



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 couple of
minutes later, of the dingy Mary Jane.

"Wasn't grinning," explained the meek Mary Jane, "was only smiling to
myself."

"What at?"

"Dunno," admitted Mary Jane. But still she went on smiling.

"What's he like then?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry.

"'E ain't the usual sort," was Mary Jane's opinion.

"Thank God for that," ejaculated Mrs. Pennycherry piously.

"Says 'e's been recommended, by a friend."

"By whom?"

"By a friend. 'E didn't say no name." Mrs. Pennycherry pondered. "He's
not the funny sort, is he?"

Not that sort at all. Mary Jane was sure of it.

Mrs. Pennycherry ascended the stairs still pondering. As she entered the
room the stranger rose and bowed. Nothing could have been simpler than
the stranger's bow, yet there came with it to Mrs. Pennycherry a rush of
old sensations long forgotten. For one brief moment Mrs. Pennycherry saw
herself an amiable well-bred lady, widow of a solicitor: a visitor
had called to see her. It was but a momentary fancy. The next instant
Reality reasserted itself. Mrs. Pennycherry, a lodging-house keeper,
existing precariously upon a daily round of petty meannesses, was
prepared for contest with a possible new boarder, who fortunately looked
an inexperienced young gentleman.

"Someone has recommended me to you," began Mrs. Pennycherry; "may I ask
who?"

But the stranger waved the question aside as immaterial.

"You might not remember--him," he smiled. "He thought that I should do
well to pass the few months I am given--that I have to be in London,
here. You can take me in?"

Mrs. Pennycherry thought that she would be able to take the stranger in.

"A room to sleep in," explained the stranger, "--any room will do--with
food and drink sufficient for a man, is all that I require."

"For breakfast," began Mrs. Pennycherry, "I always give--"

"What is right and proper, I am convinced," interrupted the stranger.
"Pray do not trouble to go into detail, Mrs. Pennycherry. With whatever
it is I shall be content."

Mrs. Pennycherry, puzzled, shot a quick glance at the stranger, but his
face, though the gentle eyes were smiling, was frank and serious.

"At all events you will see the room," suggested Mrs. Pennycherry,
"before we discuss terms."

"Certainly," agreed the stranger. "I am a little tired and shall be glad
to rest there."

Mrs. Pennycherry led the way upward; on the landing of the third floor,
paused a moment undecided, then opened the door of the back bedroom.

"It is very comfortable," commented the stranger.

"For this room," stated Mrs. Pennycherry, "together with full board,
consisting of--"

"Of everything needful. It goes without saying," again interrupted the
stranger with his quiet grave smile.

"I have generally asked," continued Mrs. Pennycherry, "four pounds a
week. To you--" Mrs. Pennycherry's voice, unknown to her, took to itself
the note of aggressive generosity--"seeing you have been recommended
here, say three pounds ten."

"Dear lady," said the stranger, "that is kind of you. As you have
divined, I am not a rich man. If it be not imposing upon you I accept
your reduction with gratitude."

Again Mrs. Pennycherry, familiar with the satirical method, shot a
suspicious glance upon the stranger, but not a line was there, upon
that smooth fair face, to which a sneer could for a moment have clung.
Clearly he was as simple as he looked.

"Gas, of course, extra."

"Of course," agreed the Stranger.

"Coals--"

"We shall not quarrel," for a third time the stranger interrupted. "You
have been very considerate to me as it is. I feel, Mrs. Pennycherry, I
can leave myself entirely in your hands."

The stranger appeared anxious to be alone. Mrs. Pennycherry, having put
a match to the stranger's fire, turned to depart. And at this point it
was that Mrs. Pennycherry, the holder hitherto of an unbroken record
for sanity, behaved in a manner she herself, five minutes earlier in her
career, would have deemed impossible--that no living soul who had ever
known her would have believed, even had Mrs. Pennycherry gone down upon
her knees and sworn it to them.

"Did I say three pound ten?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry of the stranger,
her hand upon the door. She spoke crossly. She was feeling cross, with
the stranger, with herself--particularly with herself.

"You were kind enough to reduce it to that amount," replied the
stranger; "but if upon reflection you find yourself unable--"

"I was making a mistake," said Mrs. Pennycherry, "it should have been
two pound ten."

"I cannot--I will not accept such sacrifice," exclaimed the stranger;
"the three pound ten I can well afford."

"Two pound ten are my terms," snapped Mrs. Pennycherry. "If you are bent
on paying more, you can go elsewhere. You'll find plenty to oblige you."

Her vehemence must have impressed the stranger. "We will not contend
further," he smiled. "I was merely afraid that in the goodness of your
heart--"

"Oh, it isn't as good as all that," growled Mrs. Pennycherry.

"I am not so sure," returned the stranger. "I am somewhat suspicious of
you. But wilful woman must, I suppose, have her way."

The stranger held out his hand, and to Mrs. Pennycherry, at that moment,
it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it as if it had
been the hand of an old friend and to end the interview with a pleasant
laugh--though laughing was an exercise not often indulged in by Mrs.
Pennycherry.

Mary Jane was standing by the window, her hands folded in front of her,
when Mrs. Pennycherry re-entered the kitchen. By standing close to
the window one caught a glimpse of the trees in Bloomsbury Square and
through their bare branches of the sky beyond.

"There's nothing much to do for the next half hour, till Cook comes
back. I'll see to the door if you'd like a run out?" suggested Mrs.
Pennycherry.

"It would be nice," agreed the girl so soon as she had recovered power
of speech; "it's just the time of day I like."

"Don't be longer than the half hour," added Mrs. Pennycherry.

Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, assembled after dinner in the
drawing-room, discussed the stranger with that freedom and frankness
characteristic of Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, towards the absent.

"Not what I call a smart young man," was the opinion of Augustus
Longcord, who was something in the City.

"Thpeaking for mythelf," commented his partner Isidore, "hav'n'th any
uthe for the thmart young man. Too many of him, ath it ith."

"Must be pretty smart if he's one too many for you," laughed his
partner.

There was this to be said for the repartee of Forty-eight Bloomsbury
Square: it was simple of construction and easy of comprehension.

"Well it made me feel good just looking at him," declared Miss Kite, the
highly coloured. "It was his clothes, I suppose--made me think of Noah
and the ark--all that sort of thing."

"It would be clothes that would make you think--if anything," drawled
the languid Miss Devine. She was a tall, handsome girl, engaged at the
moment in futile efforts to recline with elegance and comfort combined
upon a horsehair sofa. Miss Kite, by reason of having secured the only
easy-chair, was unpopular that evening; so that Miss Devine's remark
received from the rest of the company more approbation than perhaps it
merited.

"Is that intended to be clever, dear, or only rude?" Miss Kite requested
to be informed.

"Both," claimed Miss Devine.

"Myself? I must confess," shouted the tall young lady's father, commonly
called the Colonel, "I found him a fool."

"I noticed you seemed to be getting on very well together," purred his
wife, a plump, smiling little lady.

"Possibly we were," retorted the Colonel. "Fate has accustomed me to the
society of fools."

"Isn't it a pity to start quarrelling immediately after dinner, you
two," suggested their thoughtful daughter from the sofa, "you'll have
nothing left to amuse you for the rest of the evening."

"He didn't strike me as a conversationalist," said the lady who was
cousin to a baronet; "but he did pass the vegetables before he helped
himself. A little thing like that shows breeding."

"Or that he didn't know you and thought maybe you'd leave him half a
spoonful," laughed Augustus the wit.

"What I can't make out about him--" shouted the Colonel.

The stranger entered the room.

The Colonel, securing the evening paper, retired into a corner. The
highly coloured Kite, reaching down from the mantelpiece a paper fan,
held it coyly before her face. Miss Devine sat upright on the horse-hair
sofa, and rearranged her skirts.

"Know anything?" demanded Augustus of the stranger, breaking the
somewhat remarkable silence.

The stranger evidently did not understand. It was necessary for
Augustus, the witty, to advance further into that odd silence.

"What's going to pull off the Lincoln handicap? Tell me, and I'll go out
straight and put my shirt upon it."

"I think you would act unwisely," smiled the stranger; "I am not an
authority upon the subject."

