



Produced by Ron Burkey, and Amy Thomte





PASSING OF THE THIRD FLOOR BACK

By Jerome K. Jerome


Author of "Paul Kelver," "Three Men in a Boat," etc., etc.

New York

Dodd, Mead & Company

1909


Copyright, 1904, By Jerome K. Jerome

Copyright, 1908, By Dodd, Mead & Company

Published, September, 1908



The neighbourhood of Bloomsbury Square towards four o'clock of a
November afternoon is not so crowded as to secure to the stranger, of
appearance anything out of the common, immunity from observation. Tibb's
boy, screaming at the top of his voice that _she_ was his honey, stopped
suddenly, stepped backwards on to the toes of a voluble young lady
wheeling a perambulator, and remained deaf, apparently, to the somewhat
personal remarks of the voluble young lady. Not until he had reached
the next corner--and then more as a soliloquy than as information to the
street--did Tibb's boy recover sufficient interest in his own affairs to
remark that _he_ was her bee. The voluble young lady herself, following
some half-a-dozen yards behind, forgot her wrongs in contemplation
of the stranger's back. There was this that was peculiar about the
stranger's back: that instead of being flat it presented a decided
curve. "It ain't a 'ump, and it don't look like kervitcher of the
spine," observed the voluble young lady to herself. "Blimy if I don't
believe 'e's taking 'ome 'is washing up his back."

The constable at the corner, trying to seem busy doing nothing, noticed
the stranger's approach with gathering interest. "That's an odd sort of
a walk of yours, young man," thought the constable. "You take care you
don't fall down and tumble over yourself."

"Thought he was a young man," murmured the constable, the stranger
having passed him. "He had a young face right enough."

The daylight was fading. The stranger, finding it impossible to read the
name of the street upon the corner house, turned back.

"Why, 'tis a young man," the constable told himself; "a mere boy."

"I beg your pardon," said the stranger; "but would you mind telling me
my way to Bloomsbury Square."

"This is Bloomsbury Square," explained the constable; "leastways round
the corner is. What number might you be wanting?"

The stranger took from the ticket pocket of his tightly buttoned
overcoat a piece of paper, unfolded it and read it out: "Mrs.
Pennycherry. Number Forty-eight."

"Round to the left," instructed him the constable; "fourth house. Been
recommended there?"

"By--by a friend," replied the stranger. "Thank you very much."

"Ah," muttered the constable to himself; "guess you won't be calling him
that by the end of the week, young--"

"Funny," added the constable, gazing after the retreating figure of the
stranger. "Seen plenty of the other sex as looked young behind and old
in front. This cove looks young in front and old behind. Guess he'll
look old all round if he stops long at mother Pennycherry's: stingy old
cat."

Constables whose beat included Bloomsbury Square had their reasons for
not liking Mrs. Pennycherry. Indeed it might have been difficult to
discover any human being with reasons for liking that sharp-featured
lady. Maybe the keeping of second-rate boarding houses in the
neighbourhood of Bloomsbury does not tend to develop the virtues of
generosity and amiability.

Meanwhile the stranger, proceeding upon his way, had rung the bell of
Number Forty-eight. Mrs. Pennycherry, peeping from the area and catching
a glimpse, above the railings, of a handsome if somewhat effeminate
masculine face, hastened to readjust her widow's cap before the
looking-glass while directing Mary Jane to show the stranger, should he
prove a problematical boarder, into the dining-room, and to light the
gas.

"And don't stop gossiping, and don't you take it upon yourself to answer
questions. Say I'll be up in a minute," were Mrs. Pennycherry's further
instructions, "and mind you hide your hands as much as you can."

***

"What are you grinning at?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry, a