The Lost Girl Part 18

"Then name a figure. Say what you _can_ think of," retorted Mr. May, rather annoyed by this shrewd, shaking head of a doddering provincial, and by his own sudden collapse into mean subordination.

"I can't make it more than ten pounds a month," said James sharply.

"What!" screamed Mr. May. "What am I to live on? What is my wife to live on?"

"I've got to make it pay," said James. "If I've got to make it pay, I must keep down expenses at the beginning."

"No,--on the contrary. You must be prepared to spend something at the beginning. If you go in a pinch-and-sc.r.a.pe fas.h.i.+on in the beginning, you will get nowhere at all. Ten pounds a month! Why it's impossible! Ten pounds a month! But how am I to _live_?"

James's head still vibrated in a negative fas.h.i.+on. And the two men came to no agreement _that_ morning. Mr. May went home more sick and weary than ever, and took his whiskey more biliously. But James was lit with the light of battle.

Poor Mr. May had to gather together his wits and his sprightliness for his next meeting. He had decided he must make a percentage in other ways. He schemed in all known ways. He would accept the ten pounds--but really, did ever you hear of anything so ridiculous in your life, _ten pounds!_--dirty old screw, dirty, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g old woman! He would accept the ten pounds; but he would get his own back.

He flitted down once more to the negro, to ask him of a certain wooden show-house, with section sides and roof, an old travelling theatre which stood closed on Selverhay Common, and might probably be sold. He pressed across once more to Mr. Bows. He wrote various letters and drew up certain notes. And the next morning, by eight o'clock, he was on his way to Selverhay: walking, poor man, the long and uninteresting seven miles on his small and rather tight-shod feet, through country that had been once beautiful but was now scrubbled all over with mining villages, on and on up heavy hills and down others, asking his way from uncouth clowns, till at last he came to the Common, which wasn't a Common at all, but a sort of village more depressing than usual: naked, high, exposed to heaven and to full barren view.

There he saw the theatre-booth. It was old and sordid-looking, painted dark-red and dishevelled with narrow, tattered announcements. The gra.s.s was growing high up the wooden sides. If only it wasn't rotten?

He crouched and probed and pierced with his pen-knife, till a country-policeman in a high helmet like a jug saw him, got off his bicycle and came stealthily across the gra.s.s wheeling the same bicycle, and startled poor Mr. May almost into apoplexy by demanding behind him, in a loud voice:

"What're you after?"

Mr. May rose up with flushed face and swollen neck-veins, holding his pen-knife in his hand.

"Oh," he said, "good-morning." He settled his waistcoat and glanced over the tall, lanky constable and the glittering bicycle. "I was taking a look at this old erection, with a view to buying it. I'm afraid it's going rotten from the bottom."

"Shouldn't wonder," said the policeman suspiciously, watching Mr.

May shut the pocket knife.

"I'm afraid that makes it useless for my purpose," said Mr. May.

The policeman did not deign to answer.

"Could you tell me where I can find out about it, anyway?" Mr. May used his most affable, man of the world manner. But the policeman continued to stare him up and down, as if he were some marvellous specimen unknown on the normal, honest earth.

"What, find out?" said the constable.

"About being able to buy it," said Mr. May, a little testily. It was with great difficulty he preserved his man-to-man openness and brightness.

"They aren't here," said the constable.

"Oh indeed! Where _are_ they? And _who_ are they?"

The policeman eyed him more suspiciously than ever.

"Cowlard's their name. An' they live in Offerton when they aren't travelling."

"Cowlard--thank you." Mr. May took out his pocket-book.

"C-o-w-l-a-r-d--is that right? And the address, please?"

"I dunno th' street. But you can find out from the Three Bells.

That's Missis' sister."

"The Three Bells--thank you. Offerton did you say?"

"Yes."

"Offerton!--where's that?"

"About eight mile."

"Really--and how do you get there?"

"You can walk--or go by train."

"Oh, there is a station?"

"Station!" The policeman looked at him as if he were either a criminal or a fool.

"Yes. There _is_ a station there?"

"Ay--biggest next to Chesterfield--"

Suddenly it dawned on Mr. May.

"Oh-h!" he said. "You mean _Alfreton_--"

"Alfreton, yes." The policeman was now convinced the man was a wrong-'un. But fortunately he was not a pus.h.i.+ng constable, he did not want to rise in the police-scale: thought himself safest at the bottom.

"And which is the way to the station here?" asked Mr. May.

"Do yer want Pinxon or Bull'ill?"

"Pinxon or Bull'ill?"

"There's two," said the policeman.

"For Selverhay?" asked Mr. May.

"Yes, them's the two."

"And which is the best?"

"Depends what trains is runnin'. Sometimes yer have to wait an hour or two--"

"You don't know the trains, do you--?"

"There's one in th' afternoon--but I don't know if it'd be gone by the time you get down."

"To where?"