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- Джон Джон Бакен
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- Стр. 13/83
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I
crossed
the
street
,
whistling
gaily
and
imitating
the
jaunty
swing
of
the
milkman
.
Then
I
took
the
first
side
street
,
and
went
up
a
left-hand
turning
which
led
past
a
bit
of
vacant
ground
.
There
was
no
one
in
the
little
street
,
so
I
dropped
the
milk-cans
inside
the
hoarding
and
sent
the
cap
and
overall
after
them
.
I
had
only
just
put
on
my
cloth
cap
when
a
postman
came
round
the
corner
.
I
gave
him
good
morning
and
he
answered
me
unsuspiciously
.
At
the
moment
the
clock
of
a
neighbouring
church
struck
the
hour
of
seven
.
There
was
not
a
second
to
spare
.
As
soon
as
I
got
to
Euston
Road
I
took
to
my
heels
and
ran
.
The
clock
at
Euston
Station
showed
five
minutes
past
the
hour
.
At
St
Pancras
I
had
no
time
to
take
a
ticket
,
let
alone
that
I
had
not
settled
upon
my
destination
.
A
porter
told
me
the
platform
,
and
as
I
entered
it
I
saw
the
train
already
in
motion
.
Two
station
officials
blocked
the
way
,
but
I
dodged
them
and
clambered
into
the
last
carriage
.
Three
minutes
later
,
as
we
were
roaring
through
the
northern
tunnels
,
an
irate
guard
interviewed
me
.
He
wrote
out
for
me
a
ticket
to
Newton-Stewart
,
a
name
which
had
suddenly
come
back
to
my
memory
,
and
he
conducted
me
from
the
first-class
compartment
where
I
had
ensconced
myself
to
a
third-class
smoker
,
occupied
by
a
sailor
and
a
stout
woman
with
a
child
He
went
off
grumbling
,
and
as
I
mopped
my
brow
I
observed
to
my
companions
in
my
broadest
Scots
that
it
was
a
sore
job
catching
trains
.
I
had
already
entered
upon
my
part
.
"
The
impidence
o
'
that
gyaird
!
"
said
the
lady
bitterly
.
"
He
needit
a
Scotch
tongue
to
pit
him
in
his
place
.
He
was
complainin
'
o
'
this
wean
no
haein
'
a
ticket
and
her
no
fower
till
August
twalmonth
,
and
he
was
objectin
'
to
this
gentleman
spittin
'
.
"
The
sailor
morosely
agreed
,
and
I
started
my
new
life
in
an
atmosphere
of
protest
against
authority
.
I
reminded
myself
that
a
week
ago
I
had
been
finding
the
world
dull
.
I
had
a
solemn
time
travelling
north
that
day
.
It
was
fine
May
weather
,
with
the
hawthorn
flowering
on
every
hedge
,
and
I
asked
myself
why
,
when
I
was
still
a
free
man
,
I
had
stayed
on
in
London
and
not
got
the
good
of
this
heavenly
country
.
I
did
n't
dare
face
the
restaurant
car
,
but
I
got
a
luncheon-basket
at
Leeds
and
shared
it
with
the
fat
woman
.
Also
I
got
the
morning
's
papers
,
with
news
about
starters
for
the
Derby
and
the
beginning
of
the
cricket
season
,
and
some
paragraphs
about
how
Balkan
affairs
were
settling
down
and
a
British
squadron
was
going
to
Kiel
.
When
I
had
done
with
them
I
got
out
Scudder
's
little
black
pocket-book
and
studied
it
.
It
was
pretty
well
filled
with
jottings
,
chiefly
figures
,
though
now
and
then
a
name
was
printed
in
.
For
example
,
I
found
the
words
"
Hofgaard
"
,
"
Luneville
"
,
and
"
Avocado
"
pretty
often
,
and
especially
the
word
"
Pavia
"
.
Now
I
was
certain
that
Scudder
never
did
anything
without
a
reason
,
and
I
was
pretty
sure
that
there
was
a
cypher
in
all
this
.
That
is
a
subject
which
has
always
interested
me
,
and
I
did
a
bit
at
it
myself
once
as
intelligence
officer
at
Delagoa
Bay
during
the
Boer
War
.
I
have
a
head
for
things
like
chess
and
puzzles
,
and
I
used
to
reckon
myself
pretty
good
at
finding
out
cyphers
.
This
one
looked
like
the
numerical
kind
where
sets
of
figures
correspond
to
the
letters
of
the
alphabet
,
but
any
fairly
shrewd
man
can
find
the
clue
to
that
sort
after
an
hour
or
two
's
work
,
and
I
did
n't
think
Scudder
would
have
been
content
with
anything
so
easy
.
So
I
fastened
on
the
printed
words
,
for
you
can
make
a
pretty
good
numerical
cypher
if
you
have
a
key
word
which
gives
you
the
sequence
of
the
letters
.
