[adapted]

by Saki
(H. H. Munro)

Norman Gortsby sat on a bench in the Park, with his back to a strip of grass with bushes, fenced by the park railings, and the Row in front of him across a wide stretch of carriage road. Hyde Park Corner, with its noise and honk of traffic, was just to his right. It was about thirty minutes past six on an early March evening, and dusk had fallen deeply over the scene, the dusk made less by some weak moonlight and many street lamps. There was a great emptiness over road and sidewalk, and yet there were many unnoticed people moving silently through the dim light, or sitting quietly here and there on bench and chair, hardly to be told apart from the darkness in which they sat.

The scene pleased Gortsby and matched his present mood. Dusk, to him, was the hour of those who had lost. Men and women, who had fought and lost, who hid their lost money and lost hopes as far as possible from the eyes of curious people, came out in this hour of dusk, when their old clothes and bent shoulders and unhappy eyes might not be noticed, or, at least, not recognised.

A king that is defeated must see strange looks,
The heart of man is so bitter.

The walkers in the evening did not want people to stare at them, so they came out like bats, enjoying themselves sadly in a park that had emptied of its usual people. Beyond the sheltering screen of bushes and fences came an area of bright lights and noisy, fast traffic. A very bright, many-floored line of windows shone through the evening and almost drove it away, showing the places of those other people, who did well in life’s struggle, or at least had not had to say they had failed. So Gortsby’s mind pictured things as he sat on his bench in the almost empty path. He was in the mood to think of himself as one of those who had lost. Money problems did not trouble him; if he had wanted he could have walked into the main streets of light and noise, and taken his place among the crowded groups of those who enjoyed success or fought for it. He had failed in a quieter dream, and for the moment he was very sad and disappointed, and willing to take a kind of bitter pleasure in watching and judging the other walkers as they went on their way in the dark parts between the street lights.

On the bench by his side sat an old man with a tired look of defiance that was probably the last bit of self-respect in a man who had stopped being able to stand up to anyone or anything. His clothes could hardly be called shabby, at least they looked good enough in the dim light, but you could not imagine the wearer buying a half-crown box of chocolates or spending ninepence on a carnation for his buttonhole. He clearly belonged to that sad orchestra whose music no one dances to; he was one of the world’s complainers who make no one else cry. As he rose to go Gortsby imagined him returning to a family at home where he was ignored and not important, or to some dreary lodging where being able to pay a weekly bill was the only thing anyone cared about in him. His figure as he went away slowly faded into the shadows, and his place on the bench was taken almost at once by a young man, fairly well dressed but hardly more cheerful in look than the man before him. As if to show that things were going badly for him the newcomer let out a loud angry swear word as he threw himself into the seat.

“You don’t seem in a very good mood,” said Gortsby, thinking that he was expected to pay attention to the show.

The young man turned to him with a look of very open honesty which made him careful at once.

“You wouldn’t be in a good mood if you were in the trouble I’m in,” he said; “I’ve done the silliest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

“Yes?” said Gortsby calmly.

“Came up this afternoon, planning 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 was built on the site. The taxi driver suggested another hotel a bit far away and I went there. I just sent a letter to my family, 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 walked around a bit, had a drink at a bar and looked at the shops, and when I went to go back to the hotel I suddenly realized that I didn’t remember its name or even what street it was in. There’s a nice problem for a man who hasn’t any friends or contacts in London! Of course I can send a telegram to my family for the address, but they won’t get my letter until to-morrow; in the meantime I’m without any money, I went out with about a shilling on me, which I spent on buying the soap and buying the drink, and here I am, wandering about with two pence in my pocket and nowhere to go for the night.”

There was a long pause after the story was told. “I suppose you think I have told you quite an impossible story,” said the young man after a moment, with a little anger in his voice.

“Not impossible at all,” said Gortsby seriously; “I remember doing exactly the same thing once in a capital city in another country, and that time there were two of us, which made it more surprising. Luckily we remembered that the hotel was on a kind of canal, and when we reached the canal we were able to find our way back to the hotel.”

The young man cheered up at the memory. “In a foreign city I wouldn’t mind so much,” he said; “one could go to one’s Consul and get the help needed from him. Here in one’s own land one is far more helpless if one gets into trouble. Unless I can find some decent man to believe my story and lend me some money I seem likely to spend the night on the Embankment. I’m glad, anyway, that you don’t think the story very unlikely.”

He put a lot of warmth into the last comment, as if maybe to show his hope that Gortsby was not far below the needed good manners.

“Of course,” said Gortsby slowly, “the problem with your story is that you can’t show the soap.”

The young man leaned forward quickly, quickly felt in the pockets of his coat, and then stood up quickly.

“I must have lost it,” he said angrily.

“To lose a hotel and a bar of soap on one afternoon shows that you were careless on purpose,” said Gortsby, but the young man hardly waited to hear the end of the comment. He went away quickly down the path, his head held high, with a look that was a bit tired but cheerful.

“It was a shame,” thought Gortsby; “going out to buy his own soap was the one thing that made the whole story seem true, and yet it was just that little detail that made him fail. If he had had the bright idea to get himself a bar of soap, wrapped and sealed with all the care of the pharmacy counter, he would have been very clever in his special line of work. In his special line of work, being very clever certainly means having an endless ability to be careful.”

With that thought Gortsby stood up to go; as he did so a cry of worry came from him. Lying on the ground by the side of the bench was a small oval packet, wrapped and sealed with the care of a chemist’s shop counter. It could be nothing else but a cake of soap, and it had clearly fallen out of the young man’s overcoat pocket when he threw himself down on the seat. In another moment Gortsby was hurrying along the dusk-covered path in worried search for a young figure in a light overcoat. He had nearly given up the search when he saw the person he was looking for standing uncertainly on the edge of the carriage road, clearly unsure whether to go across the Park or head for the busy sidewalks of Knightsbridge. He turned round sharply with a look of defensive anger when he found Gortsby calling to him.

“The important witness to the truth of your story has turned up,” said Gortsby, holding out the bar of soap; “it must have slid out of your coat pocket when you sat down on the seat. I saw it on the ground after you left. Please excuse my not believing you, but appearances were really rather against you, and now, since I asked the soap to be a witness I think I should accept its decision. If the loan of a pound is any good to you — ”

The young man quickly ended all doubt about it by putting the coin in his pocket.

“Here is my card with my address,” said Gortsby; “any day this week is fine for returning the money, and here is the soap — don’t lose it again, it has been a help to you.”

“Lucky thing your finding it,” said the youth, and then, with a shake in his voice, he quickly said a word or two of thanks and ran as fast as he could towards Knightsbridge.

“Poor boy, he almost broke down,” said Gortsby to himself. “I am not surprised either; the relief from his problem must have been very strong. It’s a lesson to me not to be too clever in judging by the situation.”

As Gortsby walked back the same way past the seat where the small scene had happened he saw an old man looking and searching under it and on all sides of it, and knew the person who had sat there with him earlier.

“Have you lost anything, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, a bar of soap.”