Ben Sees It Through

‘And don’t spit!’

‘Diablo!’ hissed the man behind him, and Ben’s heart gave a jump. Diablo! He’d heard that before! Diablo was Spanish for ‘Bother!’ … ‘Answer, as I say!’

‘Corse, it’s heasy ter tork when yer ’avin’ yer gullet choked,’ retorted Ben. ‘But if yer want it, me nime’s Ben, and me At ’Ome Day’s fust Fridays.’

‘Ben, eh?’

‘Yus.’

‘Si!’

‘That’s right. Jest come orf it.’

‘No more that!’ The voice grew more menacing. ‘Now say again. Say why you run?’

‘’Cos yer was arter me.’

‘Arter?’

‘Arter. Chise. Try ter catch.’

‘Oh! So I try to catch you?’

‘Yus.’

‘And so—you run?’

‘Yus.’

‘But before I try to catch you?’

‘Eh?’

‘You still run? Say, now! Why you run before I try to catch you?’

Ben thought he would try to run again, but as he gave a lurch the fingers tightened on his neck and his breath began to go. ‘Oi! Stow that!’ he gulped. ‘I won’t be no good to yer flabby!’

‘Dios meo!’ rasped his captor. ‘Speak what I say, and no more! Why you run away?’

‘Gawd, yer worse’n a cop!’ murmured Ben. ‘Why was I runnin’ away? Well, I reckon you knows that as well as I do … Orl right, orl right! I was runnin’ away ’cos—’cos a chap wot I was with died sudden, like.’

‘Died?’

‘Ain’t I tellin’ yer? If you don’t comprennez the langwidge you orter’ve stayed at ’ome—’

‘Who is it that die?’

‘I’ve toljer!’

‘Who?’

‘Chap I was with.’

‘Diablo!’

‘That’s right.’

‘But who were you with?’

‘Chap wot died. Eh? Well, ’ow do I know. I on’y jest met ’im.’

‘Si, si! You meet him and you say “Buenos dias,” and he die!’

‘I never tole ’im ter dias—’

Then the whole Spanish dictionary descended upon Ben, and he felt something prick his back. He recognised that prick. It was a part of the Spanish Constitution, and in a panic he poured out particulars.

‘’Is nime was White. Leastwise, that’s wot ’e sed. ’E got torkin’ ter me when we was on the boat, see, and then ’e got torkin’ ter me when we got ashore, see, and then—’ere, stoppit, I’m goin’ as quick as I can, ain’t I?—and then ’e got torkin’ when we was in the cab, and so, well, we got torkin’—’

‘But what you talk about?’ interrupted the Spaniard.

‘Eh? Orl sorts o’ things,’ replied Ben. ‘Weather. Price o’ bernarners. You know.’

‘I do not know! But I get to know! You tell me! Quick! Yes?’

The prick was reborn in Ben’s back.

‘Lummy, wotcher want me ter tell yer?’ yelped Ben. ‘Me bloomin’ ige? He tells me abart a job, see—’

‘Job?’

‘Yus. Persishun. Tells me if I goes along I can ’ave it—’

‘Where?’

‘’Oo?’

‘Where, where?’

‘Oh! Where did ’e tell me ter go?’

‘Si!’

‘’E tells me ter go ter the plice where the job is.’

The Spaniard swore. Ben swore back. The Spaniard swore again, and won.

‘Wimbledon,’ muttered Ben. ‘Wimbledon Common.’