Noughts and Crosses

Noughts and Crosses, by Arthur
Thomas

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Thomas Quiller-Couch
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Title: Noughts and Crosses Stories, Studies and Sketches: The
Omnibus; Fortunio; The Outlandish Ladies; Statement of Gabriel Foot,
Highwayman; The Return of Joanna; Psyche; The Countess of
Bellarmine; A Cottage in Troy; Old Aeson; The Affair of
Bleakirk-on-Sands; The Constant Post-Boy; A Dark Mirror; The Small
People; The Mayor of Gantick; The Doctor's Foundling; The Gifts of
Feodor Himkoff; Yorkshire Dick; The Carol; The Paradise of Choice;
Beside the Bee Hives; The Magic Shadow
Author: Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch
Release Date: May 19, 2005 [eBook #15865] [Date last updated: July 7,
2006]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOUGHTS

AND CROSSES***
E-text prepared by Lionel Sear

NOUGHTS AND CROSSES
Stories, Studies and Sketches
by
ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER-COUCH (Q)

Two of the following stories were first published in Longman's
Magazine; the rest are selected from a number contributed to The
Speaker. For permission to reprint them I must sincerely thank the two
Editors. Q.

TO MY WIFE.

CONTENTS.
The Omnibus.
Fortunio.
The Outlandish Ladies.
Statement of Gabriel Foot, Highwayman.
The Return of Joanna.
Psyche.

The Countess of Bellarmine.
A Cottage in Troy--
I. A. Happy Voyage.
II. These-An'-That's Wife.
III. "Doubles" and Quits.
IV. The Boy by the Beach.
Old Aeson.
Stories of Bleakirk--
I. The Affair of Bleakirk-on-Sands.
II. The Constant Post-Boy.
A Dark Mirror.
The Small People.
The Mayor of Gantick.
The Doctor's Foundling.
The Gifts of Feodor Himkoff.
Yorkshire Dick.
The Carol.
The Paradise of Choice.
Beside the Bee Hives.
The Magic Shadow.

NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.

THE OMNIBUS.
It was not so much a day as a burning, fiery furnace. The roar of
London's traffic reverberated under a sky of coppery blue; the
pavements threw out waves of heat, thickened with the reek of
restaurants and perfumery shops; and dust became cinders, and the
wearing of flesh a weariness. Streams of sweat ran from the bellies of
'bus-horses when they halted. Men went up and down with unbuttoned
waistcoats, turned into drinking-bars, and were no sooner inside than
they longed to be out again, and baking in an ampler oven. Other men,
who had given up drinking because of the expense, hung about the
fountains in Trafalgar Square and listened to the splash of running
water. It was the time when London is supposed to be empty; and when
those who remain in town feel there is not room for 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 travelled enough
in omnibuses to know my fellow-passengers by heart-- a governess
with some sheets of music in her satchel; a minor actress going to
rehearsal; a woman carrying her incurable complaint for the hundredth
time to the hospital; three middle-aged city clerks; a couple of reporters
with weak eyes and low collars; an old loose-cheeked woman exhaling
patchouli; a bald-headed man with hairy hands, a violent breast-pin,
and the indescribable air of a matrimonial agent. Not a word passed.
We were all failures in life, and could not trouble to dissemble it, in
that heat. Moreover, we were used to each other, as types if not as
persons, and had lost curiosity. So we sat listless, dispirited, drawing
difficult breath and staring vacuously. The hope we shared in
common--that nobody would claim the vacant seat--was too obvious to
be discussed.
But at Charing Cross the twelfth passenger got in--a boy with a stick,
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 first voyage; and, by
the way he looked about, we could tell as easily that in stepping outside
Charing Cross Station he had set foot on London stones for the first
time. When we pulled up, he was standing on the opposite pavement
with dazed eyes like a hare's, wondering at the new world--the hansoms,
the yelling news-boys, the flower-women, the crowd pushing him this
way and that, the ugly shop-fronts, the hurry and stink and din of it all.
Then, hailing our 'bus, he started to run across--faltered--almost
dropped his bundle--was snatched by our conductor out of the path of a
running hansom, and hauled on board. His eyelids were pink and
swollen; but he was not crying, though he wanted to. Instead, he took a
great gulp, as he