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Ben Sees It Through

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2018
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‘Well, I don’t carry it about in my pocket!’ retorted the driver, and suddenly stared at Ben in the growing morning light. ‘Say, who’s been knocking you about?’

‘That ain’t a knock, that’s nacheral,’ answered Ben.

After this, conversation dragged. Ben wasn’t interested in politics, and he was reticent about himself; and the driver did not appear to be interested in any other subjects.

Perhaps the driver was a little disappointed in his passenger. The driver was a talkative soul, and Ben was somewhat monosyllabic. You can’t expect to pick plums from the roadside, however, before breakfast, and there was some consolation at least in getting the daily Good Act over so early. One can always recognise a good act by the discomfort it causes.

Ben, on his side, was glad of the silence. He wanted to go on thinking. He wanted to convince himself that he was not moving in the wrong direction and that he should not really be moving towards Southampton instead of away from it. He might have changed his policy, asked the driver to stop, got out, and walked back, but for the practical certainty that Molly would have left Southampton if she’d been there before Ben reached it if he got there.

‘Corse, I ain’t really got a brine,’ he told himself, miserably. ‘It’s jest a bit o’ cotton.’

That was what it felt like.

The driver made two more essays at conversation. The first essay was,

‘Is Salisbury where you live, mate?’


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