E-text prepared by Lionel Sear
Stories, Studies and Sketches
by
Two of the following stories were first published in Longman's
Magazine; the rest are selected from a number contributed to The
Speaker. For permission to reprint them I must sincerely thank the
two Editors.
Q.
The Omnibus.
Fortunio.
The Outlandish Ladies.
Statement of Gabriel Foot, Highwayman.
The Return of Joanna.
Psyche.
The Countess of Bellarmine.
A Cottage in Troy—
I. A. Happy Voyage.
II. These-An'-That's Wife.
III. "Doubles" and Quits.
IV. The Boy by the Beach.
Old Aeson.
Stories of Bleakirk—
I. The Affair of Bleakirk-on-Sands.
II. The Constant Post-Boy.
A Dark Mirror.
The Small People.
The Mayor of Gantick.
The Doctor's Foundling.
The Gifts of Feodor Himkoff.
Yorkshire Dick.
The Carol.
The Paradise of Choice.
Beside the Bee Hives.
The Magic Shadow.
It was not so much a day as a burning, fiery furnace. The roar ofLondon's traffic reverberated under a sky of coppery blue; thepavements threw out waves of heat, thickened with the reek ofrestaurants and perfumery shops; and dust became cinders, and thewearing of flesh a weariness. Streams of sweat ran from the belliesof 'bus-horses when they halted. Men went up and down withunbuttoned waistcoats, turned into drinking-bars, and were no soonerinside than they longed to be out again, and baking in an ampleroven. Other men, who had given up drinking because of the expense,hung about the fountains in Trafalgar Square and listened to thesplash of running water. It was the time when London is supposed tobe empty; and when those who remain in town feel there is not roomfor a soul more.
We were eleven inside the omnibus when it pulled up at Charing Cross,so that legally there was room for just one more. I had travelledenough in omnibuses to know my fellow-passengers by heart—a governess with some sheets of music in her satchel; a minor actressgoing to rehearsal; a woman carrying her incurable complaint for thehundredth time to the hospital; three middle-aged city clerks; acouple of reporters with weak eyes and low collars; an oldloose-cheeked woman exhaling patchouli; a bald-headed man with hairyhands, a violent breast-pin, and the indescribable air of amatrimonial agent. Not a word passed. We were all failures in life,and could not trouble to dissemble it, in that heat. Moreover, wewere used to each other, as types if not as persons, and had lostcuriosity. So we sat listless, dispirited, drawing difficult breathand staring vacuously. The hope we shared in common—that nobodywould claim the vacant seat—was too obvious to be discussed.
But at Charing Cross the twelfth passenger got in—a boy wi