Ben Sees It Through. J. Farjeon Jefferson
where we can decide where to go afterwards. Oh, Ben, are you sure you’ve lost that address?’
‘It’s gorn, miss. Molly, that is.’
‘And you can’t remember it?’
‘Not more’n Wimbledon Common.’
‘Think hard.’
‘Yer carn’t, not with a sorft brine.’
‘But you said you’d written it in that letter to me!’ exclaimed Molly, suddenly. ‘It’s there waiting for me, Southampton Post Orfice!’
‘So it is,’ murmured Ben. ‘On’y we ain’t at Southampton Post Office!’
‘No—but I could still go to the Southampton Post Office! Couldn’t I?’
‘What for?’
‘For that letter—and the address.’
Ben stared at her. Out of sight, the tipsy man was still audible. He was no longer shouting, however. He was singing.
‘Look ’ere, miss,’ said Ben, very solemnly. ‘Ain’t we a couple o’ mugs standin’ ’ere like this and torkin’ abart goin’ back ter Southampton?’
‘Weren’t you once a mug in Spain, Ben,’ responded Molly, just as solemnly, ‘when you took a long and dangerous journey because you thought a girl was in danger?’
‘Eh? That was dif’rent,’ muttered Ben.
‘You’d say so,’ answered Molly.
‘Well, p’r’aps the gal’s in danger now!’ he challenged.
‘P’r’aps you are, too,’ murmured Molly, musingly.
She seemed to be weighing things in her mind.
‘Oh, I’m uster it,’ retorted Ben. ‘It’s you I’m torkin’ of jest now.’
‘Bless the man! Aren’t I used to danger, too!’ exclaimed Molly. Then her voice suddenly dropped again. ‘But you know, Ben, I’m wondering whether somebody else isn’t in even greater danger than either of us?’
‘’Oo?’
‘The person at that house on Wimbledon Common you were going to—and whose address is lost!’
‘Lummy!’ murmured Ben.
Now he, too, started weighing things in his mind.
‘Yer mean—the dainjer of Don Diablo, eh?’ he said. ‘Don Diablo might ’ave fahnd the address?’
‘What do you think?’ she inquired.
‘That’s right. ’E might. And we orter git ter ’im furst—that hother Wimbledon chap—and warn ’im, like?’
‘It’d be decent. Especially if Don Diablo has really got the address from you.’
‘Yus,’ nodded Ben. ‘From me, not from you! Wot’s this got ter do with you, any’ow?’
‘Don’t you see, I’m the only one who can get the letter at the Southampton Post Office,’ she said. ‘And besides, why shouldn’t I stick to you, as you’ve stuck to me?’
Ben swallowed. It was nice, her saying that. Just the same …
‘Look ’ere,’ he said, suddenly, ‘I ain’t ’eard nothink abart you yet! Orl you’ve told me is that yer’ve bin in port a couple o’ days. Do you know anythink more abart orl this? ’Cos, if yer do, now’s the time ter spill it.’
‘I know something more about—Don Diablo,’ answered Molly, after a little pause. ‘You see, we came over on the same boat.’
‘Go on!’
‘If you want me to tell you his life story, I can’t—’
‘Leave out wot yer can’t. Wot can yer?’
‘I can tell you this, Ben. There are just two things in his mind at this moment. One’s murder. And the other’s—love. Ugh! Or what a beast like that calls love.’
‘Yer mean, ’e’s got a sweet’eart?’ inquired Ben.
‘He’d like to have one,’ she answered, and suddenly turned her head away.
Round the corner, out of sight, the tipsy man’s voice rose again.
‘Why—if it isn’t Mr Spaniard!’ it cried. ‘Now, lishen, Mr Spaniard—I’ve not got the shoe! Angel from heaven—hic—just snatched it away.’
Largely Concerning Ben’s Clothes
For the fourth and last time that memorable evening Ben found himself running. But this time he knew in advance that he would lose the race.
For breath doesn’t last for ever. After forty million miles it gives out, and you need a rest of forty million years to get it back again. The world won’t let you rest, however, so you start borrowing on your prospects; and since lungs object to paying interest the borrowed breath presently gives out, too. Then you become breathrupt. Ben, now, was breathrupt.
Still, with that queer reversal of logic which made him a potential museum exhibit, he managed to run for just a little while. He made strange noises as he ran. One was a sort of dying whistle. Another reminded him of a small boy sucking lemons against time. He ran because he knew that if he didn’t his companion wouldn’t, and her need to run was even greater than his own.
Once, she half-paused, even though their pursuer could be heard quite plainly in the distance, and he had to gasp ‘G’arnm’ere.’ Correctly interpreting this as Ben for ‘Go on, I’m here,’ she went on, oblivious to the fact that Ben would not be here much longer.
Ben, on the other hand, was supremely conscious of the fact. His race was lost. The only question that troubled him was, how could he ensure that he lost it alone?
A couple of seconds later, that question was answered. Molly, a few feet in advance, darted up a side-lane expecting him to follow. He caught a momentary glimpse of her clambering over a stile before a mess of shadows swallowed her up. Then he tottered on, continuing along the main lane out of which she had turned.
The next few seconds were nightmare seconds. This was partly due to the circumstances and partly to his condition. When you are running after you can’t, things get a bit distorted, like.
The lane was distorted. The trees on either side were distorted. The sounds of the pursuit were also distorted. Time itself was distorted.
‘’E’s nearly up ter me,’ thought Ben. ‘I’ll stop now.’
But he didn’t stop. In order to lengthen the chase and to give Molly a longer advantage, he veered off the lane and staggered into a wood. The undergrowth rose up and clawed at him. Branches shot out at him. Each shadow concealed a panting animal. And then he found himself down among the shadows, and one of the animals was panting above him.
It was an animal called Don Diablo.
‘Orl right, let it come,’ said Ben, meekly.
It came in the form of a flashing fist. Don Diablo had no objection to hitting a man when he was down.
The wood vanished. So did Don Diablo and everything else. When the wood reappeared, after a lapse of time that might have been a minute or an hour for all Ben could judge, Don Diablo did not reappear with it.
Where had Don Diablo gone?