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The Wrong Box-Part26_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON(1850-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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truck ready in the studio. I'll go.'



About twenty minutes after two, on this eventful day, the vast

and gloomy shed of Waterloo lay, like the temple of a dead



religion, silent and deserted. Here and there at one of the

platforms, a train lay becalmed; here and there a wandering



footfall echoed; the cab-horses outside stamped with startling

reverberations on the stones; or from the neighbouring wilderness



of railway an engine snorted forth a whistle. The main-line

departureplatform slumbered like the rest; the booking-hutches



closed; the backs of Mr Haggard's novels, with which upon a

weekday the bookstall shines emblazoned, discreetly hidden behind



dingy shutters; the rare officials, undisguisedly somnambulant;

and the customary loiterers, even to the middle-aged woman with



the ulster and the handbag, fled to more congenial scenes. As in

the inmost dells of some small tropic island the throbbing of the



ocean lingers, so here a faint pervading hum and trepidation told

in every corner of surrounding London.



At the hour already named, persons acquainted with John Dickson,

of Ballarat, and Ezra Thomas, of the United States of America,



would have been cheered to behold them enter through the

booking-office.



'What names are we to take?' enquired the latter, anxiously

adjusting the window-glass spectacles which he had been suffered



on this occasion to assume.

'There's no choice for you, my boy,' returned Michael. 'Bent



Pitman or nothing. As for me, I think I look as if I might be

called Appleby; something agreeably old-world about



Appleby--breathes of Devonshire cider. Talking of which, suppose

you wet your whistle? the interview is likely to be trying.'



'I think I'll wait till afterwards,' returned Pitman; 'on the

whole, I think I'll wait till the thing's over. I don't know if



it strikes you as it does me; but the place seems deserted and

silent, Mr Finsbury, and filled with very singular echoes.'



'Kind of Jack-in-the-box feeling?' enquired Michael, 'as if all

these empty trains might be filled with policemen waiting for a



signal? and Sir Charles Warren perched among the girders with a

silver whistle to his lips? It's guilt, Pitman.'



In this uneasy frame of mind they walked nearly the whole length

of the departureplatform, and at the westernextremity became



aware of a slender figure standing back against a pillar. The

figure was plainly sunk into a deep abstraction; he was not aware



of their approach, but gazed far abroad over the sunlit station.

Michael stopped.



'Holloa!' said he, 'can that be your advertiser? If so, I'm done

with it.' And then, on second thoughts: 'Not so, either,' he



resumed more cheerfully. 'Here, turn your back a moment. So. Give

me the specs.'



'But you agreed I was to have them,' protested Pitman.

'Ah, but that man knows me,' said Michael.



'Does he? what's his name?' cried Pitman.

'O, he took me into his confidence,' returned the lawyer. 'But I



may say one thing: if he's your advertiser (and he may be, for he

seems to have been seized with criminal lunacy) you can go ahead



with a clear conscience, for I hold him in the hollow of my

hand.'



The change effected, and Pitman comforted with this good news,

the pair drew near to Morris.



'Are you looking for Mr William Bent Pitman?' enquired the

drawing-master. 'I am he.'



Morris raised his head. He saw before him, in the speaker, a

person of almost indescribable insignificance, in white spats and



a shirt cut indecently low. A little behind, a second and more

burly figure offered little to criticism, except ulster,



whiskers, spectacles, and deerstalker hat. Since he had decided

to call up devils from the underworld of London, Morris had



pondered deeply on the probabilities of their appearance. His

first emotion, like that of Charoba when she beheld the sea, was



one of disappointment; his second did more justice to the case.

Never before had he seen a couple dressed like these; he had



struck a new stratum.

'I must speak with you alone,' said he.



'You need not mind Mr Appleby,' returned Pitman. 'He knows all.'

'All? Do you know what I am here to speak of?' enquired Morris--.



'The barrel.'




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