The Man With Two Left Feet

looked at Constable Plimmer. Down the street some children were playing with a dog. In one of the flats a woman began to sing.
    'Hop it,' said Constable Plimmer.
    He spoke gruffly. He found speech difficult.
    The girl started.
    'What say?'
    'Hop it. Get along. Run away.'
    'What do you mean?'
    Constable Plimmer scowled. His face was scarlet. His jaw protruded like a granite break–water.
    'Go on,' he growled. 'Hop it. Tell him it was all a joke. I'll explain at the station.'
    Understanding seemed to come to her slowly.
    'Do you mean I'm to go?'
    'Yes.'
    'What do you mean? You aren't going to take me to the station?'
    'No.'
    She stared at him. Then, suddenly, she broke down,
    'He wouldn't look at me. He was ashamed of me. He pretended not to see me.'
    She leaned against the wall, her back shaking.
    'Well, run after him, and tell him it was all—'
    'No, no, no.'
    Constable Plimmer looked morosely at the side–walk. He kicked it.
    She turned. Her eyes were red, but she was no longer crying. Her chin had a brave tilt.
    'I couldn't—not after what he did. Let's go along. I—I don't care.'
    She looked at him curiously.
    'Were you really going to have let me go?'
    Constable Plimmer nodded. He was aware of her eyes searching his face, but he did not meet them.
    'Why?'
    He did not answer.
    'What would have happened to you, if you had have done?'
    Constable Plimmer's scowl was of the stuff of which nightmares are made. He kicked the unoffending side–walk with an increased viciousness.
    'Dismissed the Force,' he said curtly.
    'And sent to prison, too, I shouldn't wonder.'
    'Maybe.'
    He heard her draw a deep breath, and silence fell upon them again. The dog down the road had stopped barking. The woman in the flat had stopped singing. They were curiously alone.
    'Would you have done all that for me?' she said.
    'Yes.'
    'Why?'
    'Because I don't think you ever did it. Stole that money, I mean. Nor the brooch, neither.'
    'Was that all?'
    'What do you mean—all?'
    'Was that the only reason?'
    He swung round on her, almost threateningly.
    'No,' he said hoarsely. 'No, it wasn't, and you know it wasn't. Well, if you want it, you can have it. It was because I love you. There! Now I've said it, and now you can go on and laugh at me as much as you want.'
    'I'm not laughing,' she said soberly.
    'You think I'm a fool!'
    'No, I don't.'
    'I'm nothing to you.
He's
the fellow you're stuck on.'
    She gave a little shudder.
    'No.'
    'What do you mean?'
    'I've changed.' She paused. 'I think I shall have changed more by the time I come out.'
    'Come out?'
    'Come out of prison.'
    'You're not going to prison.'
    'Yes, I am.'
    'I won't take you.'
    'Yes, you will. Think I'm going to let you get yourself in trouble like that, to get me out of a fix? Not much.'
    'You hop it, like a good girl.'
    'Not me.'
    He stood looking at her like a puzzled bear.
    'They can't eat me.'
    'They'll cut off all of your hair.'
    'D'you like my hair?'
    'Yes.'
    'Well, it'll grow again.'
    'Don't stand talking. Hop it.'
    'I won't. Where's the station?'
    'Next street.'
    'Well, come along, then.'
    * * * * *
    The blue glass lamp of the police–station came into sight, and for an instant she stopped. Then she was walking on again, her chin tilted. But her voice shook a little as she spoke.
    'Nearly there. Next stop, Battersea. All change! I say, mister—I don't know your name.'
    'Plimmer's my name, miss. Edward Plimmer.'
    'I wonder if—I mean it'll be pretty lonely where I'm going—I wonder if—What I mean is, it would be rather a lark, when I come out, if I was to find a pal waiting for me to say "Hallo".'
    Constable Plimmer braced his ample feet against the stones, and turned purple.
    'Miss,' he said, 'I'll be there, if I have to sit up all night. The first thing you'll see when they open the doors is a great, ugly, red–faced copper with big feet and a broken nose. And if you'll say "Hallo" to him when he says "Hallo" to you, he'll be as pleased as Punch and as proud as a duke. And, miss'—he clenched his hands till the nails hurt the leathern flesh—'and, miss, there's just one thing more I'd like to say. You'll be having a good deal of time to yourself for awhile; you'll be able to do a good bit of thinking without anyone to disturb you; and what I'd like you to give your mind to, if you don't object, is just to think whether you can't forget that narrow–chested, God–forsaken blighter who treated you so mean, and get half–way fond of someone who knows jolly well