narrative

below his breath mr leadbetter uttered a grunt of impatience as his next-door neighbour got up and stumbled clumsily past him, dropping his hat over the seat in front, and leaning over to retrieve it.

all this at the culminating moment of not a sparrow, that all-star, thrilling drama of pathos and beauty that mr leadbetter had been looking forward to seeing for a whole week.

the golden-haired heroine, played by katherine royal (in mr leadbetter’s opinion the leading film actress in the world), was just giving vent to a hoarse cry of indignation:

‘never. i would sooner starve. but i shan’t starve. remember those words: not a sparrow falls—’

mr leadbetter moved his head irritably from right to left. people! why on earth people couldn’t wait tillthe endof a film…and to leave at this soul-stirring moment.

ah, that was better. the annoying gentleman had passed on and out. mr leadbetter had a full view of the screen and of katherine royal standing by the window in the van schreiner mansion in new york.

and now she was boarding the train—the child in her arms…what curious trains they had in america—not at all like english trains.

ah, there was steve again in his shack in the mountains…

the film pursued its course to its emotional and semi-religious end.

mr leadbetter breathed a sigh of satisfaction as the lights went up.

he rose slowly to his feet, blinking a little.

he never left the cinema very quickly. it always took him a moment or two to return to the prosaic reality of everyday life

he glanced round. not many people this afternoon—naturally. they were all at the races. mr leadbetter did not approve of racing nor of playing cards nor of drinking nor of smoking. this left him more energy to enjoy going to the pictures.

everyone was hurrying towards the exit. mr leadbetter prepared to follow suit. the man in the seat in front of him was asleep—slumped down in his chair. mr leadbetterfelt indignant to think that anyone could sleep with such a drama as not a sparrowgoing on.

an irate gentleman was saying to the sleeping man whose legs were stretched out blocking the way:

‘excuse me, sir.’

mr leadbetter reached the exit. he looked back.

there seemed to be some sort of commotion. a commissionaire…a little knot of people…perhaps that man in front of him was dead drunk and not asleep…

he hesitated and then passed out—and in so doing missed the sensation of the day—a greater sensation even than not half winning the st leger at 85 to 1.

the commissionaire was saying:

‘believe you’re right, sir…he’s ill…why—what’s the matter, sir?’

the other had drawn away his hand with an exclamation and was examining a red sticky smear.

‘blood…’

the commissionaire gave a stifled exclamation.

he had caught sight of the corner of something yellow projecting from under the seat.

‘gor blimey!’ he said. ‘it’s a b—a b c.’