PURSUIT

Star (Christchurch), Issue 19154, 21 August 1930, Page 16

PURSUIT

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Hold that fast ■which thou hast That no man take thy crown.”

[Book I.

A NOVEL BY

ROLAND PERTWEE

BOOR 1. CHAPTER V.—Continued. At Acre a barrier had been erected and fire engines were still at work. The helmets of firemen and the nozzles and unions of hoses gleamed mysteriously through misty plumes of smoke. A burst watermain and a burst gas main were sending up parallel jets of fire and water. The sight had attracted a group of spectators largely composed of Covent Garden porters and aged vagrants. Carts and lorries piled high with vegetables and boxes of flowers for the market were huddled in Garrick Street waiting for the barriers to come down. A special constable whom Harley recognised as a leading west end actor-manager was endeavour to park them in some better shape. “Lorries on the right—horse drawn vehicles on the left,’’ sounded the familiar voice. “Now, come along, my bo3's, come along. What is the use of my talking if you take no notice?” What indeed? “Damnation, am I to waste my voice for nothing?” Seemingly so. A lad of sixteen, with the frightened 'eyes of one in the presence of an emergency with which he found himself powerless to cope, loomed out of the mists of Floral Street and stood irresolutely before Harley, gnawing the back of his hand. “What’s the matter, sonny?’' said Harley, recognising the signs of approaching panic. “What’s the trouble? ” “Donna what to do. sir. My retailer as gone up—flattened out —cruel it is. Plice is burnin' still. Yesterdav’s onions poppin’ off chestnuts. What’d I better do with that?” And he jerked his thumb towards a one horse cart piled with wooden boxes. “What is it? Vegetables?” “Nar. Flars. Roses and sech like. ’E ain't there to take 'em, see. F’rorl I knows 'e may be ” the boy’s lower lip shot out suggestively. Harley clapped a hand cn his shoulder. “Steady on, youngster,” he said. “Don’t start looking for terrors. Flowers you’ve got. eh?” “\ us. ’T’ain’t like vegs, flars ain’t. Got to sell ’em quick, ain’t yer?” Harley’s eyes wandered lovingly towards the cart. ‘‘lf it’s a customer you want,” he said, “I’m your man. How much for the lot?” “Fifteen pahund, but yer kidding.” Harley fished three fivers from his pocket. The youth eyed man and mone3 r in slow turns. “But yer can’t find no use fer all the blinking lot,” said he. “Can’t I,” was the reply. “You. don’t know what I can do when the mood takes me. • Freeze on to these notes and I’ll tell >-ou where to go.” In war time transport is transport and the spectacle of an officer riding on a market cart was not unusual enough to attract notice.

Seated beside the boy Harley was driven down Piccadilly and thence to Berkeley Square. “Here we are,” he said, as they came to the Miller’s house, “and if you care to earn a couple of sovereigns for yourself you can lend me a hand.” It must be confessed that at first the boy entered with poor spirit and no small apprehension into the surprising business demanded of him. But later, with the realisation that he was acting in concert with a man physically superior to any policeman who might feel impelled to intervene, he embraced the spirit of the enterprise with an enthusiasm only second to Harley’s. The area railings, the knocker, the piers which supported i the porch, the old wrought iron link | holder, in short everything that could be reached from pavement to the height obtainable by standing on a man’s shoulders was festooned with roses like a decorated car in a battle of flowers.

Only one interruption distracted their operations. It came from an elderly special constable who, to do him justice, was more occupied with surprise than fear that the law was being infracted.

“Do these decorations presage an early peace, young man, or have you and your companion taken leave of your senses?” he asked blandly. “I can only speak for myself,” said Harley. “The boy is sane enough.” “Odd, very odd,” said the special. Harley said they could do with extra help and invited assistance but the special shook his head. “Although.” he admitted, “it would be pleasanter than the task that awaits me. For I am on my way V> guard an electric light works from the back door of a fish shop/’ Harley tossed him a rose. “For luck, sir.” The old man accepted the gift gracefully.

“You would not care to tell me what all this is for?” he asked.

“A love philtre,” said Harley. “Then you will allow me to wish you the best of luck.”

| What remained of the flowers were 1 tenderly bestowed in the area—a pyra- ; mid of boxes which rose high above ! the level of the kitchen window. CHAPTER VI. At seven o’clock in the morning Harley was conveyed to Victoria Station in an electric brougham which was plying for hire in Curzon Street. The owner of the brougham, a statesman of repute, was unaware of the patriotic and profitable services rendered by his chauffeur in those void-of-taxi days. Save for an hour of iitfkil sleep, that barely released his consciousness from its sublime altitude, Harley had not rested. What was left of the night he spent in writing and tearing up letters and poems and' declarations of an ardent and emotional kind. Also he drank pints of cold water to quench the fires that consumed him. Yet even so his throat, as the brougham drew him silently towards the end of his leave, was dry as pumice. His eyes, too, were dry and prickly and winced at the sun which, yellow as an apricot, rolled out of the opal mists hanging over Westminster. By a common impulse traffic and pedestrians alike seemed to be converging upon Victoria Station. London was giving up its sons to the Butcher. What a nation of cattle they had become. Compelled by some force hidden behind the trees that masked \\ hitehall they moved towards the slaughter house with blind and passionless lack of rebellion. Here and there groups of returning soldiers, the fumes of overnight drink still upon them, lifted their voices croakingly to a fragment of song. Others walked in silence with loneliness for company—and doubts to make them grave—and memories of swift and bitter partings to torment their souls. The war had run too long a course for its devotees to take up their burden with the quick-step spirit of 1914. A “Birds of Prey” march—pathetically remote from glory it had become.

The brougham entered the station yard and gripping his kit Harley jumped out. He gave ten shillings to the chauffeur and dodging the myrmidons of the R.T.O. who might detain him for duty on the train, mixed in the crowds that gathered before the gates to the platforms. Despite the ever increasing numbers all was very quiet. A hush, the logical outcome of emotions that foreshadow parting, a failure, common to all, to find those last sublime words that shall comfort and ease and reassure was its genesis. Assemble together all sorts and conditions of men and women minding and feeling and fearing and caring beyond reach of words and you shall find an expression of silence not readily to be forgotten or defined. As Harley pushed through the crowds to the gates of the platform a woman in black, with a sable round her throat moved forward to meet him.

“Paula,” he said, “this is—splendid of you.” 'lt was the barest # hesitation but too obvious to escape notice. Her face lit up by generous impulse and affection, chilled and darkened. “You’d rather I hadn’t come,” she said, “I understand that.” “No,” he began. “We haven’t so long to be together/’ she said, “don’t let’s shirk the truth.” He found it hard to look at her and fumbled with a buckle of his Sam Browne belt. She went on. “I wouldn’t have come, Harley, but last night when I reached home there was a telegram from David. He was just sailing from Southampton.” “I’ll look after him.” “I know you will,” she said, and gave a sudden laugh. “Why?” he asked. “Because I know you, Ilarley, and I know, because of last night, you’ll do ever so much more for David than you would have done—before.” lie shook his head. It gave him a chance to look about for Joan. “I don’t admit that.” “But you will,” she said, “I’m sure you will. You’ll feel that you must make it up to me somehow.” He felt the blood running to his cheeks. She was right, too. A conscious determination to make it up to her that way had been in his mind , when a window in Berkeley Square was thrown open and he had entered into paradise and forgetfulness. Into what base metal a man’s best resolves can be transformed by a woman’s intuition. Paula was saying, “So you see it was all for the best. Out. of my utter shamelessness I forged a shield for David.” “I wish.” he began “That I wouldn’t think below the surface. I know you do, but I'm made that way. Harley, and can’t help it.” He shook his head. “Not that, but I wish you’d spare me once in a while from feeling a cad. Last night late—l passed your hoxise. There was a light in the window.” She nodded slowly—expectantly, “And yet you passed my housepassed it?” “Not at once,” he said. “I stood some time wondering—and wanting so much to say—something—l don’t know what—but afraid to.” (To be continued.) j