⁠—”

“You gas as much as if you were a real parson, I’m blessed if you don’t. Of all the burglars you are the⁠—Well! No!⁠—I won’t permit you. There isn’t time. If you start off jawing again, I’ll shoot right in your stomach. See? But I know now-I know now! What we’re going to do first, my man, is an examination for concealed arms⁠—an examination for concealed arms. And look here! When I tell you to do a thing, don’t start off at a gabble⁠—do it brisk.”

And with many elaborate precautions, and always pointing the pistol at Mr. Ledbetter’s head, the stout man stood him up and searched him for weapons. “Why, you are a burglar!” he said. “You’re a perfect amateur. You haven’t even a pistol-pocket in the back of your breeches. No, you don’t! Shut up, now.”

So soon as the issue was decided, the stout man made Mr. Ledbetter take off his coat and roll up his shirtsleeves, and, with the revolver at one ear, proceed with the packing his appearance had interrupted. From the stout man’s point of view that was evidently the only possible arrangement, for if he had packed, he would have had to put down the revolver. So that even the gold on the table was handled by Mr. Ledbetter. This nocturnal packing was peculiar. The stout man’s idea was evidently to distribute the weight of the gold as unostentatiously as possible through his luggage. It was by no means an inconsiderable weight. There was, Mr. Ledbetter says, altogether nearly £18,000 in gold in the black bag and on the table. There were also many little rolls of £5 banknotes. Each rouleau of £25 was wrapped by Mr. Ledbetter in paper. These rouleaux were then put neatly in cigar boxes and distributed between a travelling trunk, a Gladstone bag, and a hatbox. About £600 went in a tobacco tin in a dressing-bag. £10 in gold and a number of £5 notes the stout man pocketed. Occasionally he objurgated Mr. Ledbetter’s clumsiness, and urged him to hurry, and several times he appealed to Mr. Ledbetter’s watch for information.

Mr. Ledbetter strapped the trunk and bag, and returned the stout man the keys. It was then ten minutes to twelve, and until the stroke of midnight the stout man made him sit on the Gladstone bag, while he sat at a reasonably safe distance on the trunk and held the revolver handy and waited. He appeared to be now in a less aggressive mood, and having watched Mr. Ledbetter for some time, he offered a few remarks.

“From your accent I judge you are a man of some education,” he said, lighting a cigar. “No⁠—don’t begin that explanation of yours. I know it will be long-winded from your face, and I am much too old a liar to be interested in other men’s lying. You are, I say, a person of education. You do well to dress as a curate. Even among educated people you might pass as a curate.”

“I am a curate,” said Mr. Ledbetter, “or, at least⁠—”

“You are trying to be. I know. But you didn’t ought to burgle. You are not the man to burgle. You are, if I may say it⁠—the thing will have been pointed out to you before⁠—a coward.”

“Do you know,” said Mr. Ledbetter, trying to get a final opening, “it was that very question⁠—”

The stout man waved him into silence.

“You waste your education in burglary. You should do one of two things. Either you should forge or you should embezzle. For my own part, I embezzle. Yes; I embezzle. What do you think a man could be doing with all this gold but that? Ah! Listen! Midnight!⁠ ⁠… Ten. Eleven. Twelve. There is something very impressive to me in that slow beating of the hours. Time⁠—space; what mysteries they are! What mysteries⁠ ⁠… It’s time for us to be moving. Stand up!”

And then kindly, but firmly, he induced Mr. Ledbetter to sling the dressing bag over his back by a string across his chest, to shoulder the trunk, and, overruling a gasping protest, to take the Gladstone bag in his disengaged hand. So encumbered, Mr. Ledbetter struggled perilously downstairs. The stout gentleman followed with an overcoat, the hatbox, and the revolver, making derogatory remarks about Mr. Ledbetter’s strength, and assisting him at the turnings of the stairs.

“The back door,” he directed, and Mr. Ledbetter staggered through a conservatory, leaving a wake of smashed flowerpots behind him. “Never mind the crockery,” said the stout man; “it’s good for trade. We wait here until a quarter past.