Part 25 (1/2)

I drew up my chair. ”Right,” I said.

And in his rapid, clear, high-pitched voice he began to read.

It was the speech of some politician or other he read, and my pencil flew over the paper, swiftly taking down. Page after page I wrote, and I had almost forgotten that I was engaged on anything more than an ordinary exercise when suddenly he called ”Time!” I stopped, and took a long breath.

”Now transcribe,” he said. ”You'll find paper under those gloves.”

”No,” I said. ”You take down now. Saves time. Transcribing's the slow part, and we can both be doing that together.”

”All right,” he said, pa.s.sing over the paper and making ready.

”Right? Go,” I said.

And I began in my turn to read.

He had given me a continuous speech, but I gave him the Police Column.

”Big Blaze in Bermondsey: Suspected Arson,” I gave him. (”That chap'll get a couple of years for that,” he interdicted). And then I pa.s.sed to ”Alleged Bucket-shop Frauds.” I had already got my paper from my breast-pocket, that paper I had compiled in the reading-room of the British Museum....

”--bail being granted in two sums of 500,” I concluded the bucket-shop paragraph and went on without pause:--

”PATHETIC CONFESSION”

”At Marlborough Street yesterday Rose Baxter, 24, seamstress, living in Osnaburgh Street, was charged before Mr Siddeley with a determined attempt to commit suicide by hanging herself in a shed adjoining her dwelling, the property of Messrs Wright, Knapton & Co. The beginning of the case was reported in _The Argus_ of 24th June. Inspector Woodhead read aloud a letter purporting to be in the prisoner's handwriting, from which we take the following.”

(”Cheerful subjects you choose, I must say,” commented Archie, _sotto voce_.)

”'Dearest mother, I cannot face the disgrace. I hope you will forgive me for the trouble I am bringing on you. I have put it off as long as possible, hoping things would get better, but there is only one end to it.”

(”Kid, eh?” murmured Archie, writing.)

”'I trust G.o.d will forgive me. I am not afraid to die, I am afraid to live and face it. I cannot do E. this wrong. Please, dear mother, think of me as I used to be. I have tried and tried, but it is all no good, and I am better out of the world.

Give my love to everybody, and try, dear mother, to forgive me.'”

”Time!”

Archie leaned back in his chair.

”Phew! Was that five minutes? Seemed short,” he said. ”Just a breather before we transcribe.” He lighted a cigarette. ”I say, Jeff: do you know any dealer who gives a decent price for second-hand clothes? I've heaps here I sha'n't want any more.”

I had small use for such a dealer. ”You might try Lamb's Conduit Street,” I said. ”I've bought clothes there.”

”Silly a.s.s----I didn't mean that!” He was now monstrously careful of my feelings.

”Say when you're ready to transcribe,” I said, pus.h.i.+ng across a wad of paper.

”All right, let's get it over. I'll race you! Ready?”

We plunged into our longhand transcription.