J. Farjeon - Ben Sees It Through

Then he scratched the cow where cows like it, behind the ears, and then held out his hand to be licked. It was a very young cow, and Ben, despite his lines, had never really grown up.

Now, while the boat drew into Southampton Water, he stared at Molly for the last time, and a very queer sensation assailed him. If you had asked him whether it was sentiment or sea-sickness, he’d have tossed for it.

‘I ’ope they’re good ter yer,’ he said. ‘If they ain’t, jest drop us a line.’

The cow looked back, solemnly. And who shall prove that, within the muddy mournfulness of its limited comprehension, it did not receive some fragment of Ben’s message?

But the business of bringing a boat into port makes no allowance for either sentiment or sea-sickness, and before long Ben was busy with, not one cow, but fifty. They had to be examined. They had to be disturbed. They had to be shooed into new places where they belonged, and out of other places where they didn’t; round a yawning hole; over a board flooring, down a gangway, into a fenced enclosure. Then fresh officials took charge, driving them into a waiting truck.

And so the fifty cows passed out of Ben’s life, and at last he found himself a free man again.

A free man? Technically, yes. But, in a sense, he envied the cows as he stood on the dock with neither plan nor prospect. They, at least, had somewhere to go!

‘Well—here we are again,’ said a voice beside him.

It was the supercargo. In the midst of kicking cattle, Ben had forgotten him!

‘Oh—you agine?’ he blinked.

‘Yes, me agine,’ answered the young man. ‘Have you got your discharge?’

‘Eh? Yus.’

‘Splendid! Then let’s be getting along!’

Ben stared at the young man, incredulously. So it wasn’t a catch, after all?

‘Yer mean—that job?’ he asked.

‘Course,’ nodded the young man. ‘What did you take me for? I’m the sort that sticks to my word, I am. Step lively.’

He seemed in a hurry to be off. In such a hurry, in fact, that he suddenly seized Ben’s arm, and began trundling him away.

‘Oi! Are we goin’ in fer a air record or somethink?’ demanded Ben.

‘We’ve got to find a shop before it closes, haven’t we?’ replied the young man. ‘No, no! Not that way—this way!’

He swung Ben round a corner, and then round another corner. Ben began to gasp. Then a taxi loomed before them and Ben found himself shooting in. The door slammed. The taxi began to move.

‘Wot’s orl this?’ panted Ben.

‘I’m a hustler,’ admitted the young man, ‘when there’s a reason.’

‘Yus, but wot’s the reason?’

The young man considered for a moment, then gave a reason.

‘If we hadn’t hurried, we’d have missed this taxi,’ he explained, ‘and if we’d missed this taxi we might have missed our shop.’

‘Wot shop?’

‘Where’s your memory, man? I’m getting you a new cap, aren’t I? And now suppose we stop talking, and try thinking? Thinking’s so much more restful, isn’t it?’

Ben subsided. Thinking was certainly more restful. The only trouble was, one didn’t know quite what to think. The taxi made its way inland, and soon the docks were well in their rear. Narrow streets widened. The sense of ships grew less. Shops replaced blank brick walls, and chimneys funnels.

‘Oi!’ cried Ben, suddenly. ‘There’s ’ats!’

‘Eh?’ exclaimed his companion, jerked out of a reverie.

‘’Ats,’ repeated Ben. ‘’At shop. ’Ats.’

The young man called to the driver to stop, and the taxi drew up by the curb.

‘Wait here,’ instructed the young man.

‘Wot, ain’t I goin’ in with yer?’ answered Ben.

‘Wait here!’ repeated the young man.

‘Corse, the size don’t matter!’ observed Ben.

Apparently it didn’t. The young man was already out of the taxi.

‘Orl right, ’ave it yer own way,’ muttered Ben, ‘but ’ow’s ’e goin’ ter know if me ’ead’s like a pea or a hefelant?’

He closed his eyes. An instant later he opened them again. The young man was back beside him.

‘Well, I’m blowed!’ said Ben. ‘That was quick! Did ’e see yer comin’ and toss yer one aht of the shop?’

‘Don’t be an ass!’ retorted the young man. ‘They were no good—didn’t like the look of them.’

‘Wot! Yer mean, yer went in?’ exclaimed Ben. ‘In that cupple o’ blinks?’

‘Shops have windows, haven’t they?’ growled the young man. ‘Shut up!’

The taxi moved on. Ben noticed that the young man’s forehead was dripping.

If you had found yourself in Ben’s position, you would very soon have ended it. You would not have submitted to the will of a strange young man who, however fair his promises, lugged you rapidly round corners, thrust you into a taxi-cab, invested the simple operation of buying a cap with queer significance, and burst, for no apparent reason, into sudden perspiration. You would have required some explanation of these things, or you would have contrived some means of leaving him.

But, after all, you could not have found yourself in Ben’s position. As Ben himself would have told you, ‘The kind o’ persishuns I gits in ain’t mide fer nobody helse!’ And in this argument lies the reason of Ben’s inactivity.

Things always happened to him. They always had, and they always would. If you tried to stop one thing, you’d only walk into another, so why waste energy? And, so far, Ben’s present position was mild compared with others that lay behind him, and others that lay ahead of him.

Wherefore he did not comment upon his companion’s perspiration. He did not comment upon the speed with which they drove away from the hat-shop (the driver had clearly received an instruction to hurry), or upon the number of other hat-shops that were passed without pausing. And when, at last, the taxi made its second halt, he did not protest on receiving, once more, the injunction to stay where he was while fresh headgear was being obtained.

‘I ain’t payin’ fer the cap,’ he reflected, philosophically, ‘so if I looks like a pea-nut hunder it, it ain’t fer me ter compline!’

But he did wonder, when he saw the young man emerge from the shop with a small parcel, why the young man did not return immediately to the taxi-cab.

‘’E was in a ’urry afore,’ thought Ben, as the young man walked leisurely round a corner, ‘but time don’t seem nothink ter ’im now!’

A minute went by. Two. Three. An unpleasant theory began to develop in Ben’s brain. Was this the catch? Had the young man gone off, leaving Ben to pay the fare?

Apparently this theory was being developed also on the driver’s seat. The taximan descended, and poked his head through the window.

‘Where’s he gone?’ inquired the taximan.

‘I dunno,’ replied Ben.

‘But you’re with him,’ objected the taximan.

‘Then ’e carn’t be gorn,’ Ben pointed out.

This was beyond the taximan, who returned with a grunt to his seat. But after another three minutes had gone by, he descended again, and once more poked his head through the window.

‘I suppose he is coming back?’ he frowned.

‘I s’pose ’e is,’ replied Ben.

‘Suppose he don’t?’ said the taximan.

‘Then ’e won’t,’ answered Ben.

The taximan’s frown grew, and focused itself directly on Ben.

‘I’m going to get my fare,’ he declared, with a hint of a threat.

‘That’s orl right,’ nodded Ben. ‘I’ll sendjer a cheque.’

During the next three minutes the young man returned, and a crisis was averted. He gave an instruction to the driver, entered the taxi, and the journey was resumed.