Part 14 (1/2)

”You will,” he said in his guttural voice; ”and let me give you a little word of advice, my friend. We have treated you well--eh, but if you think you can in any way break your agreement with us you make a very bad mistake.”

I took out my cigarette case. ”My dear Savaroff,” I said coldly, ”why on earth should I want to break my agreement with you? It is the only possible chance I have of a new start.”

He looked at me closely, and then nodded his head. ”It is well. So long as you remember we are not people to be played with, no harm will come to you.”

He let this off with such a dramatic air that I very nearly burst out laughing.

”I shan't forget it,” I said gravely. ”I've got a very good memory.”

There was a shrill whistle from the engine, followed by a warning shout of ”Stand back there, please; stand back, sir!” I had a last glimpse of Savaroff's unpleasant face, as he hurriedly withdrew his head, and then with a slight jerk the train began to move slowly out of the station.

I didn't open my papers at once. For some time I just sat where I was in the corner and stared out contentedly over the pa.s.sing landscape.

There is nothing like prison to broaden one's ideas about pleasure. Up till the time of my trial I had never looked on a railway journey as a particularly fascinating experience; now it seemed to me to be simply chock-full of delightful sensations. The very names of the stations--Totnes, Newton Abbot, Teignmouth--filled me with a sort of curious pleasure: they were part of the world that I had once belonged to--the gay, free, jolly world of work and laughter that I had thought lost to me for ever. I felt so absurdly contented that for a little while I almost forgot about George.

The only stop we made was at Exeter. There were not many people on the platform, and I had just decided that I was not going to be disturbed, when suddenly a fussy-looking little old gentleman emerged from the booking office, followed by a porter carrying his bag. They came straight for my carriage.

The old gentleman reached it first, and puckering up his face, peered in at me through the window. Apparently the inspection was a success.

”This will do,” he observed. ”Leave my bag on the seat, and go and see that my portmanteau is safely in the van. Then if you come back here I will give you threepence for your trouble.”

Dazzled by the prospect, the porter hurried off on his errand, and with a little grunt the old gentleman began to hoist himself in through the door. I put out my hand to a.s.sist him.

”Thank you, sir, thank you,” he remarked breathlessly. ”I am extremely obliged to you, sir.”

Then, gathering up his bag, he shuffled along the carriage, and settled himself down in the opposite corner.

I was quite pleased with the prospect of a fellow pa.s.senger, unexciting as this particular one promised to be. I have either read or heard it stated that when people first come out of prison they feel so shy and so lost that their chief object is to avoid any sort of society at all. I can only say that in my case this was certainly not true. I wanted to talk to every one: I felt as if whole volumes of conversation had been acc.u.mulating inside me during the long speechless months of my imprisonment.

It was the old gentleman, however, who first broke our silence.

Lowering his copy of the _Times_, he looked up at me over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles.

”I wonder, sir,” he said, ”whether you would object to having that window closed; I am extremely susceptible to draughts.”

”Why, of course not,” I replied cheerfully, and suiting my action to my words I jerked up the sash.

This prompt attention to his wishes evidently pleased him; for he thanked me civilly, and then, after a short pause, added some becoming reflection on the subject of the English spring.

It was not exactly an inspiring opening, but I made the most of it.

Without appearing intrusive I managed to keep the conversation going, and in a few minutes we were in the middle of a brisk meteorological discussion of the most approved pattern.

”I daresay you find these sudden changes especially trying,” commented my companion. Then, with a sort of apology in his voice, he added: ”One can hardly help seeing that you have been accustomed to a warmer climate.”

I smiled. ”I have been out of England,” I said, ”for some time”; and if this was not true in the letter, I don't think that even George Was.h.i.+ngton could have found much fault with it in the spirit.

”Indeed, sir, indeed,” said the old gentleman. ”I envy you, sir. I only wish my own duties permitted me to winter entirely abroad.”

”It has its advantages,” I admitted, ”but in some ways I am quite pleased to be back again.”

My companion nodded his head. ”For one thing,” he said, ”one gets terribly behindhand with English news. I find that even the best of the foreign papers are painfully ill-informed.”