Two extra assistants had been engaged for the following afternoon, and their services were in brisk demand; the shop was crowded. People bought and bought, and never seemed to get to the end of their lists. Mr Scarrick had never had so little difficulty in persuading customers to embark on new experiences in grocery wares. Even those women whose purchases were of modest proportions dawdled over them as though they had brutal, drunken husbands to go home to. The afternoon had dragged uneventfully on, and there was a distinct buzz of unpent excitement when a dark-eyed boy carrying a brass bowl entered the shop. The excitement seemed to have communicated itself to Mr Scarrick; abruptly deserting a lady who was making insincere inquiries about the home life of the Bombay duck, he intercepted the new-comer on his way to the accustomed counter and informed him, amid a deathlike hush, that he had run out of quail seed.
The boy looked nervously round the shop, and turned hesitatingly to go. He was again intercepted, this time by the nephew, who darted out from behind his counter and said something about a better line of oranges. The boy’s hesitation vanished; he almost scuttled into the obscurity of the orange corner. There was an expectant turn of public attention towards the door, and the tall, bearded stranger made a really effective entrance. The aunt of Mrs Greyes declared afterwards that she found herself subconsciously repeating ‘The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold’ under her breath, and she was generally believed.
The new-comer, too, was stopped before he reached the counter, but not by Mr Scarrick or his assistant. A heavily veiled lady, whom no one had hitherto noticed, rose languidly from a seat and greeted him in a clear, penetrating voice.
‘Your Excellency does his shopping himself?’ she said.
‘I order the things myself,’ he explained; ‘I find it difficult to make my servants understand.’
In a lower, but still perfectly audible, voice the veiled lady gave him a piece of casual information.
‘They have some excellent Jaffa oranges here.’ Then with a tinkling laugh she passed out of the shop.
The man glared all round the shop, and then, fixing his eyes instinctively on the barrier of biscuit tins, demanded loudly of the grocer: ‘You have, perhaps, some good Jaffa oranges?’
Every one expected an instant denial on the part of Mr Scarrick of any such possession. Before he could answer, however, the boy had broken forth from his sanctuary. Holding his empty brass bowl before him he passed out into the street. His face was variously described afterwards as masked with studied indifference, overspread with ghastly pallor, and blazing with defiance. Some said that his teeth chattered, others that he went out whistling the Persian National Hymn. There was no mistaking, however, the effect produced by the encounter on the man who had seemed to force it. If a rabid dog or a rattlesnake had suddenly thrust its companionship on him he could scarcely have displayed a greater access of terror. His air of authority and assertiveness had gone, his masterful stride had given way to a furtive pacing to and fro, as of an animal seeking an outlet for escape. In a dazed perfunctory manner, always with his eyes turning to watch the shop entrance, he gave a few random orders, which the grocer made a show of entering in his book. Now and then he walked out into the street, looked anxiously in all directions, and hurried back to keep up his pretence of shopping. From one of these sorties he did not return; he had dashed away into the dusk, and neither he nor the dark-faced boy nor the veiled lady were seen again by the expectant crowds that continued to throng the Scarrick establishment for days to come.
‘I can never thank you and your sister sufficiently,’ said the grocer.
‘We enjoyed the fun of it,’ said the artist modestly, ‘and as for the model, it was a welcome variation on posing for hours for “The Lost Hylas.”’
‘At any rate,’ said the grocer, ‘I insist on paying for the hire of the black beard.’
Canossa
Demosthenes Platterbaff, the eminent Unrest Inducer, stood on his trial for a serious offence, and the eyes of the political world were focused on the jury. The offence, it should be stated, was serious for the Government rather than for the prisoner. He had blown up the Albert Hall on the eve of the great Liberal Federation Tango Tea, the occasion on which the Chancellor of the Exchequer was expected to propound his new theory: ‘Do partridges spread infectious diseases?’ Platterbaff had chosen his time well; the Tango Tea had been hurriedly postponed, but there were other political fixtures which could not be put off under any circumstances. The day after the trial there was to be a by-election at Nemesis-on-Hand, and it had been openly announced in the division that if Platterbaff were languishing in gaol on polling day the Government candidate would be ‘outed’ to a certainty. Unfortunately, there could be no doubt or misconception as to Platterbaff’s guilt. He had not only pleaded guilty, but had expressed his intention of repeating his escapade in other directions as soon as circumstances permitted; throughout the trial he was busy examining a small model of the Free Trade Hall in Manchester. The jury could not possibly find that the prisoner had not deliberately and intentionally blown up the Albert Hall; the question was: Could they find any extenuating circumstances which would permit of an acquittal? Of course any sentence which the law might feel compelled to inflict would be followed by an immediate pardon, but it was highly desirable, from the Government’s point of view, that the necessity for such an exercise of clemency should not arise. A headlong pardon, on the eve of a by-election, with threats of a heavy voting defection if it were withheld or even delayed, would not necessarily be a surrender, but it would look like one. Opponents would be only too ready to attribute ungenerous motives. Hence the anxiety in the crowded Court, and in the little groups gathered round the tape-machines in Whitehall and Downing Street and other affected centres.
The jury returned from considering their verdict; there was a flutter, an excited murmur, a death-like hush. The foreman delivered his message:
‘The jury find the prisoner guilty of blowing up the Albert Hall. The jury wish to add a rider drawing attention to the fact that a by-election is pending in the Parliamentary division of Nemesis-on-Hand.’
‘That, of course,’ said the Government Prosecutor, springing to his feet, ‘is equivalent to an acquittal?’
‘I hardly think so,’ said the Judge coldly: ‘I feel obliged to sentence the prisoner to a week’s imprisonment.’
‘And may the Lord have mercy on the poll,’ a Junior Counsel exclaimed irreverently.
It was a scandalous sentence, but then the Judge was not on the Ministerial side in politics.
The verdict and sentence were made known to the public at twenty minutes past five in the afternoon; at half-past five a dense crowd was massed outside the Prime Minister’s residence lustily singing, to the air of ‘Trelawney’:
‘Fifteen hundred,’ said the Prime Minister, with a shudder; ‘it’s too horrible to think of. Our majority last time was only a thousand and seven.’
‘The poll opens at eight tomorrow morning,’ said the Chief Organiser; ‘we must have him out by 7 A.M.’
‘Seven-thirty,’ amended the Prime Minister; ‘we must avoid any appearance of precipitancy.’
‘Not later than seven-thirty, then,’ said the Chief Organiser; ‘I have promised the agent down there that he shall be able to display posters announcing “Platterbaff is Out”, before the poll opens. He said it was our only chance of getting a telegram “Radprop is In” tonight.’