The Omnibus

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

　　It was not so much a day as a burning, fiery furnace. The roar ofLondon's traffic reverberated under a sky of coppery blue; thepavements threw out waves of heat, thickened with the reek ofrestaurants and perfumery shops; and dust became cinders, and thewearing of flesh a weariness. Streams of sweat ran from the belliesof 'bus-horses when they halted. Men went up and down withunbuttoned waistcoats, turned into drinking-bars, and were no soonerinside than they longed to be out again, and baking in an ampleroven. Other men, who had given up drinking because of the expense,hung about the fountains in Trafalgar Square and listened to thesplash of running water. It was the time when London is supposed tobe empty; and when those who remain in town feel there is not roomfor a soul more.We were eleven inside the omnibus when it pulled up at Charing Cross,so that legally there was room for just one more. I had travelledenough in omnibuses to know my fellow-passengers by heart--a governess with some sheets of music in her satchel; a minor actressgoing to rehearsal; a woman carrying her incurable complaint for thehundredth time to the hospital; three middle-aged city clerks; acouple of reporters with weak eyes and low collars; an oldloose-cheeked woman exhaling patchouli; a bald-headed man with hairyhands, a violent breast-pin, and the indescribable air of amatrimonial agent. Not a word passed. We were all failures in life,and could not trouble to dissemble it, in that heat. Moreover, wewere used to each other, as types if not as persons, and had lostcuriosity. So we sat listless, dispirited, drawing difficult breathand staring vacuously. The hope we shared in common--that nobodywould claim the vacant seat--was too obvious to be discussed.But at Charing Cross the twelfth passenger got in--a boy with astick, and a bundle in a blue handkerchief. He was about thirteen;bound for the docks, we could tell at a glance, to sail on his firstvoyage; and, by the way he looked about, we could tell as easily thatin stepping outside Charing Cross Station he had set foot on Londonstones for the first time. When we pulled up, he was standing on theopposite pavement with dazed eyes like a hare's, wondering at the newworld--the hansoms, the yelling news-boys, the flower-women, thecrowd pushing him this way and that, the ugly shop-fronts, the hurryand stink and din of it all. Then, hailing our 'bus, he started torun across--faltered--almost dropped his bundle--was snatched by ourconductor out of the path of a running hansom, and hauled on board.His eyelids were pink and swollen; but he was not crying, though hewanted to. Instead, he took a great gulp, as he pushed between ourknees to his seat, and tried to look brave as a lion.The passengers turned an incurious, half-resentful stare upon him,and then repented. I think that more than one of us wanted to speak,but dared not.It was not so much the little chap's look. But to the knot of hissea-kit there was tied a bunch of cottage-flowers--sweet williams,boy's love, love-lies-bleeding, a few common striped carnations, anda rose or two--and the sight and smell of them in that frowsy 'buswere like tears on thirsty eyelids. We had ceased to pity what wewere, but the heart is far withered that cannot pity what it hasbeen; and it made us shudder to look on the young face set towardsthe road along which we had travelled so far. Only the minor actressdropped a tear; but she was used to expressing emotion, and half-waydown the Strand the 'bus stopped and she left us.The woman with an incurable complaint touched me on the knee."Speak to him," she whispered.But the whisper did not reach, for I was two hundred miles away, andoccupied in starting off to school for the first time. I had twoshillings in my pocket; and at the first town where the coach baitedI was to exchange these for a coco-nut and a clasp-knife. Also, Iwas to break the knife in opening the nut, and the nut, when opened,would be sour. A sense of coming evil, therefore, possessed me."Why don't you speak to him?"The boy glanced up, not catching her words, but suspicious: thenfrowned and looked defiant."Ah," she went on in the same whisper, "it's only the young that Ipity. Sometimes, sir--for my illness keeps me much awake--I lie atnight in my lodgings and listen, and the whole of London seems filledwith the sound of children's feet running. Even by day I can hearthem, at the back of the uproar--"The matrimonial agent grunted and rose, as we halted at the top ofEssex Street. I saw him slip a couple of half-crowns into theconductor's hand: and he whispered something, jerking his head backtowards the interior of the 'bus. The boy was brushing his eyes,under pretence of putting his cap forward; and by the time he stole alook around to see if anyone had observed, we had started again.I pretended to stare out of the window, but marked the wet smear onhis hand as he laid it on his lap.In less than a minute it was my turn to alight. Unlike thematrimonial agent, I had not two half-crowns to spare; but, catchingthe sick woman's eye, forced up courage to nod and say--"Good luck, my boy.""Good day, sir."A moment after I was in the hot crowd, whose roar rolled east andwest for miles. And at the back of it, as the woman had said, instreet and side-lane and blind-alley, I heard the footfall of amultitude more terrible than an army with banners, the ceaselesspelting feet of children--of Whittingtons turning and turning again.

　　THE END.