‘Did you do much fishing when you were abroad, sir?’ the waiter pursued.
‘A little.’
‘Well, you want rain for that,’ declared the waiter, as one who scores a point. ‘The fishing isn’t preserved in Australia, like what it is here?’
‘No.’
‘Then there ain’t no poaching,’ concluded the waiter philosophically. ‘It’s every man for himself.’
‘Yes, that’s the rule in Australia.’
‘Not much of a rule, is it?’ the waiter took him up. ‘Not much like law, I mean.’
‘It depends what you mean by law.’
‘Oh, Mr. Rumbold, sir, you know very well what I mean. I mean the police. Now if you was to have done a man in out in Australia—murdered him, I mean—they’d hang you for it if they caught you, wouldn’t they?’
Mr. Rumbold teased the champagne with the butt-end of his fork and drank again.
‘Probably they would, unless there were special circumstances.
‘In which case you might get off?’
‘I might.’
‘That’s what I mean by law,’ pronounced the waiter. ‘You know what the law is: you go against it, and you’re punished. Of course I don’t mean you, sir; I only say “you” as—as an illustration to make my meaning clear.’
‘Quite, quite.’
‘Whereas if there was only what you call a rule,’ the waiter pursued, deftly removing the remains of Mr. Rumbold’s chicken, ‘it might fall to the lot of any man to round you up. Might be anybody; might be me.’
‘Why should you or they,’ asked Mr. Rumbold, ‘want to round me up? I haven’t done you any harm, or them.’
‘Oh, but we should have to, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘We couldn’t rest in our beds, sir, knowing you was at large. You might do it again. Somebody’d have to see to it.’
‘But supposing there was nobody?’
‘Sir?’
‘Supposing the murdered man hadn’t any relatives or friends: supposing he just disappeared, and no one ever knew that he was dead?’
‘Well, sir,’ said the waiter, winking portentously, ‘in that case he’d have to get on your track himself. He wouldn’t rest in his grave, sir, no, not he, and knowing what he did.’
‘Clutsam,’ said Mr. Rumbold suddenly, ‘bring me another bottle of wine, and don’t trouble to ice it.’
The waiter took the bottle from the table and held it to the light.
‘Yes, it’s dead, sir.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yes, sir; finished; empty; dead.’
‘You’re right,’ Mr. Rumbold agreed. ‘It’s quite dead.’
It was nearly eleven o’clock. Mr. Rumbold again had the lounge to himself. Clutsam would be bringing his coffee presently. Too bad of Fate to have him haunted by these casual reminders; too bad, his first day at home. ‘Too bad, too bad,’ he muttered, while the fire warmed the soles of his slippers. But it was excellent champagne; he would take no harm from it: the brandy Clutsam was bringing him would do the rest. Clutsam was a good sort, nice old-fashioned servant . . . nice old-fashioned house. . . . Warmed by the wine, his thoughts began to pass out of his control.
‘Your coffee, sir,’ said a voice at his elbow.
‘Thank you, Clutsam, I’m very much obliged to you,’ said Mr. Rumbold, with the exaggerated civility of slight intoxication. ‘You’re an excellent fellow. I wish there were more like you.’
‘I hope so, too, I’m sure,’ said Clutsam, trying in his muddle-headed way to deal with both observations at once.
‘Don’t seem many people about,’ Mr. Rumbold remarked. ‘Hotel pretty full?’
‘Oh, yes, sir, all the suites are let, and the other rooms, too. We’re turning people away every day. Why, only to-night a gentleman rang up. Said he would come round late, on the off-chance. But, bless me, he’ll find the birds have flown.’
‘Birds?’ echoed Mr. Rumbold.
‘I mean there ain’t any more rooms, not for love nor money.’
‘Well, I’m sorry for him,’ said Mr. Rumbold, with ponderous sincerity. ‘I’m sorry for any man, friend or foe, who has to go tramping about London on a night like this. If I had an extra bed in my room, I’d put it at his disposal.’
‘You have, sir,’ the waiter said.
‘Why, of course I have. How stupid. Well, well. I’m sorry for the poor chap. I’m sorry for all homeless ones, Clutsam, wandering on the face of the earth.’
‘Amen to that,’ said the waiter devoutly.
‘And doctors and such, pulled out of their beds at midnight. It’s a hard life. Ever thought about a doctor’s life, Clutsam?’
‘Can’t say I have, sir.’
‘Well, well, but it’s hard; you can take that from me.’
‘What time shall I call you in the morning, sir?’ the waiter asked, seeing no reason why the conversation should ever stop.
‘You needn’t call me Clutsam,’ replied Mr. Rumbold, in a sing-song voice, and rushing the words together as though he were excusing the waiter from addressing him by the waiter’s own name. ‘I’ll get up when I’m ready. And that may be pretty late, pretty late.’ He smacked his lips over the words.
‘Nothing like a good lie, eh, Clutsam?’
‘That’s right, sir, you have your sleep out,’ the waiter encouraged him. ‘You won’t be disturbed.’
‘Good-night, Clutsam. You’re an excellent fellow, and I don’t care who hears me say so.’
‘Good-night, sir.’
Mr. Rumbold returned to his chair. It lapped him round, it ministered to his comfort: he felt at one with it. At one with the fire, the clock, the tables, all the furniture. Their usefulness, their goodness, went out to meet his usefulness, his goodness, met, and were friends. Who could bind their sweet influences or restrain them in the exercise of their kind offices? No one: certainly not a shadow from the past. The room was perfectly quiet. Street sounds reached it only as a low continuous hum, infinitely reassuring. Mr. Rumbold fell asleep.
He dreamed that he was a boy again, living in his old home in the country. He was possessed, in the dream, by a master-passion; he must collect firewood, whenever and wherever he saw it. He found himself one autumn afternoon in the wood-house; that was how the dream began. The door was partly open, admitting a little light, but he could not recall how he got in. The floor of the shed was littered with bits of bark and thin twigs; but, with the exception of the chopping-block which he knew could not be used, there was nowhere a log of sufficient size to make a fire. Though he did not like being in the wood-house alone he stayed long enough to make a thorough search. But he could find nothing. The compulsion he knew so well descended on him, and he left the wood-house and went into the garden. His steps took him to the foot of a high tree, standing by itself in a tangle of long grass at some distance from the house. The tree had been lopped; for half its height it had no branches, only leafy tufts, sticking out at irregular intervals. He knew what he would see when he looked up into the dark foliage. And there, sure enough, it was: a long dead bough, bare in patches where the bark had peeled off, and crooked in the middle like an elbow.
He began to climb the tree. The ascent proved easier than he expected, his body seemed no weight at all. But he was visited by a terrible oppression, which increased as he mounted. The bough did not want him; it was projecting its hostility down the trunk of the tree. And every second brought him nearer to an object which he had always dreaded; a growth, people called it. It stuck out from the trunk of the tree, a huge circular swelling thickly matted with twigs. Victor would have rather died than hit his head against it.
By the time he reached the bough twilight had deepened into night. He knew what he had to do: sit astride the bough, since there was none near by from which he could reach it, and press with his hands until it broke. Using his legs to get what purchase he could, he set his back against the tree and pushed with all his might downwards. To do this he was obliged to look beneath him, and he saw, far below him on the ground, a white sheet spread out as though to catch him; and he knew at once that it was a shroud.