J. Farjeon - Murderer’s Trail

There was a pause. The three men looked at each other. Two were impatient, but the third, the captain, remained unperturbed. He knew what the other two men did not know—that anger would develop hysteria or its antithesis, numbness. He had read Ben’s condition when he had offered him a chair.

‘Twenty-two, Poplar Street, Poplar,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Well—admitting that for the moment—was there anything else on the envelope?’

‘I tole yer,’ replied Ben. ‘Lunnon.’

‘No name?’

‘’Corse there was a nime.’

‘What name?’

Ben looked at the captain suspiciously.

‘What name was on the envelope?’ the captain pressed. ‘Just “Ben, 22 Poplar Street, Poplar?”’

This was getting too complicated. Ben gave it up, and waited for the next. The next was even more complicated.

‘Where did your mother write from?’ inquired the captain.

‘From where she is,’ countered Ben.

‘And where is she?’

‘Well, where this boat’s goin’.’

This was too much for the third officer.

‘Yes, but where’s the boat going?’ he interposed angrily.

‘If you don’t know, you better sweep a crossin’,’ replied Ben.

The captain turned to the third officer.

‘Mr Greene,’ he said, ‘we had better not have any interruptions.’

For a brief moment, the world became sweet again. Ben grinned.

‘Tha’s right, sir!’ he chuckled. ‘Tick ’im orf!’

The sweetness vanished. The captain was now frowning heavily at Ben.

‘You’ll be ticked off yourself, if you don’t watch that tongue of yours!’ he exclaimed.

Now it was the third officer who grinned. The reaction and the grin sent Ben suddenly off his balance. He heard himself shouting. Perhaps the bump also had something to do with it. It was a painful bump.

‘I was born ticked orf!’ came his hoarse complaint. ‘Wot I was thinkin’ of, comin’ inter this world without fust askin’ everybody’s permishun, I’m sure I dunno! I’m a bit o’ mud not fit ter wipe yer boots hon—’

‘Say, do you allow this kind of language?’ interposed Mr Holbrooke.

‘Langwidge is like ’ens’ heggs,’ almost wept Ben. The room was growing misty. ‘If it’s comin, it’ll come.’

Another silence followed this philosophy. When the heat had died down a little, the captain delivered his ultimatum.

‘I think I have been patient,’ he observed, ‘and I am willing to remain patient for a minute or two longer, but I warn you, my man, that if there are any more outbursts this interview will come to an end, and you will not receive the benefit of very considerable doubts. Please remember that I am making every excuse for you, in view of your condition. Now, answer the rest of my questions quickly and plainly, and do not let us have any more foolery. Do you know where this ship is going?’

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