I laughed and cried, took to jumping and running down the street, stopped, slapped my thighs, swore loudly and solemnly into space at nothing in particular. And time went.
All through the night until the bright dawn I “jodled” about the streets and repeated—“Worked out with talent—therefore a little masterpiece—a stroke of genius—and half-a-sovereign.”
II
A few weeks later I was out one evening.
Once more I had sat out in a churchyard and worked at an article for one of the newspapers. But whilst I was struggling with it eight o’clock struck, and darkness closed in, and time for shutting the gates.
I was hungry—very hungry. The ten shillings had, worse luck, lasted all too short. It was now two, ay, nearly three days since I had eaten anything, and I felt somewhat faint; holding the pencil even had taxed me a little. I had half a penknife and a bunch of keys in my pocket, but not a farthing.
When the churchyard gate shut I meant to have gone straight home, but, from an instinctive dread of my room—a vacant tinker’s workshop, where all was dark and barren, and which, in fact, I had got permission to occupy for the present—I stumbled on, passed, not caring where I went, the Town Hall, right to the sea, and over to a seat near the railway bridge.
At this moment not a sad thought troubled me. I forgot my distress, and felt calmed by the view of the sea, which lay peaceful and lovely in the murkiness. For old habit’s sake I would please myself by reading through the bit I had just written, and which seemed to my suffering head the best thing I had ever done.
I took my manuscript out of my pocket to try and decipher it, held it close up to my eyes, and ran through it, one line after the other. At last I got tired, and put the papers back in my pocket. Everything was still. The sea stretched away in pearly blueness, and little birds flitted noiselessly by me from place to place.
A policeman patrols in the distance; otherwise there is not a soul visible, and the whole harbour is hushed in quiet.
I count my belongings once more—half a penknife, a bunch of keys, but not a farthing. Suddenly I dive into my pocket and take the papers out again. It was a mechanical movement, an unconscious nervous twitch. I selected a white unwritten page, and—God knows where I got the notion from—but I made a cornet, closed it carefully, so that it looked as if it were filled with something, and threw it far out on to the pavement. The breeze blew it onward a little, and then it lay still.
By this time hunger had begun to assail me in earnest. I sat and looked at the white paper cornet, which seemed as if it might be bursting with shining silver pieces, and incited myself to believe that it really did contain something. I sat and coaxed myself quite audibly to guess the sum; if I guessed aright, it was to be mine.
I imagined the tiny, pretty penny bits at the bottom and the thick fluted shillings on top—a whole paper cornet full of money! I sat and gazed at it with wide opened eyes, and urged myself to go and steal it.
Then I hear the constable cough. What puts it into my head to do the same? I rise up from the seat and repeat the cough three times so that he may hear it. Won’t he jump at the cornet when he comes. I sat and laughed at this trick, rubbed my hands with glee, and swore with rollicking recklessness. What a disappointment he will get, the dog! Wouldn’t this piece of villainy make him inclined to sink into hell’s hottest pool of torment! I was drunk with starvation; my hunger had made me tipsy.
A few minutes later the policeman comes by, clinking his iron heels on the pavement, peering on all sides. He takes his time; he has the whole night before him; he does not notice the paper bag—not till he comes quite close to it. Then he stops and stares at it. It looks so white and so full as it lies there; perhaps a little sum—what? A little sum of silver money? … and he picks it up. Hum … it is light—very light; maybe an expensive feather; some hat trimming. … He opened it carefully with his big hands, and looked in. I laughed, laughed, slapped my thighs, and laughed like a maniac. And not a sound issued from my throat; my laughter was hushed and feverish to the intensity of tears.
Clink, clink again over the paving-stones, and the policeman took a turn towards the landing-stage. I sat there, with tears in my eyes, and hiccuped for breath, quite beside myself with feverish merriment. I commenced to talk aloud, related to myself all about the cornet, imitated the poor policeman’s movements, peeped into my hollow hand, and repeated over and over again to myself, “He coughed as he threw it away—he coughed as he threw it away.” I added new words to these, gave them additional point, changed the whole sentence, and made it catching and piquant. He coughed once—Kheu heu!
I exhausted myself in weaving variations on these words, and the evening was far advanced before my mirth ceased. Then a drowsy quiet overcame me; a pleasant languor
