Ben Sees It Through

‘Where to?’

‘Eh?’

‘Another barn?’

‘We’d better leave ’im this ’un. S’pose ’e starts singin’?’

‘Yes, he’s rather spoilt this little Conference Hall,’ agreed Molly, frowning, ‘but when we move this time, Ben, we ought to know where we’re moving to.’

‘Yer mean, we ’adn’t decided, like,’ answered Ben.

‘That’s right.’

‘If you tush me again, you dirty bit o’ Sothershen Europe,’ babbled the tipsy one, ‘I’ll—’

The threat ended ineffectively in the grass.

‘Barmy!’ muttered Ben, and suddenly noticed Molly’s expression. It was odd. ‘Wot’s up?’

‘Buy British!’ burbled the barmy one.

The girl withdrew a little way into the barn, pulling Ben back with her. She looked anxious, and Ben’s heart missed a beat. Anxiety is catching.

‘Did you hear what he said?’ she asked.

‘Yus,’ replied Ben. ‘Buy British.’

‘I mean before that.’

‘Eh? Oh! ’E tole yer not ter touch ’im agine—’

‘Me?’

‘— and then called yer somethink I’d give ’im a swipe for if ’e was sober.’

‘He wasn’t referring to me.’

‘Go on!’

‘Can’t you guess who he was referring to?’

Ben thought, and guessed.

‘Some’un helse,’ he said.

‘Someone else who he said was a dirty bit of—’

‘Sothersomethink Europe.’

‘Suppose he meant Southern Europe? That might be Spain, mightn’t it?’

‘Blimy!’ said Ben.

The sudden vision that sprang into Ben’s mind was confirmed a moment later.

‘I’ll teach dirty Spaniard talk to Englishman!’ came the tipsy fellow’s voice from outside. ‘Who foun’ it? I foun’ it, an’ findin’s keepin’, hic. An’ what business ish it yours where I foun’ it? Hic?’

Happily the remarks were addressed not to solid substance but to thin air. They were, however, quite disturbing enough. The tipsy fellow had obviously met the Spaniard, and the meeting had been sufficiently recent to remain embedded in his muzzy consciousness.

‘We must go!’ exclaimed Molly, quickly.

‘Yus, but wot did ’e find?’ gulped Ben.

The answer was revealed when he followed Molly’s gaze. Already she had moved again towards the door, but she had paused to stare at the odd sight of the tipsy fellow, now sitting up, kissing the tip of a lady’s shoe.

‘Findin’s keepin’,’ repeated the amorous one, fatuously, ‘an’ ’spretty shoe. Now all I got to fin’ ’slady!’

Molly Smith’s record was far from blameless. She had picked pockets and had committed other offences of equal demerit. But she had her standards, odd though this may have seemed in her particular circumstances, and her womanhood could be affronted. It was affronted now at the spectacle of a tipsy man saluting her shoe.

Indignation was assisted by a dexterity she had often utilised in less worthy cause. In a flash she was out of the barn and had whipped the shoe out of the tipsy man’s hand. In another flash she had sped up the road with it and was round a corner. The reasons why the tipsy man did not see her, and imagined that invisible fingers had relieved him of his trophy, were firstly because she had adopted the pickpocket’s ruse of tapping him on one side before doing her work upon the other, and secondly because he was really too blind to see anything that was not immediately before him, and that was not held tight.

It was only through the second reason that Ben, less dexterous, was able to make his own escape without becoming a coherent memory. Subsequently the tipsy man was merely able to record that, after the avenging angel had snatched the shoe away in heavenly indignation, there had been a short, swift rush of wind and thunder. At the moment, however, he was himself indignant, and bellowed his wrath to the world.

Round the corner, Ben and Molly heard him.

‘’E’ll bring along the ’ole of Southampton,’ muttered Ben.

‘Then the sooner we’re off again, the better,’ answered Molly, as she stopped and slipped on her regained shoe.

‘Wot! More runnin’?’

‘Got to be, hasn’t it?’

‘Jest run and see wot ’appens?’

‘We must sleep somewhere, Ben.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Where we won’t be disturbed.’

‘There ain’t no such plice!’

‘And 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?’