Our Flight

: The Blue Germ

I got out of bed and began to examine my clothes. They were strewn about

the floor and on chairs. The colour of them seemed peculiar to my

senses. My frock coat, of heavy black material, with curious braiding

and buttons, fascinated me. I counted the number of separate things that

made up my complete attire. They were twenty-four in number. I

discovered that in addition to these articles of actual wearing material

I wa in the habit of carrying on my person about sixty other articles.

For some reason I found these calculations very interesting. I had a

kind of counting mania that morning. I counted all the things I used in

dressing myself. I counted the number of stripes on my trousers and on

my wall-paper; I counted the number of rooms in my house, the articles

of furniture that they contained, and the number of electric lamps. I

went into the kitchen and counted everything I could see, to the

astonishment of my servants. I observed that my cook showed a faint blue

stain in her eyes, but that the other servants showed no signs as yet of

the Blue Disease. I went into my study and counted the books; I opened

one of them. It was the British Pharmacopoeia. I began mechanically to

count the number of drugs it contained. I was still counting them when

the breakfast gong sounded. I went across the hall and counted on my way

the number of sticks and hats and coats that were there. I finished up

by counting the number of things on the breakfast table. Then I picked

up the newspaper. There were, by the way, one hundred and four distinct

things on my breakfast table.



The paper was full of the records of crime and of our names.



The account of the Prime Minister's statement in the House was given in

full. Our names were printed in large letters, and apparently our

qualifications had been looked up, for they were mentioned, together

with a little biographical sketch. In a perfectly calm and observant

spirit I read the closely-printed column. My eye paused for some time at

an account of my personal appearance--"a small, insignificant-looking

man, with straight blue-black hair, like a Japanese doll, and an untidy

moustache, speaking very deliberately and with a manner of extreme

self-assurance."



Extreme self-assurance! I reflected that there might, after all, be some

truth in what the reporter said. On the night that I had spoken at the

Queen's Hall meeting I had been quite self-possessed. I pursued the

narrative and smiled slightly at a description of the Russian--"a

loosely-built, bearded giant, unkempt in appearance, and with huge

square hands and pale Mongolian eyes which roll like those of a maniac."

That was certainly unfair, unless the reporter had seen him at the

restaurant when Sarakoff drank the champagne. I was about to continue,

when a red brick suddenly landed neatly on my breakfast table, and

raised the number of articles on that table to one hundred and five.



There was a tinkle of falling glass; I looked up and saw that the

window was shattered. The muslin curtain in front of it had been torn

down by the passage of the brick, and the street without was visible

from where I sat. A considerable crowd had gathered on the pavement.

They saw me and a loud cry went up. The front door bell was ringing and

there was a sound of heavy blows that echoed through the house.



My housemaid came running into the room. She uttered a shriek as she saw

the faces beyond the window and ran out again. I heard a door at the

back of the house slam suddenly.



A couple of men, decently enough dressed, were getting over the area

rails with the intent of climbing in at the window. I jumped up and went

swiftly upstairs. So far I was calm. I entered Sarakoff's bedroom. It

was in darkness. The Russian was lying motionless on the bed. I shook

him by the shoulder. It seemed impossible to rouse him, and yet in

outward appearance he seemed only lightly asleep. I redoubled my efforts

and at length he opened his eyes, and his whole body, which had felt

under my hands as limp and flaccid as a pillow, suddenly seemed to

tighten up and become resilient.



"Get up," I said. "They're trying to break into the house. We may be in

danger. We can escape by the back door through the mews."



The blows on the front door were clearly audible.



"I've been listening to it for some time," he said. "But I seemed to

have lost the knack of waking up properly."



"We have no time to waste," I said firmly.



We went quickly downstairs. Sarakoff had flung a blue dressing-gown over

his pyjamas and thrust his feet into a pair of slippers. On reaching the

hall there was a loud crack and a roar of voices. In an instant the

agonizing fear swept over us. We dashed to the back of the house,

through the servants' quarters and out into the mews. Without pausing

for an instant we ran down the cobbled alley and emerged upon Devonshire

Street. We turned to the right, dashed across Portland Place and reached

Great Portland Street. We ran steadily, wholly mastered by the great

fear of physical injury, and oblivious to the people around us. We

passed the Underground Station. Our flight down the Euston Road was

extraordinary. Sarakoff was in front, his dressing-gown flying, and his

pink pyjamas making a vivid area of colour in the drab street. I

followed a few yards in the rear, hatless, with my breath coming in

gasps.



It was Sarakoff who first saw the taxi-cab. He veered suddenly into the

road and held out his arms. The cab slowed down and in a moment we were

inside it.



"Go on," shouted Sarakoff, "Drive on. Don't stop."



The driver was a man of spirit and needed no further directions. The cab

jerked forward and we sped towards St. Pancras Station.



"Follow the tram lines up to Hampstead," I called out, and he nodded. We

lay gasping in the back of the cab, cannoning helplessly as it swayed

round corners. By the time we had reached Hampstead our fear had left

us.



The cab drew up on the Spaniard's Walk and we alighted. It was a bleak

and misty morning. The road seemed deserted. A thin column of steam rose

from the radiator of the taxi, and there was a smell of over-heated

oil.



"Sharp work that," said the driver, getting out and beating his arms

across his chest. His eyes moved over us with frank curiosity. Sarakoff

shivered and drew his dressing-gown closely round him.