HENEVER I see a kit-bag, a curious feeling comes all over me.
I was in the Metropolitan Police Force over thirty years. I have now retired on a sergeant's pension. During the whole time I was a policeman I only once came into personal contact with anything very remarkable—I mean, out of the ordinary run of "drunks," assaults, felonies, burglaries, and that kind of thing. On that occasion a kit-bag played a pretty conspicuous part. So, to this hour, whenever I see one, I look at it out of the corner of my eye, as it were, and I ask myself a question.
I had then joined six years. I was attached to the Hampstead division. At that time I was on night duty. The particular night on which it happened was that of the sixth of September. A Tuesday it was. I am never likely to forget it. It was nasty weather. There had been a deal of wet during the day; and though when I left home it was not actually raining, there was a touch of fog about, and it was colder than one likes to have it at that time of the year, especially when one has to be out and about in it all night. I had had home worries. I left home, in consequence, a little later than I cared to do, for it was a good step from my place to the station-house. I was not sure my watch was quite right. Fearing that it might be later than I supposed, as I passed, I looked in at St. John's Wood railway station to compare their clock with mine. The last train must have just come in. They seemed to be on the point of closing the premises. The booking-office was empty, with the exception of one thing, a kit-bag. It stood against the wall close to the glass doors which led into the refreshment-room. To the best of my belief, that was the first time I had ever seen a thing of the kind—that is, to notice it. I fancy they must have been novelties in those days. And I've never seen a larger one than that was since. It looked brand new. I don't know how it was, but, as I said to my wife afterwards, directly I saw it I felt uncomfortable. I can't explain it; I am not trying to; but there the feeling was.
I left the bag still in sole possession of the booking-office and hurried off to the station-house, for, as it turned out, my watch was a trifle slow. I went out with the rest of the chaps who were on the night shift.
Part of my beat lay past a row of houses which was called Quarnley Terrace. Decent sized houses they were, standing back from the road. A strip of ground was in front of each, shut off from the public by a low stuccoed wall, surmounted by stuccoed pilasters. This was backed—at least, in most cases—by a tree or two, some shrubs, and that kind of thing, the whole forming an effectual screen.
My wife had been ill all day, and when I came away was worse. If I had not known that it would mean trouble, I should have stayed with her. Altogether, I was in a pretty state of mind; because, after all, though some people do not seem to think so, a policeman is a man. I had arranged with them at home that I should be at certain points at certain times. If anything happened, they were to bring me news at once. One of these points was the corner of Quarnley Terrace. I was hanging about there, all of a tremor of anxiety, when I saw, hurrying up Acacia Road, a girl. It was Lizzie, my wife's sister. In another half-minute she was at my side, all out of breath.
"It's all right—it's a boy," she said.
"A boy!" I gasped, for the news sort of caught me in the wind. "And how's Mary?"
"She's all right. They're both of them all right—doing famously. Couldn't be better, the doctor says. But I can't stop; I only ran out to let you know."
She did not stop—not longer than to exchange another dozen words. Presently she was scurrying back again, and I was marching along past Quarnley Terrace.
You feel queer the first time you are a father. I dare say when you have had a dozen or so, the addition of one or two more does not much matter. But the first time you know that a baby has just been born to you, it is different. At least, it was with me. You feel, all at once, that you have a new outlook on to the world. I know I did. What with thinking of the baby; and what I should call him; and whether I should make a policeman of him when his time came; and wondering how Mary was; and what she would say to me in the morning; and what I should say to her—I can tell you that I was in a nice sort of a fluster. My thoughts were not much occupied with the preservation of law and order. I dare say that I should have walked on and on, all through the night, thinking of Mary and the baby, and the baby and Mary, if, suddenly, I had not heard a sound.