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 grass was growing high up the wooden sides. If only it wasn’t rotten? He crouched and probed and pierced with his penknife, till a country-policeman in a high helmet like a jug saw him, got off his bicycle and came stealthily across the grass 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 penknife 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 pocketbook. “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 pushing 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?”
“Bull’ill.”
“Oh Bull’ill! Well, perhaps I’ll try. Could you tell me the way?”
When, after an hour’s painful walk, Mr. May came to Bullwell Station and found there was no train till six in the evening, he felt he was earning every penny he would ever get from Mr. Houghton.
The first intelligence which Miss Pinnegar and Alvina gathered of the coming adventure was given them when James announced that he had let the shop to Marsden, the grocer next door. Marsden had agreed to take over James’s premises at the same rent as that of the premises he already occupied, and moreover to do all alterations and put in all fixtures himself. This was a grand scoop for James: not a penny was it going to cost him, and the rent was clear profit.
“But when?” cried Miss Pinnegar.
“He takes possession on the first of October.”
“Well—it’s a good idea. The shop isn’t worth while,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“Certainly it isn’t,” said James, rubbing his hands: a sign that he was rarely excited and pleased.
“And you’ll just retire, and live quietly,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“I shall see,” said James. And with those fatal words he wafted away to find Mr. May.
James was now nearly seventy years old. Yet he nipped about like a leaf in the wind. Only, it was a frail leaf.
“Father’s got something going,” said Alvina, in a warning voice.
“I believe he has,” said Miss Pinnegar pensively. “I wonder what it is, now.”
“I can’t imagine,” laughed Alvina. “But I’ll bet it’s something awful—else he’d have told us.”
“Yes,” said Miss Pinnegar slowly. “Most likely he would. I wonder what it can be.”
“I haven’t an idea,” said Alvina.
Both women were so retired, they had heard nothing of James’s little trips down to Lumley. So they watched like cats for their man’s return, at dinnertime.
Miss Pinnegar saw him coming along talking excitedly to Mr. May, who, all in grey, with his chest perkily stuck out like a robin, was looking rather pinker than usual. Having come to an agreement,
