DUSK
Saki (H. H. Munro)
NORMAN GORTSBY sat on a bench in the Park, with his back to a strip of bush-planted sward, fenced by the park
railings, and the Row fronting him across a wide stretch of carriage drive. Hyde Park Corner, with its rattle and
hoot of traffic, lay immediately to his right. It was some thirty minutes past six on an early March evening, and
dusk had fallen heavily over the scene, dusk mitigated by some faint moonlight and many street lamps. There was
a wide emptiness over road and sidewalk, and yet there were many unconsidered figures moving silently through the
half-light, or dotted unobtrusively on bench and chair, scarcely to be distinguished from the shadowed gloom in
which they sat.
The scene pleased Gortsby and harmonised with his present mood. Dusk, to his mind, was the hour of the defeated.
Men and women, who had fought and lost, who hid their fallen fortunes and dead hopes as far as possible from the
scrutiny of the curious, came forth in this hour of gloaming, when their shabby clothes and bowed shoulders and
unhappy eyes might pass unnoticed, or, at any rate, unrecognised.
A king that is conquered must see strange looks,
So bitter a thing is the heart of man.
The wanderers in the dusk did not choose to have strange looks fasten on them, therefore they came out in this
bat-fashion, taking their pleasure sadly in a pleasure-ground that had emptied of its rightful occupants. Beyond
the sheltering screen of bushes and palings came a realm of brilliant lights and noisy, rushing traffic. A blazing,
many-tiered stretch of windows shone through the dusk and almost dispersed it, marking the haunts of those other
people, who held their own in life's struggle, or at any rate had not had to admit failure. So Gortsby's imagination
pictured things as he sat on his bench in the almost deserted walk. He was in the mood to count himself among the
defeated. Money troubles did not press on him; had he so wished he could have strolled into the thoroughfares of
light and noise, and taken his place among the jostling ranks of those who enjoyed prosperity or struggled for
it. He had failed in a more subtle ambition, and for the moment he was heartsore and disillusionised, and not disinclined
to take a certain cynical pleasure in observing and labelling his fellow wanderers as they went their ways in the
dark stretches between the lamp-lights.
On the bench by his side sat an elderly gentleman with a drooping air of defiance that was probably the remaining
vestige of self-respect in an individual who had ceased to defy successfully anybody or anything. His clothes could
scarcely be called shabby, at least they passed muster in the half-light, but one's imagination could not have
pictured the wearer embarking on the purchase of a half-crown box of chocolates or laying out ninepence on a carnation
buttonhole. He belonged unmistakably to that forlorn orchestra to whose piping no one dances; he was one of the
world's lamenters who induce no responsive weeping. As he rose to go Gortsby imagined him returning to a home circle
where he was snubbed and of no account, or to some bleak lodging where his ability to pay a weekly bill was the
beginning and end of the interest he inspired. His retreating figure vanished slowly into the shadows, and his
place on the bench was taken almost immediately by a young man, fairly well dressed but scarcely more cheerful
of mien than his predecessor. As if to emphasise the fact that the world went badly with him the new-corner unburdened
himself of an angry and very audible expletive as he flung himself into the seat.
"You don't seem in a very good temper," said Gortsby, judging that he was expected to take due notice
of the demonstration.
The young man turned to him with a look of disarming frankness which put him instantly on his guard.
"You wouldn't be in a good temper if you were in the fix I'm in," he said; "I've done the silliest
thing I've ever done in my life."
"Yes?" said Gortsby dispassionately.
"Came up this afternoon, meaning to stay at the Patagonian Hotel in Berkshire Square," continued the
young man; "when I got there I found it had been pulled down some weeks ago and a cinema theatre run up on
the site. The taxi driver recommended me to another hotel some way off and I went there. I just sent a letter to
my people, giving them the address, and then I went out to buy some soap - I'd forgotten to pack any and I hate
using hotel soap. Then I strolled about a bit, had a drink at a bar and looked at the shops, and when I came to
turn my steps back to the hotel I suddenly realised that I didn't remember its name or even what street it was
in. There's a nice predicament for a fellow who hasn't any friends or connections in London! Of course I can wire
to my people for the address, but they won't have got my letter till to-morrow; meantime I'm without any money,
came out with about a shilling on me, which went in buying the soap and getting the drink, and here I am, wandering
about with twopence in my pocket and nowhere to go for the night."
There was an eloquent pause after the story had been told. "I suppose you think I've spun you rather an impossible
yarn," said the young man presently,with a suggestion of resentment in his voice.
"Not at all impossible," said Gortsby judicially; "I remember doing exactly the same thing once
in a foreign capital, and on that occasion there were two of us, which made it more remarkable. Luckily we remembered
that the hotel was on a sort of canal, and when we struck the canal we were able to find our way back to the hotel."
The youth brightened at the reminiscence. "In a foreign city I wouldn't mind so much," he said; "one
could go to one's Consul and get the requisite help from him. Here in one's own land one is far more derelict if
one gets into a fix. Unless I can find some decent chap to swallow my story and lend me some money I seem likely
to spend the night on the Embankment. I'm glad, anyhow, that you don't think the story outrageously improbable."
He threw a good deal of warmth into the last remark, as though perhaps to indicate his hope that Gortsby did not
fall far short of the requisite decency.
"Of course," said Gortsby slowly, "the weak point of your story is that you can't produce the soap."
The young man sat forward hurriedly, felt rapidly in the pockets of his overcoat, and then jumped to his feet.
"I must have lost it," he muttered angrily.
"To lose an hotel and a cake of soap on one afternoon suggests wilful carelessness," said Gortsby, but
the young man scarcely waited to hear the end of the remark. He flitted away down the path, his head held high,
with an air of somewhat jaded jauntiness.
"It was a pity," mused Gortsby; "the going out to get one's own soap was the one convincing touch
in the whole story, and yet it was just that little detail that brought him to grief. If he had had the brilliant
forethought to provide himself with a cake of soap, wrapped and sealed with all the solicitude of the chemist's
counter, he would have been a genius in his particular line. In his particular line genius certainly consists of
an infinite capacity for taking precautions."
With that reflection Gortsby rose to go; as he did so an exclamation of concern escaped him. Lying on the ground
by the side of the bench was a small oval packet, wrapped and sealed with the solicitude of a chemist's counter.
It could be nothing else but a cake of soap, and it had evidently fallen out of the youth's overcoat pocket when
he flung himself down on the seat. In another moment Gortsby was scudding along the dusk-shrouded path in anxious
quest for a youthful figure in a light overcoat. He had nearly given up the search when he caught sight of the
object of his pursuit standing irresolutely on the border of the carriage drive, evidently uncertain whether to
strike across the Park or make for the bustling pavements of Knightsbridge. He turned round sharply with an air
of defensive hostility when he found Gortsby hailing him.
"The important witness to the genuineness of your story has turned up," said Gortsby, holding out the
cake of soap; "it must have slid out of your overcoat pocket when you sat down on the seat. I saw it on the
ground after you left. You must excuse my disbelief, but appearances were really rather against you, and now, as
I appealed to the testimony of the soap I think I ought to abide by its verdict. If the loan of a sovereign is
any good to you - "
The young man hastily removed all doubt on the subject by pocketing the coin.
"Here is my card with my address," continued Gortsby; "any day this week will do for returning the
money, and here is the soap - don't lose it again it's been a good friend to you."
"Lucky thing your finding it," said the youth, and then, with a catch in his voice, he blurted out a
word or two of thanks and fled headlong in the direction of Knightsbridge.
"Poor boy, he as nearly as possible broke down," said Gortsby to himself. "I don't wonder either;
the relief from his quandary must have been acute. It's a lesson to me not to be too clever in judging by circumstances."
As Gortsby retraced his steps past the seat where the little drama had taken place he saw an elderly gentleman
poking and peering beneath it and on all sides of it, and recognised his earlier fellow occupant.
"Have you lost anything, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, a cake of soap."
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