A bell, which resembled a shop-bell in tone, sounded as M. pushed open the door to the dance-hall, and it shuddered on its spring as M. quickly stepped sideways through the entrance and closed the door behind him with one hand. It was a little fear of his, to be still entering when the ringing of opened doors came to a stop. On his approach, when he had been making his boots sing against the flagstones outside, he had already noticed two others enter. The three of them were now the only clients in the foyer. Whilst waiting somewhat behind the other two who were paying at the kiosk, he occupied himself by gazing down into a corner of the room, and into his circle of vision dropped a lighted cigarette-end which was crushed by a shoe following it and turning twice on the tip of its sole. He looked up. The cloakroom attendant, who stood in front of his counter, was grinning at him.
Over an icy field beneath the darkness, M. had made his way to the dance-hall. A crossing which had been centred by the five yellow windows of the building. And now his face hurt with the cold, and so he smacked it with his palms. "Hey!" the cloakroom assistant called and then gave a little whistle to turn M.'s attention away from the corner of the room where he had already started to lower his eyes once more. "Surely not! Are you really going to go inside there with your coat on?" Behind the counter now, he was leaning forward admiring M., while resting his bunched cheeks in the cups of his hands. "Lucky sir! You late-comers: I admire you. Know how to enjoy yourselves, sir, and it's what counts all right. I like to see you dash in here, obviously out of breath, just before closing-time - for it's common knowledge that the governor's soft spot for us stays the hand of those low officials out to curb our after-hours privileges. Ha! Will you leave your coat, sir? Let me take it from your shoulders myself . . ."
The man had obviously got M.wrong. He began to formulate a polite rebuff, but was interrupted by this attendant who seemed to appropriate a familiarity that M. found difficult to countenance. ". . . And that business of slapping the cheeks; may I congratulate you on it? An excellent ruse when one's a little the worse for wear and knows one looks it, eh? But it's quite unnecessary sir, here; the fact is that the manager has cataracts on his eyes. You can see the film across them; it's silly of him to pretend before us, like he does."
A small window, divided into several panes, looked into the dance-room. M. approached it, arm outstretched, then stood with his palm on the thin film of ice on its surface, all the while glanced at from time to time, through curator's eyes, by the two foyer staff. The ice quickly melted in the shape of a hand-print; M. ducked his head and peered in. A shadow, perhaps only the lower half of a figure, occasionally passed from one side to the other. A swung trumpet, thrust into view, slowly rose in an arc and disappeared. He caught himself moving his neck from side to side and, seeing in his mind's eye this unattractive bird of prey (himself) bent over and perhaps leering, he snapped up and made for the door. Once inside the dance-room, he felt glad that the music was quieter than he'd feared. What was it that cloakroom attendant had just said? 'Lucky! You late-comers! Know how to enjoy yourselves' - those are fine words to say to a man who has just lain for five hours, half-dressed beneath the bedclothes, considering in his bouts of wakefulness the merits of bothering to turn on the light and venture out, or to let go and sleep a usual night.
The dance-room was half empty. Doorways on one side released men who traversed and circled the room, eyes alert, in a walk which despite its bravado failed to conceal its subservience to the choices the women might make - doorways which released these figures to other doorways on the further side, and thus set up a slow stir of movement in the room where for the moment, no dancing was to be seen. The three visiting musicians who stood back to back, started to play a new number outwards and upwards on a small platform. After a wait, a few dancers began to move in the middle of the room. A middle-aged man let go and received his partner's hand, stooping all the while and letting his jaw hang. A male dancer left the floor still swinging his hips. He passed through a doorway by which stood a girl with legs slightly bent, who rhythmically pivoted her crutch. Bent seriously over their instruments now, the musicians changed tempo. The dancing began to speed up. A young man watched from the side and crammed his hand into his mouth.
From one of the doorways boomed the sound of an approaching gong being rapidly beaten; several people walked forth, heads down emerging in all directions, and behind them Tull entered. He wore a white suit. Now the gong and mallet were held silent in one hand. In the other, Tull held up a small notice to which he drew attention, all the while strutting slowly to and fro, and bending to people in quite a subservient manner. His words were too indistinct for M. to pick up.
It seemed to M. that Tull had straightaway spotted him when he entered - M.'s gaze like everyone else's, had been turned to the gong - yet strangely, after that first glance, he paid M. no attention at all. Indeed, though several opportunities to spy the watchful figure of M. had presented themselves - a quick look between the heads of his audience would have given M. away - Tull seemed preoccupied. M. moved slowly around the room keeping Tull at a distance. And it didn't take him long to convince himself that it was all a device and that as he'd feared, Tull was keeping a predatory eye on him.
The trumpeter reappeared followed by the dance-hall manager - the two seemed to be in the middle of some altercation - threw his hands up and then began to play and stride forth right into the audience, while the manager watched from the side, standing with hands on hips. The player swung his trumpet from side to side, in a sense herding the dance-hall clients against one another and thereby rousing some little more excitement. Having caught sight of the approach of Tull, M. forced a way into a knot of men, now breaking into applause and nodding to one of the musicians the attention of whom they desired. They turned their heads then made room for M. - something was up - and their discomfort was eased only when M. had arranged himself as they had already done and even took in his hands Tull's notice which a grinning lad had been holding up in the air.
At the bottom of the notice, in small print, ran a post-script - Ably Accompanied By A Talented Assistant: M.
Sliding an arm around him and caressing his shoulder with his fingers, Tull arrived at his back. "Why you're pale!" He spoke with what appeared to M. a quite genuine concern. "Come along; there are chairs in some of the other rooms . . ." In a state of irritation - quite uncharacteristic of him - M. threw off his hold and stepped free a way, raising his voice. "What's all this funny business? Do you think then I'm some kind of torturer's victim?" Tull's mouth clapped shut. Flustered, he held on to the sleeve of M.'s jacket; and yet it was still he who recovered himself first. He began to criticise M. "You can't come straight to the point can you. Forever staying your hand. Well, that's your weakness. Fancy bringing a torturer's victim into it . . ." Bending down to M. - a much shorter man - he peered at his turned-away face. "I know what's given you this fright. Don't think you can dissimulate. And . . . (now his tone changed) it's quite understandable - finding your name, there, on a notice, and you knew nothing about it beforehand . . ."
M. watched the notice being taken from the boy and disappearing inside Tull's jacket. ". . . But you did make me a promise, M. I'll not take any more of your nonsense now; you can't say you don't remember. Last time, at the fair, yes I'm sure you remember now don't you, you excused yourself that time - which is quite understandable; after all, a new thing takes some getting used to - you excused yourself saying you'd be very happy (your words) to be my sparring partner at the next exhibition . . ." M. felt a tap on his shoulder; he turned. A man was trying to squeeze past, eyeing the door. Then others walked sideways around Tull and him on both sides, then realigned themselves with a swing of the hips. The trouble for M. was that these words of Tull's sounded all too convincing. They were just the sort of thing M. would indeed say. He motioned Tull to a low bench which ran the circumference of the room, and broke his silence. "Do excuse me . . . I ruined a coat yesterday; all my money went into the new purchase, and now I suppose I'm a little overwrought. I can think of no other explanation. A silly outburst, I realise it now; you must find me more excitable than what you're used to."
Tull, who had been lifting and dropping his hands, grabbed M.'s ears, turned his head then levelling his gaze on him, insisted: "You must look at me while you are speaking to me, you do know that . . ." Wordless, M. nodded his agreement; then folding Tull's hands in his lap, he rose and took an opportunity to back away. Back in the dance-room the manager had appeared wearing a shallow drum tied around his neck, on which he played short rolls while standing at a door. The musicians broke into a faster tune, prompting a few revellers to make some reckless approaches to women who were already turning their backs to pinch off their gloves and pack them away, for the evening was already coming to an end.
Tull, who had seen M. leave via a side exit, followed him. Outside, M. was leaning on one of the parapets of the Ferdinand bridge; he rested on his forearms, and stood one foot on its toes. Straightaway he had decided that he would not meet tomorrow's appointment, despite even the notice; he would simply stay away; the easiest solution for him. But this course of action would leave a need for an explanation which sooner or later he would have to offer - and his mind now turned a few over. This preoccupation amplified the alarm he felt when he heard Tull's hurrying step. He ducked his head for he felt an unfortunate gust of wind just at that moment, the sort of wind a blunt instrument might cause if singing right over his head. However Tull was still some paces away, he saw. Enough time therefore to stretch up his neck again. Enough time to untwist his features also. "Ah! Sparring-partner! There you are. What a loner you are." Tull called. "Without a word, leaving by side doors; if I hadn't caught a glimpse of your hair, I'd have quite missed your departure and been seeking your company in there yet." M. began to apologise, after uttering a sweet laugh - "I see what's happened; it's my fault naturally. I haven't left at all, you see! I'm still with you all; of course you can't see in this thick winter dark - come closer, there's some light from the shipping beam over here - but if you could see, you'd realise that I don't have my coat on! It's still with the attendant; and now that you've drawn my attention to it, I realise I'm cold; yes, it's high time I returned to the hall."
Tull stepped into his path. "What! They'll guard your coat for you; you'll have the ticket; besides you live only a short distance away; if we trot we can be there in under a minute . . ." Suspecting a movement on M.'s part, Tull spread his arms a little. "All right. I can see that you're such a dunderhead that I'll have to spell it out for you. Just stop your feet from trying to dance round me like that; I'm too quick for you. (He shook M. urgently and peered into his face) - Do you want to make a fool of me? Can't you realise? Everyone's seen me leave now! I've already said my goodbyes." After showing Tull the ticket, after pointing out that they were in any case only a few steps from the dance-hall, and - in a sudden burst of eagerness - that Tull needn't accompany him anyway, M. touched Tull's hands turning around as he did so, and dashed away into the glare of the open front-door of the hall. Reappearing shortly, his coat flying above his head as he tried to put it on while running, M. mounted the slope of the bridge now on the opposite side of the road to Tull. They moved along the bridge in silence. Uneasy, and he was quite ready to admit that he was himself responsible, M. began his awkward leave-taking. He turned and stretched out a hand towards Tull across the road. "Now then. It's time for us to part. We must shake hands, albeit in a symbolic fashion. Come, where's yours; I can't see in this dark. We must do this quickly and hurry off . . ." Searching the darkness for Tull's hand, he missed Tull's long grin. "Stop that, M." came Tull's voice from the other side of the road. "Put your hand back in your pocket, now." M. brought himself up with a jolt. "Can't you see I'm trying to get an invitation to your room. Well. I thought I was being quite clear; I thought so; come, I ask you not to be so naive." Suddenly Tull was there by his side.
Illuminated by a shaft of moonlight from the doorway, a line of polished doorknobs ran the length of the hall. At the further end rose a staircase down which spread a patch of light from above. As M. climbed the stairwell he craned his neck to look through the banisters. The light was hardly ever used by the other residents; he himself had left it on. On a landing he spied Bridget the landlord's daughter, sitting on a hard chair without cushions, a girl who was leaning forward and, her head turned sideways, looking straight at him. He noticed how she cradled on her lap, encircling it with both arms, an open attaché-case in which it was plain she had been writing on some documents. Speaking clearly, for he had been in love with her for many years already and was by this means trying to conceal his discomfort, he asked her: "Miss Bridget! Why are you on this landing like this? (At this point, Tull leant his back against the wall and looked along his shoulder at the girl.) It's late! Your father, Mr. K! Has he not let you into your rooms yet, for some reason? It is inhospitable out here beneath this lamp, quite apart from the cold. Ah! Perhaps we are intruding on a lover's argument; you are maybe linked romantically to one of the gentlemen living on this landing (this he said with an anguish which he was well used to)?"
Bridget stood up, brushed some dust off the top of the chair with her sleeve, then took M. by both arms and sat him down in her place. "No, nothing of that kind" she announced. "I am here to see you, M. I have been asked to come here, by someone; there is a message for you." As she straightened up, M. gazed at the way her neck rose from her collar which was fastened tight by three red buttons. M. realised that she was referring to an accident which had befallen him. There had been a loss on his part. An expensive suit ruined. Why, of course she knew of his present financial predicaments, temporary no doubt. She explained that he had always been gracious enough to confide in her, his landlord's daughter and therefore a virtual stranger, and that as an opportunity had now arisen for her to act on his behalf - she had been even more pleased that it was an opportunity to act unbidden - she had welcomed the chance. Bridget was oblivious, M. feared, and the thought even before it had been quite formed chilled him, oblivious to the threat to his privacy that the presence of Tull (all ears) presented. After all, did this episode she was about to blurt out, show M. in any remote way, in a flattering light? No, he reasoned. In fact far from that.
Some young men full of high spirits, for they had earlier been reported by the keeper of the municipal park, had caught him on Century Square and circled him. She could now inform him that the episode had only been high jinks (they have promised her) and that he wasn't to think the assault premeditated, but rather as something that - let's be frank - he himself might be prone to do in his younger days. They had pushed him against some newly-painted railings: was that not the story? His best suit had been ruined? Well then! When she had heard of the episode from M.'s own lips, she made her enquiries - the upshot of which is that she found she knew one of the miscreants a little, and that the boy's father, a bespoke tailor, was keen to settle his son's part in what was after all a small-town affair. "So after all, M., I have a welcome message for you," she announced. "If you would care to run off to this tailor's shop in the morning, he wishes to make it up with you, and will take your measurements and later fashion you a new suit out of whatever material you choose. Now, what to you say to that!"
All M. could do for the moment was nod his head. In a while he could of course use this appointment to excuse himself from Tull's demonstration. If only Tull hadn't heard what the girl had said, for he could at any moment put in objections! M. glanced up. Tull was still leaning against the landing wall, gazing before him expressionless. M.'s nod apparently satisfied Bridget who made a move to go, disturbing one of the floorboards. A shadow in the landing light passed as if a wave had moved by, and M. found himself lifted off the floor and pressed against the door of his own apartment. He blinked down at Tull's back. Tull, who held him capture between outstretched arms - so it seemed - was gazing up at the stairwell light. Bridget had followed his gaze. He pointed upwards, keeping her attention, and curling his finger said: "There! See that rusted fixing near the ceiling - there's the culprit! You were lucky, M. (casting a glance over his shoulder) you could have had an ear cut off . . ." A cast-iron rod holding a light-bulb on its end, hung from a ceiling fixing. There was rust, M. would admit; but to him it seemed unlikely that the apparatus was about to fall. Tull had invented the near accident.
Bridget and Tull stared one another straight in the eye. Quite openly he showed that he'd heard everything about this appointment with the tailor, for he addressed the girl about it: "Do you think M. needs to write down his appointment? Should we go inside and find paper?" The two of them looked at M., but already M. had his hand behind his back and was turning the handle to his room. Inside, he leaned forward and drew his pencil and paper from a small desk. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the two had followed him and now leaned near one another against a wall talking in hushed tones. While doing this, Tull stretched his leg backwards and closed the door to the landing with the side of his heel. It wasn't long before he ran the back of his hand along the girl's cheek, then curled an arm around her waist. She trembled and put her own around his neck. "Does your husband ever see these tenants of yours?" he asked. She replied coquettishly (of course she did, thought M.) that she was too young yet for marriage. He walked Bridget to the bed and pressed down on the pile of bedding. M. started. The room held little else but the bed which filled almost half the space. It was M.'s chief joy to ascend this bed - a legacy of the previous occupant - which could only be achieved by leaping and turning on one's back in mid-air; for it was piled with blanketing and other softer materials as high as one's chest. Tull compressed the edge until the girl could comfortably sit, though her feet rose a few inches off the floor when he took his hands away, and then flung himself down full-length behind her. He turned to M. "So it's Bridget that takes the money? I see how it is. And if Bridget was in love a little with someone, for instance you M., and why not, or if not you then perhaps a newcomer like me for instance, and if this newcomer was invited into this apartment and felt so at home in here that he decided to stay - then surely there would be no fear of a surprise from the landlord riding on the backs of a couple of policemen, a man kept ignorant by his smitten daughter? Isn't that so? For as we know, it's Bridget here who collects the money."
M. had to steady himself. He watched Tull rise from the bed. See how Bridget follows his back with her gaze, he thought. Tull bent at M.'s store of food which he kept in a box by the kitchen door; selected two oranges and began to juggle them in the air tilting his head from side to side. And, having drawn Bridget's attention to what M. was doing, grinned as M. ran to and fro between the kitchen and front-door raising little patting noises on the floorboards which drew a burst of laughter from the girl. When the lovers had settled again and were now sat by one another, the side of Tull's face pressed flat against the girl's, M. wondered what he was supposed to do. To ask of them what they imagined he should do now, would probably bring on another burst of Bridget's laughter which had hurt him enough the first time round. Therefore he tip-toed out and closed the door quietly behind him so that they wouldn't even notice he had gone.
The landing offered no comfortable resting-place. The moon had disappeared and downstairs he examined the corridor, feeling in some of the corners with outstretched hands; but finding nowhere suitable, he sat by the front door where the light would wake him in the morning. After stretching out his legs, he leant his side against some panelling and awaited the stupor of sleep with a certain glee.
He was awoken by someone walking into him. "Is that you, M.?" Bridget crouched in front of him, now. "Thank heaven I've found you so easily. Were you waiting for me?" M. looked bemused. She took his chin in her hand. "No; of course you weren't. How could anyone know what was going on in my head?" She looked behind her at the stairs. "I'm afraid of him. He overwhelms me. That's what I wanted to tell you."
"But the apartment . . ." M. replied "you and he are to live there. And more than likely you will be married soon. Cramped in such a small place, he will surely sense your fear; and then you'll be for it!" Bridget looked astonished. "There's no question of a romance. How you jump to conclusions! Indeed I already have a sweetheart; and I'm not embarrassed to tell you this, for there is no secret that we are already betrothed."
"Are you sure Tull knows?" asked M. She bent forward and brushed his hair from his forehead. When she got up to go M. noticed that, leaving the room, she had forgotten to button-up her shirt and now her breasts hung free. She folded one side of her shirt across them and then covered that with the other before tilting forward at the waist and setting out into the street.
Upstairs he found Tull standing before a window. He frowned at M. As if - M. thought - he didn't understand why M. had returned. But Tull needed to know how things stood. Otherwise there would be chaos. "You've got it all wrong," M. exclaimed. "She's not going to be in love with you, at all; you see she's betrothed to another already; and she couldn't consider you anyway . . ." Tull turned to him again and smiled. M. returned the smile. "And she's afraid of you," he added, which made Tull laugh lightly. But shortly after, he left and banged his fist hard into the wall by the door. M. ran after him and stood on the landing to watch him descend.
M. fixed his attention on his walk; for he had a tendency to lean too far back while moving. He wanted to check in a window how far he was lifting his knees. Three men overtook him, walking line-abreast on the opposite pavement. Heads erect, they were looking in separate directions. He was struck by the way they kept the line, despite walking out of step. As he looked about him, the man nearest M. swivelled his head which was unusually protuberant at the back. This peculiarity reminded M. of a former friend. He wasn't surprised. In fact he smiled wryly. For he had had this friend come into his mind frequently over the past year; and nowadays all the memory did was to remind him of how some people daydream of many different things every day, while other people (whose minds are more often than not, blank, perhaps) return to the same few recollections again and again. This friend had one day rushed out from a gap between the railway-station and the trees - to introduce himself, it had been. To begin with, M. had faltered and tried to circumvent the stranger, searching for the railway time-table over the man's shoulder; then at some point he had allowed the man to press his hand into his own. M. brought his friend food. But he was unable to coax the man away from the railway, despite exhibiting the choicest sweetmeats from a little distance and calling encouragement. His friend once demonstrated his startling ability to throw himself against the side of a moving carriage, and to stick there, spreadeagled until he had a mind to fall away and roll down the side of an embankment. After several weeks the man had simply disappeared.
M. had overslept - not until some passers-by had made a noise down in the street below, had he woken up - and the hour of his appointment with the tailor had passed some time ago. To turn up at the tailor's shop now, struck him as too forward. Yet not to have sent some communication to the man would doubtless create an ungrateful impression. He crossed the road to the bakers' he was in the habit of visiting at some point in the day. A large woman had got there before him. As the shop had not yet opened its doors after a fresh batch of baking, she was able to stand at the window and choose for much longer than was normally possible; something which M. himself frequently enjoyed doing. Out of a sense of decency he stood some way behind and lowered his eyes to the backs of her knees, which trembled slightly. After a while he ventured a few glances over her shoulder at the tilted-forward flans. She jerked her head slightly, enough to catch his attention, and addressed him: "I've no doubt you're aware that there are double-doors to this shop; I've been waiting a long time for the biggest of these flans - she pointed to the one piled with dried pears, apricots, and almond pieces - and if your side of the door is opened first, you're not to make a dash straight to it . . . " He felt flabbergasted; and stepped back into the gutter as if assaulted. He had always intended to let her have first choice. Why would she fear otherwise?
Even when he saw, some way ahead, the knot of people who were standing in various attitudes of rest, he failed to recognise the danger. Slowly feeding the flan, which he held in both hands level with his chin, inch by inch into his mouth, he walked blithely on cutting a recognisable figure against the rows of houses. Too late he heard Tull call his name, and happened at the time to be turning his head up to the street sign. Horrified he looked down again and faced the mat. "Take that fruit from your mouth," implored Tull. "My! You are in a trance today, aren't you. Put it down over there." He addressed the crowd: "It's all right for some of us eh? To spend the day mooning about the shop of Standman the baker, oh that's the high life for one, don't you think?" Unable to understand how Tull knew where he'd come from, M. gaped, then realised that the name was printed diagonally across the baker's box which still flapped stiffly around his piece of flan. Tull, having misconstrued M.'s alarm, threw his arm around M. and turned to the crowd to whet its appetite with promises of Chinese throws and holds from the travelling shows out of Russia.
M. meanwhile, looked down and eyed the light-brown gymnastics mat, worn through to the weft in two patches where a pair of wrestling boots might have frequently stood. Then in an instant, so it seemed to him, M. already seated on a folding canvas stool, had been watching Tull for quite a long time. Now he was finishing the last of his loosening-up exercises which, keeping an unashamed eye on the crowd, he was performing in an exaggerated manner. The audience watched quietly giving nothing away, and stood in a semi-circle which encroached some way on to the road, for despite the reproving looks of a few passers-by who were forced far into the road lifting the hems of their skirts though there had been no rain, it wanted to keep its distance from Tull. Encouraged by something, Tull burst into a frenzy of shadow-boxing, just like (so M. thought) one of those children who for no reason at all suddenly spurt down the road for a distance then stop. Sick at heart he sat, arms slack by his sides, straining to hear the tapping of Tull's wrestling pumps which circled slowly on the pavement at the edge of his view. He looked up; some knew him - the two attendants from the dance-hall foyer who seemed unable to place him; a few men and women he'd known at early school only as faces, not in the habit of acknowledging him which two of them now did for the first time in thirty years, after M. had forced them to meet his eye.
Tull had gently taken hold of his wrist, raised him, pressed his face against M.'s and whispered something which M. didn't catch, though he sensed it was encouraging. He was pulled by Tull who backed onto the mat. Tull was wearing black full-length tights, such as a dancer might wear, which M. found repulsive; he raised his gaze and to his surprise found Tull bare torsoed. Had he been like this all the time? He must have been wearing a coat or something until now, surely. M. scoured the ground in search of a discarded coat. He must himself prepare his dress, for wasn't Tull already crouching in the centre of the mat ready to pounce? He removed his jacket and folded it once on the ground, then emptied his pockets.
Alarmed he saw how Tull had deliberately made himself look smaller than him - as if M. for one single moment had had it in mind to attack Tull! The idea was ludicrous. M. backed away. A ripple of laughter ran through the audience, and he began to bargain with Tull. "I'm apprehensive; you must realise that. And it's no good for wrestling, for both you and I want me to put on a good show; let there be no doubt about that. Is it attractive to see a nervous man being thrown by one more confident? For some audiences perhaps; the sort who would willingly pay to see someone beating a dog to pulp. But all along you've been at pains to stress that it's the art of your skill which you're most eager to show - I'd particularly noticed this." He swallowed heavily. "Wouldn't it be better to take the throws slowly, to only half complete a throw as it were, enough to indicate what would happen in the very next instant, thereby to leave something for the imagination? That way there's no nervousness, thus we can move with grace and the very point of your skill (It's art) will become even more apparent . . ."
The audience had been paying eager attention to the speech; a few had nodded agreement. Tull suddenly brightened. Complete throws! What sort of a fancy was this? Half-completed moves - that was the ticket. Had M. really been thinking he was going to make complete throws? Why, after only the first throw M. would, most likely, be rendered useless for the rest of the show. What a fool M. was! Having taken M's arm by the elbow, turned and lifted him on to his shoulder, he addressed the audience. M. noticed that Tull's hands which had pressed against his face at one point, were infected with some disease which caused the skin to flake. Two passers-by stopped for a few seconds; clapped each other on the back and raced off. There followed a move in which M. was lowered onto a back breaker - Tull's raised knee - and held there while his limbs fluttered to maintain a balance. M. hearing some sniggering at his feet, redoubled his efforts to steady his limbs; then after he had been lain flat upon the canvas, was pleased to see Tull, who had by now started to make another of his parading circuits of the mat, take a sideways kick at some crouching youth. He feared for Tull's control, for the audience was becoming restless, and also troubled by waves of his own embarrassment he began to rise with the intention of perhaps joining Tull in his parading circuit; but was abruptly returned to the stool, which spread its legs somewhat, by a deft press on the top of his head from Tull. He fell into a state of gloom. Only Bridget could rescue him; she would make everyone let him go and not feel disappointed that they'd done so, thus avoiding any guilt he might have felt. In despair he cast his eyes over the street. Was that heel disappearing round a distant corner, hers?
Having plunged his arm into the alley behind him, all the while keeping his face turned to the audience, Tull dragged forward a metal chest. From it he brought forth a form of yoke. With the contraption slung across his shoulders, he pointed out certain features which he wanted to draw attention to - the hardness of the collar across his neck; then the comfortable padding on the saddle at either end. And devoting his attention to a small boy was taking an interest, he let him feel just a little of the weight of the yoke on his outstretched arms; after which he proved the strength of the yoke against his knee. Tull wished for similar weights on his saddles; and so M. had to stand opposite a man of similar size who had been drawn unwilling from the audience. The man grinned stupidly at him. When Tull had flexed his legs and steadied the yoke at knee height, they took their places and Tull lifted slowly, trembling somewhat and causing his two assistants to lean inwards on their saddles and grip the yoke arms with both hands.
A man at the front wearing his hat on the back of his head, a well-known hoodlum who until now had been standing arms folded, burst into peals of laughter which were immediately imitated by his friends arranged around him like guards. M. heard sarcastic cries of "Some strength!" and "Shake a leg", and as he wished to be let down now, swung about on his saddle, spoiling the balance. At first smiling, but soon laughing alongside the hoodlum, the rest of the audience, who had by now turned their affections from Tull, stirred itself suddenly finding a need to stretch its limbs and move on. Lurching forwards and backwards in attempts to scoop back his second assistant who already could see his friends leaving down the street and was trying to vacate his saddle, Tull with a call from someone of "Leave him to his mat" ringing in his ears, struggled then folded to the ground as M. and the assistant sprang off the yoke simultaneously in different directions. Grinning, M. followed the crowd though they payed him no attention. Some of them were practising holds on one another as they went. He heard, some way behind, the mat and box thrown back into the alley. At last they rounded a corner and M. could turn and look behind him. Tull had disappeared. M. ran to the next corner; listened there, and ducked down a side-street keeping the trees well to one side to give a clear view.
Tull, leaning against the wall of the railway station, seemed to have been waiting for him. M. drew himself up; then addressed him. "You're trying continually to turn heads; all the while trying to turn unwilling heads. Perhaps some of us can - I don't know anything about that - but not you; you have nothing we want." He grew bolder in his recklessness. "If you have a talent, it's not one we're interested in. Like me, you live alone - this should have been a clear enough clue to your predicament." Furious, Tull grabbed him round the neck, and shouted "You and your talk of 'turning heads'." Thrusting him like a pole, he wedged M.'s head in the gap between a tree and the station, took his body and wrenched, turned, until M., understanding Tull and willingly excusing his exasperation, collapsed to the ground.
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