DUSK by Saki

Norman Gortsby sat on a bench in the Park. His back was to the bushes. Behind
the bushes was the park fence. In front of him, was a street named The Row.
Hyde Park Corner, with its rattle and hoot of traffic, lay immediately to his right.

It was half past six on an early March evening, and dusk had fallen heavily over
the scene. The dusk was broken a little by some faint moonlight and many street
lamps. There was a wide emptiness over road and sidewalk, and yet there were
many various figures moving silently through the half-light, or dotted
unobtrusively on bench and chair, scarcely to be distinguished from the shadowed
gloom in which they sat.

The scene pleased Gortsby and harmonised with his present mood. Dusk, to his
mind, was the hour of the defeated. Men and women, who had fought and lost,
who hid their fallen fortunes and dead hopes as far as possible from the scrutiny
(close observation) of the curious, came forth in this hour of gloaming, when their
shabby clothes and bowed shoulders and unhappy eyes might pass unnoticed, or,
at any rate, unrecognised. The wanderers in the dusk did not choose to have
people look at them strangely. Therefore, they came out in this bat-fashion,
having fun in the park which had emptied of its rightful occupants.

Beyond the sheltering screen of bushes and fence there was a world of brilliant
lights and noisy, rushing traffic. A blazing, many-leveled stretch of windows shone
through the dusk and almost erased it, marking the places of those other people,
who held their own in life's struggle, or at any rate had not had to admit failure.

So Gortsby's imagination pictured things as he sat on his bench in the almost

On the bench by his side sat an elderly gentleman. Gortsby imagined that this
man was trying to look courageous, even though nobody and no one was scared
of him. His clothes could scarcely be called shabby, at least they looked ok in the
half-light, but no one could think that this man would be able to buy a half-crown
box of chocolates (a half-crown was a LOT of money then) or laying out
ninepence on a carnation buttonhole (some men wear flowers in their suits at
weddings or formal dances). As he rose to go, Gortsby imagined him returning to
a home circle where he was snubbed and of no account, or to some bleak lodging
where people were interested not in him but in his ability to pay a weekly bill.
His retreating figure vanished slowly into the shadows, and his place on the bench
was taken almost immediately by a young man, fairly well dressed but scarcely
more cheerful than his predecessor. As if to emphasise the fact that the world
went badly with him, the new-corner angrily said a very bad word as he flung
himself into the seat.

"You don't seem in a very good temper," said Gortsby.

The young man turned to him with a look of complete honesty which put him
instantly on his guard. "You wouldn't be in a good temper if you were in the fix
(the problem) I'm in," he said; "I've done the silliest thing I've ever done in my
life."
"Yes?" said Gortsby without really caring.
"I arrived in London this afternoon, meaning to stay at the Patagonian Hotel in
Berkshire Square," continued the young man; "when I got there, I found the
hotel had been pulled down (torn down) several weeks ago and a cinema theatre
built on the site. The taxi driver recommended me to another hotel some way off
and I went there. I sent a letter to my people, giving them the address (no emails
or mobile phones then). Then, I went out to buy some soap — I'd forgotten to
pack any and I hate using hotel soap. Then I strolled about a bit, had a drink at a
bar and looked at the shops, and when I came to turn my steps back to the hotel
I suddenly realised that I didn't remember its name or even what street it was in.
There's a "nice" situation dilemma for a fellow who hasn't any friends or
connections in London! Of course I can wire (telegraph – an old means of
communication) to my people for the address, but they won't have got my letter
till to-morrow; meantime I'm without any money, came out with about a shilling
on me (a shilling is an old British coin), which went in buying the soap and getting
the drink, and here I am, wandering about with twopence in my pocket and
nowhere to go for the night."

There was a dramatic pause after the story had been told. "I suppose you think
I've spun you rather an impossible yarn (told you an impossible story)," said the
young man, with a suggestion of resentment in his voice.

"Not at all impossible," said Gortsby fairly; "I remember doing exactly the same
thing once in a foreign capital, and on that occasion there were two of us, which
made it more remarkable. Luckily we remembered that the hotel was on a sort of
canal, and when we struck the canal we were able to find our way back to the
hotel."
The youth said happily, "In a foreign city I wouldn't mind so much. I could go to
the Consul (British Embassy) and get the needed help there. Here, in one's own
land one, it's far more problematic. Unless I can find some decent person to
swallow my story (believe me) and lend me some money, I seem likely to spend
the night on the streets. I'm glad, anyhow, that you don't think the story
outrageously improbable." He threw a good deal of warmth into the last remark,
as though perhaps to show his hope that Gortsby would feel the desire to help
him.

"Of course," said Gortsby slowly, "the weak point of your story is that you can't
produce the soap."

The young man sat forward hurriedly, felt rapidly in the pockets of his overcoat,
and then jumped to his feet. "I must have lost it," he muttered angrily.

"To lose a hotel and a cake of soap on one afternoon suggests wilful
carelessness," said Gortsby, but the young man did not wait to hear the end of
the remark. He flitted away down the path.

"It was a pity," thought Gortsby; "the going out to get one's own soap was the
one convincing touch in the whole story, and yet it was just that little detail that
brought him to grief (got him into trouble). If he had had the brilliant forethought
to buy a cake of soap, wrapped and sealed with all the care of the chemist's
counter, he would have been a genius in his particular line. (Gortsby thinks that
this young man tells these stories to get money.)

With that thought, Gortsby rose (got up) to go; as he did so, an exclamation of
concern escaped him. Lying on the ground by the side of the bench was a small
oval packet, wrapped and sealed with the care of a chemist's counter. It could be
nothing else but a cake of soap. Obviously, it had fallen out of the youth's
overcoat pocket when he flung himself down on the seat.

In another moment Gortsby was moving quickly along the dusk-shrouded path in
anxious quest for a youthful figure in a light overcoat. He had nearly given up the
search when he caught sight of him, standing at a corner, obviously uncertain
which way to go. He turned round sharply with an air of defensive hostility when
he found Gortsby calling him.

"The important witness to the genuineness of your story has turned up," said
Gortsby, holding out the cake of soap; "it must have slid out of your overcoat
pocket when you sat down on the seat. I saw it on the ground after you left. You
must excuse my disbelief, but appearances were really rather against you, and
now, as I appealed to the testimony of the soap, I think I ought to abide by (act
according to) its verdict. If the loan of a sovereign is any good to you — "

The young man hastily removed all doubt on the subject by pocketing the coin.

"Here is my card with my address," continued Gortsby; "any day this week will do
for returning the money, and here is the soap — don't lose it again it's been a
good friend to you."

"Lucky thing your finding it," said the youth, and then, with a catch in his voice,
he blurted out a word or two of thanks and fled headlong in the direction of
Knightsbridge.

"Poor boy, he almost broke down with emotion," said Gortsby to himself. "I don't
wonder either; the relief from his dilemma must have been enormous. It's a
lesson to me not to be too clever in judging by circumstances."

As Gortsby retraced his steps past the seat where the little drama had taken
place, he saw an elderly gentleman poking and peering beneath it and on all sides
of it, and recognised his earlier fellow occupant (the man who had sat on the
bench at the beginning).
"Have you lost anything, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, a cake of soap."