Tony Wild, whose address was The Albany, and who enjoyed an unearned income of two thousand a year, stood on the steps of the Tivoli Music-Hall at half past ten, smoking. His face, which was passably attractive, had temporarily lost its usual good-humor, and he puffed his cigarette slowly as if it was more of a task than a pleasure. This, indeed, it was; for he had consumed seventeen since getting out of bed at ten o'clock that morning, and he smoked more from habit than anything else. He was a young man of twenty-six who pursued happiness, or rather distraction, on the accepted lines: dinners, dances and the stage formed his daily round, but with the zest of youth or cynicism he constantly searched for new thrills. Experience was his god, and it must be confessed that he had had more than a fair share of sensations. He had been jilted, married (luckily it proved a bigamous union; as his "wife," a Covent Garden chorister, had nothing but her prettiness to recommend her; and Tony had been immensely relieved when her husband reappeared after serving seven years at Portland), made a descent in a submarine, gone up in a balloon, and driven a car in the Gordon-Bennett race. He had flown in an aeroplane once for the sake of a new thrill, but subsequently determined that it would be a pity further to risk two thousand a year. These were but a few of his distractions. The only experience he had never tried was work.
On the whole, he had enjoyed himself. There were times, of course, when he felt that life was a little empty, a little dull; but on such unfortunate occasions he made haste to bring himself up to the scratch by searching for a fresh adventure. His most desperate expedient up to date had been to enlist, but the discipline and routine of the barracks made even ennui seem desirable, and he bought himself out after twenty-four hours of agony. This evening he was feeling distinctly dull, for the day had been singularly profitless. A solitary breakfast at eleven had been followed by a perfunctory glance over The Daily Mail. Even that stimulating sheet had failed to rouse him, and an afternoon swim at the Bath Club had been terminated by sheer boredom. Dinner at his club had failed to produce any congenial spirits, and in desperation he went to the Tivoli.
A few of the turns he enjoyed in a mild and deprecating fashion, but at ten-thirty he found himself on the steps, bitterly reflecting on the defects of modern civilization.
"London!" he thought moodily, "a city of six million people, and not a thing for me to do. Shall I go to bed?"
It seemed a confession of weakness; besides he was not in the least sleepy. So he discarded the unworthy thought, and set out on an aimless ramble through the streets. There is always something to look at in London, something to interest, even though it be but the policeman directing the traffic; and Tony soon found his languor past and good-humor returning. He liked being among a crowd of people, watching, speculating, enjoying. The Strand was one of his favorite haunts, especially at night when the lamps were lit and the theaters discharging their motley audiences. In Piccadilly Circus at eleven o'clock, Shaftesbury Avenue, Aldwych, or the Strand, a man need never feel bored, though he may feel rebellious.
Tony walked slowly on, stopping occasionally to observe the people. He looked at his watch presently and found that it was past eleven. "Early yet," he reflected; "what's the use of going home? Shall I try the club or a longer walk? The Embankment ... a nocturne of lamps and water ... and ... yes! that would be a new game! Forward!"
He turned down to the right and soon found himself by the Thames. Here he proceeded to practise the new game which had just occurred to his active brain. It was simple, if ghoulish, for he merely did his best to imitate a would-be suicide. Turning up his collar and setting his hat a little on the back of his head, he plunged his hands deep into his pockets and assumed an expression of despair. Then he walked slowly along, at times glancing at the river and ostentatiously avoiding the eyes of chance policemen. Presently he stopped, leaned both his elbows on the parapet, and stared gloomily at the Thames. His maneuvers were crowned with success, for a constable soon approached and told him in a kindly tone to move on. Tony replied in a sepulchral voice, and in a few moments was deep in conversation with his preserver. A fictitious tale of cards and drink exercised the powers of his imagination pleasantly enough for ten minutes or so, and when they separated it was with a mutual glow of satisfaction. The policeman thought he had saved a brother, Tony had enjoyed himself for a brief space. It did not occur to him that critics might consider his game morbid or in bad taste. Had he been questioned he would have said, "No doubt you're right, but I was frightfully bored."
After this episode he walked across Waterloo Bridge to enjoy the view, and then returned leisurely to Piccadilly. He was not in the least sleepy, so he determined to extend his walk indefinitely. "The great charm," he reflected, "of being a bachelor with plenty of money is that one can do exactly what one likes without being questioned. If I return at six o'clock in the morning, Pettigrew will admit me without a murmur and ask if I want breakfast. Now, if I had a wife, it is possible that she would take no interest in my midnight ramble.--No! she would take too much interest and fear the worst.... Well, where shall I go? I feel in excellent trim.... Shall I walk to Bolders Green--Whitechapel--the Elephant and Castle? Strange names beckon me.... I remember reading of Hackney Marshes as a little boy ... shall I go and see if there are any marshes? Or shall I make for St. John's Wood and see what Lord's looks like in moonlight, where
A ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless clapping host,
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro?
Yes; let's try Lord's!"
We need not follow Tony in his walk. It is enough to say that at four o'clock he found himself, still wakeful, in Covent Garden, watching the market-men at work. After enjoying the sight he wandered idly up to Oxford Street, and presently the Euston Road. He walked down this till he reached Euston railway station, and here he paused to enjoy the freshness of the morning and the quiet of the streets. "Gad!" he thought, "what a shame to lie in bed till ten o'clock. Why haven't I tried this jape sooner? This is the sort of time when one thinks of the country and hates London. If only there was a train here I'd go away for a day or two and try it." An idea struck him and he smiled. "Well, here is a station. It might be amusing to go and see if there is a train starting for anywhere. I think I will. I'll make a vow to take a ticket by the first train available and get out wherever the country looks interesting. That at any rate will be something new."
He entered Euston station at a quarter to five. A sleepy ticket-clerk told him that the first train went at five-seven, and asked whither he meant to travel. "Oh, give me a ticket that costs five shillings," said Tony: "I don't much care. No, dear fellow, I'm not mad, and I've not been drinking. A five-bob ticket, please."
The clerk complied with an ill-used air. Tony received his ticket and went to find the train. As he laid his hand on the door of a first-class compartment it occurred to him to look at the ticket. It was a third-class. Instead of being annoyed, Tony laughed. "A night of thrills!" he murmured:
"I haven't traveled third for years. Is there any chance of my having fellow travelers? I should doubt it."
There were some ten minutes before the train was due to start, and Tony occupied the time in looking out of the window. There was not much to engage his attention, save a few porters handling newspapers and other parcels, but presently a man appeared making for the train. Tony glanced at him with a languid curiosity. The newcomer was dressed in a correct morning suit and silk hat. He also carried gloves and a stick. But though he looked like a gentleman and carried himself with an air, Tony's eye detected signs of poverty. The coat was shiny, and the hat, though carefully brushed, had little luster. "What the deuce is he doing here at this time, and in such clothes?" thought Tony. Then he burst into a noiseless laugh. "The pot and kettle!" he reflected, chuckling: "I had forgotten that I am still in evening dress!"
He sank back in the seat to laugh at himself more thoroughly, and the man in the silk hat passed by the window. He made his way into the next compartment, and unfortunately there was no corridor. Tony was debating whether or not it was worth while to get out and join the stranger on the off chance of learning something new, when the whistle went. But before the train had begun to move, a face appeared at the opposite window. A man was climbing up the footboard from the line. The next moment the door was opened, the man entered, shut the door behind him and sat down. He was a man of some fifty years, dressed rather oddly. His bowler hat and overcoat were good, but he wore no collar. Tony looked at him contentedly; after all, this walk was producing experiences.
"Good morning," he said mildly: "do you usually enter a train on the off side? I ask merely from vulgar curiosity."
The man laughed, panting a little from his exertions. He did not look like a criminal; indeed he appeared distinctly meek. He seemed happy, too.
"No," he replied. "This is the first time in my life. I am going on a holiday. May I in return ask you if you usually travel in evening dress in the morning?"
Tony smiled.
"No; I too am going on a holiday."
"To Shereling?" asked the man amiably.
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"No; I was dull. So I took the five-shilling ticket and the first train. I have no notion where I shall get out."
"What a splendid idea!" cried the other enthusiastically, much to Tony's astonishment. "Most of us are so bound by convention that we plot and plan for weeks: often we even go where we don't want to."
"Why?"
The other hesitated.
"Domestic pressure," he said with a smile. "You seem an understanding sort of chap, so I don't mind telling you that. This year--last night, to be candid--I resolved to burst my shackles for a time. Certain ... events ... hastened my decision. I am going to Shereling. I left in rather a hurry--you see I have no collar. I suppose I shall have to wait till we get to Shereling now before I can buy one."
"There's no hosiery department on the train," said Tony: "railway companies are very unimaginative. If there were, I'd buy a decent suit to travel in. Do tell me why you came in in that unconventional way."
"Sorry," said the man, "but I can't do that. It's all right, you know: I have a ticket."
"Of course," agreed Tony politely, and relapsed into musing. Here was a perfect windfall with enormous possibilities. Decidedly he must not lose sight of his new companion; he would get out at Shereling, too. Tony studied him from half-shut eyes: he looked a decent little chap--almost jolly ... rather like a schoolboy off for a holiday, expecting some excellent pleasure and glorying in the prospect. Also, he was mysterious and secretive, though to outward appearance he was a prosperous business man in a small way--a head clerk or under-manager perhaps. There was something in his face, too, an innocent zest, that appealed to the blase young man. "Yes, old cock," thought Tony, "I must freeze on to you, whether you like it or not."
After a silence the old cock began to crow, and soon there was a brisk conversation in progress. They talked chiefly of trivial things, but held each other's interest nevertheless. Tony's outlook and the newcomer's were wide asunder, as also were their experiences. It was the elder man who asked most of the questions, the younger who was responsible for the answers. But they found a bond of union in a Pepysian interest in the novel and unusual, though each approached it from a different standpoint. Tony was a master of external knowledge and sought for something fresh; the other, a babe, welcomed the stalest facts as discoveries from a new world.
"I wish," he said, and with a sigh, "that we were going to travel together for a while." Tony's heart leaped. "You are an interesting young man ... but no! that is impossible--it would never do."
Tony did not reply. He felt sure that the fish was almost hooked, but he did not wish to spoil things by seeming too eager. But he resolved that ere the journey came to an end he would land his fish and spend a few days in his company. He did not think there would be a slackening of the interest: if there were, why, he could easily go back to town. Meanwhile----
The train pulled up.
"Hallo!" said the elderly man. "This train is billed as a non-stop to Shereling. Why on earth----"
He leaned out of the window and beckoned the guard.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"The strike," the guard answered. "You see, sir, there are ten or fifteen thousand men on strike here just now, and it seems they've got a little out of 'and."
"But what," asked Tony's companion, effectually filling the window,--"what has that to do with the trains? Why----"
"You see, sir," continued the guard with an apologetic air, "they've got a bit out of 'and. I don't know the rights of it--they do say they're underpaid, though the employers say they spend their wages on whippet-racing. Anyway, they're out----"
"But the railway, man. What----"
The guard coughed.
"Some of them's a bit 'asty, sir, likewise uncontrollable. It seems that they broke into the publics about midnight and 'ave been making a night of it, so to speak. They've sent for the soldiers, but they 'aven't arrived yet. And they've tore up some of the track. The breakdown gang is repairing it, but it will be an hour or so before we can get on."
"D'you hear that?"
"Rather," said Tony, getting up. "Let's go and have a look. I've never seen a raging mob."
"Better not, sir," advised the guard. "The town's not safe."
"They may listen to me," said Tony with simple grandeur. He turned to his companion. "Do you feel like playing with fire?"
The little man's eyes sparkled and he breathed quickly. He hesitated a moment with natural caution. Then----
"Yes," he said briefly. "Dash it! I--I feel as if I were beginning to live!"
Tony laughed and opened the door. The guard sighed.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, "don't say I didn't warn you. Anyhow, I'd advise you to leave your money behind and your watches, too."
"The man's a perfect Solon," said Tony, feeling in his trousers pocket. "Here, guard, seven pounds three ... and a watch. If I perish, you may keep them, but remember that the watch needs winding night and morning."
The guard gazed dumbly at the evening dress. Then he turned to the other man, "You anything, sir?"
"N--nothing that matters," was the confused reply. "Come on! let's make a move!"
"Broke!" thought Tony. "But he hasn't tried to touch me yet. What a day out!"
