The Club of Queer Trades by G. K. Chesterton (the rosie project TXT) 📕

him to let us pass. He wavered, so far as one can describe anything so solid as a policeman as wavering. I lurched suddenly forward and ran my head into his chest, calling out (if I remember correctly), ‘Oh, crikey, blimey, Bill.’ It was at that moment that I remembered most dearly that I was the Vicar of Chuntsey, in Essex.

“My desperate coup saved me. The policeman had me hard by the back of the neck.

“ ‘You come along with me,’ he began, but Bill cut in with his perfect imitation of a lady’s finnicking voice.

“ ‘Oh, pray, constable, don’t make a disturbance with our poor friend. We will get her quietly home. She does drink too much, but she is quite a lady⁠—only eccentric.’

“ ‘She butted me in the stomach,’ said the policeman briefly.

“ ‘Eccentricities of genius,’ said Sam earnestly.

“ ‘Pray let me take her home,’ reiterated Bill, in the resumed character of Miss James, ‘she wants looking after.’ ‘She does,’ said the policeman, ‘but I’ll look after her.’

“ ‘That’s no good,’ cried Bill feverishly. ‘She wants her friends. She wants a particular medicine we’ve got.’

“ ‘Yes,’ assented Miss Mowbray, with excitement, ‘no other medicine any good, constable. Complaint quite unique.’

“ ‘I’m all righ’. Cutchy, cutchy, coo!’ remarked, to his eternal shame, the Vicar of Chuntsey.

“ ‘Look here, ladies,’ said the constable sternly, ‘I don’t like the eccentricity of your friend, and I don’t like ’er songs, or ’er ’ead in my stomach. And now I come to think of it, I don’t like the looks of you. I’ve seen many as quiet dressed as you as was wrong ’uns. Who are you?’

“ ‘We’ve not our cards with us,’ said Miss Mowbray, with indescribable dignity. ‘Nor do we see why we should be insulted by any Jack-in-office who chooses to be rude to ladies, when he is paid to protect them. If you choose to take advantage of the weakness of our unfortunate friend, no doubt you are legally entitled to take her. But if you fancy you have any legal right to bully us, you will find yourself in the wrong box.’

“The truth and dignity of this staggered the policeman for a moment. Under cover of their advantage my five persecutors turned for an instant on me faces like faces of the damned and then swished off into the darkness. When the constable first turned his lantern and his suspicions on to them, I had seen the telegraphic look flash from face to face saying that only retreat was possible now.

“By this time I was sinking slowly to the pavement, in a state of acute reflection. So long as the ruffians were with me, I dared not quit the role of drunkard. For if I had begun to talk reasonably and explain the real case, the officer would merely have thought that I was slightly recovered and would have put me in charge of my friends. Now, however, if I liked I might safely undeceive him.

“But I confess I did not like. The chances of life are many, and it may doubtless sometimes lie in the narrow path of duty for a clergyman of the Church of England to pretend to be a drunken old woman; but such necessities are, I imagine, sufficiently rare to appear to many improbable. Suppose the story got about that I had pretended to be drunk. Suppose people did not all think it was pretence!

“I lurched up, the policeman half-lifting me. I went along weakly and quietly for about a hundred yards. The officer evidently thought that I was too sleepy and feeble to effect an escape, and so held me lightly and easily enough. Past one turning, two turnings, three turnings, four turnings, he trailed me with him, a limp and slow and reluctant figure. At the fourth turning, I suddenly broke from his hand and tore down the street like a maddened stag. He was unprepared, he was heavy, and it was dark. I ran and ran and ran, and in five minutes’ running, found I was gaining. In half an hour I was out in the fields under the holy and blessed stars, where I tore off my accursed shawl and bonnet and buried them in clean earth.”

The old gentleman had finished his story and leant back in his chair. Both the matter and the manner of his narration had, as time went on, impressed me favourably. He was an old duffer and pedant, but behind these things he was a country-bred man and gentleman, and had showed courage and a sporting instinct in the hour of desperation. He had told his story with many quaint formalities of diction, but also with a very convincing realism.

“And now⁠—” I began.

“And now,” said Shorter, leaning forward again with something like servile energy, “and now, Mr. Swinburne, what about that unhappy man Hawker. I cannot tell what those men meant, or how far what they said was real. But surely there is danger. I cannot go to the police, for reasons that you perceive. Among other things, they wouldn’t believe me. What is to be done?”

I took out my watch. It was already half past twelve.

“My friend Basil Grant,” I said, “is the best man we can go to. He and I were to have gone to the same dinner tonight; but he will just have come back by now. Have you any objection to taking a cab?”

“Not at all,” he replied, rising politely, and gathering up his absurd plaid shawl.

A rattle in a hansom brought us underneath the sombre pile of workmen’s flats in Lambeth which Grant inhabited; a climb up a wearisome wooden staircase brought us to his garret. When I entered that wooden and scrappy interior, the white gleam of Basil’s shirtfront and the lustre of his fur coat flung on the wooden settle, struck me as a contrast. He was drinking a glass of wine before retiring. I was right; he had come back from the dinner-party.

He listened to the repetition of the story of the Rev. Ellis Shorter with