The Second Class Passenger | Page 5

and stopped,
appalled by the idea.
"To the ship?" she cried and laughed. "Oh, la la! But no! Still, we must
go from here. The police will be here any minute, and if they find
you----" She left it unsaid, and the gap was ominous.
The police! To mention them was to touch all that was conventional,
suburban, and second-class in Dawson. He itched to be gone. A picture
of Vine Street police court and a curtly aloof magistrate flashed across
his mind, and a reminiscence of evening paper headlines, and his mind
fermented hysterically.
The woman put back her knife in some secret recess of her clothes, and
opened the door cautiously. "Now!" she said, but paused, and came
back. She went to the picture of the Virgin and turned its face to the

wall. "One should not forget respect," she observed apologetically.
"These things are remembered. Now come."
No sooner were they in the gloomy alley outside than the neighborhood
of others was known to them. There was a sound of many feet
ploughing in the mud, and a suppressed voice gave a short order. The
woman stopped and caught Dawson's arm.
"Hush!" she whispered. "It is the police. They have come for the men.
They will be on both sides of us. Wait and listen."
Dawson stood rigid, his heart thumping. The darkness seemed to surge
around him with menaces and dangers. The splashing feet were nearer,
coming up on their right, and once some metal gear clinked as its
wearer scraped against the wall. He could smell men, as he
remembered afterwards. The woman beside him retained her hold on
his arm, and remained motionless till it seemed that the advancing men
must run into them.
"Come quietly," she whispered at length, putting warm lips to his ear.
Her hand dropped along his arm till she grasped his fingers. She led
him swiftly away from the place, having waited till the police should be
so near that the noise they made would drown their own retreat.
On they went, then, as before, swishing through the foulness underfoot,
and without speaking. Only at times the woman's hold on his hand
would tighten, and, meeting with no response, would slacken again,
and she would draw him on ever more quickly.
"Where are we going?" he ventured to ask.
"We are escaping," she answered, with a brief tinkle of laughter. "If
you knew from what we are escaping, you would not care where. But
hurry, always!"
Soon, however, she paused, still holding his hand. Again they heard
footsteps, and this time the woman turned to him desperately.

"There is a door near by," she breathed. "We must find it, or----" again
the unspoken word. "Feel always along the wall there. Farther, go
farther. It should be here."
They sprang on, with hands to the rough plaster on the wall, till
Dawson encountered the door, set level with the wall, for which they
sought.
"Push," panted the woman, heaving at it with futile hands. Even in the
darkness he could see the gleam of her naked arms and shoulders.
"Push it in."
Dawson laid his shoulder to it, his arms folded, and shoved desperately
till his head buzzed. As he eased up he heard the near feet of the
menacing police again.
"You must push it in!" cried the woman. "It is the only way. If not--"
"Here, catch hold of this," said Dawson, and she found the bronze
image in her hands. "Let me come," he said, and standing back a little,
he flung his twelve stone of bone and muscle heavily on the door. It
creaked, and some fastening within broke and fell to the ground.
Once again he assaulted it, and it was open. They passed rapidly within,
and closed it behind them, and with the woman's hand guiding, Dawson
stumbled up a long, narrow, sloppy stair that gave on to the flat roof of
the building. Above them was sky again. The rain had passed, and the
frosty stars of Mozambique shone faintly. He took a deep breath as he
received the image from the hands of the woman.
"You hear them?" she said, and he listened with a shudder to the
passing of the men below.
"But we must go on," she said. "We are not safe yet. Over the wall to
the next roof. Come!"
They clambered over a low parapet, and dropped six feet to another
level. Dawson helped the woman up the opposite wall, and she sat

reconnoitering on the top.
"Come quietly," she warned him, and he clambered up beside her and
looked down at the roof before them. In a kind of tent persons appeared
to be sleeping; their breath was plainly to be heard.
"You must walk like a rat," she whispered,