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He swayed a little and settled down on the floor by sections. Harrison Smith stooped and put a cushion beneath his head. "All ri' soon qui' all ri'. Fac' is I'm one of the ruins Crom'll knocked about a bit." The voice tailed away into a deep, slumberous groan. A minute later Harrison Smith was at the door of Barraclough's flat on the landing below.
The affair would end in an atmosphere of sweet accord. Torrington's crowd would be knocked out of business and a spirit of peace and harmony would descend like a benison upon the hard working trio. Could any solution be more satisfactory, but there was a fly in the ointment. Barraclough's resolution strengthened with adversity, he kept his tongue behind locked teeth and said precisely nothing.
"Yes, but it seems to me," said the big man plaintively, "that it's you who's looking for trouble. Been a nice thing if that bag had caught me on the lid. There were two fifty pound bells inside and a coil of wire for my trapeze act." "Your what?" said Barraclough. "Trapeze act. Done in my tour nicely, that would." Barraclough's eyes narrowed and he looked at the man closely.
Wherefore she forgot her affection for him and forgot all the lessons of politeness so studiously acquired in the years of climbing and let him have her opinions hot and strong as a simple uncultivated child of the people. The expression on Anthony Barraclough's face read plainly enough relief at his escape.
Was another man occupying Barraclough's place deputising for him in his absence? Harrison Smith struck one hand against the other. "By God," he exclaimed. "It's the most unlikely thing in the world but I'm going to believe it. I'm going to believe that the chap with the humorous lines round his eyes is no more Barraclough than I am." He alighted at Waterloo Station aglow with excitement.
Flora and Jane, robbed for the moment of the power of speech and action, clung to one another on the far side of the room, their gaze riveted on their hero, who, in this moment of crisis, was whistling a bar of ragtime and accepting defeat with smiling eyes. Harrison Smith's left hand ran professionally over the contours of Barraclough's coat to satisfy himself that there was no concealed weapon.
"He's in there with his mother." This was evident enough, for the sound of their voices was audible, Mrs. Barraclough's high pitched tones crying out: "Don't sit on the bed, dear, it creases the quilt." "Better look out," Bolt warned. "He's as slippery as an eel." "Trust me, we're just waiting to get rid of the old woman, and then "
Barraclough's eyes. No message by wire or wireless ever reached its destination in quicker time than that old S. O. S. of school boy fame. He saw her tap out the "received" signal with a forefinger on the front of her cloak, then turned with a wave of the handkerchief to introduce the visitors. "Mother dear, these are two friends of mine, Sergeant Hammersmith and Mr. Cappell."
Barraclough assumed an air of indifference. "Did you not?" he said. "It's a fact, I didn't. Lying in bed I was twelve minutes ago. Used some words, too, when they called me up on the 'phone. But, all said, it was worth the rush. Means a good deal of money to me." This final remark did little to improve Barraclough's temper. However, he preserved an outward calm and said he supposed so.
While Goulding talked of Barraclough's voice production, while Tom Kernan, harking back in a retrospective sort of arrangement talked to listening Father Cowley, who played a voluntary, who nodded as he played. While big Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus, lighting, who nodded as he smoked, who smoked. Thou lost one. All songs on that theme. Yet more Bloom stretched his string. Cruel it seems.
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