He looked neither to right nor left, but simply at his geese, and thus the quidnuncs of the market-place and the supporters of shop-fronts were unable to catch his eye.  He tried to feel like a gooseherd; and such was his histrionic quality, his instinct for the dramatic, he was a gooseherd, despite his blue Melton overcoat, his hard felt hat with the flattened top, and that opulent-curving collar which was the secret despair of the young dandies of Hillport.  He had the most natural air in the world.  The geese were the victims of this imaginative effort of Mr. Curtenty’s.  They took him seriously as a gooseherd.  These fourteen intelligences, each with an object in life, each bent on self-aggrandisement and the satisfaction of desires, began to follow the line of least resistance in regard to the superior intelligence unseen but felt behind them, feigning, as geese will, that it suited them so to submit, and that in reality they were still quite independent.  But in the peculiar eye of the Barnacle gander, who was leading, an observer with sufficient fancy might have deciphered a mild revolt against this triumph of the absurd, the accidental, and the futile; a passive yet Promethean spiritual defiance of the supreme powers.

Mr. Curtenty got his fourteen intelligences safely across the top of St. Luke’s Square, and gently urged them into the steep defile of Oldcastle Street.  By this time rumour had passed in front of him and run off down side-streets like water let into an irrigation system.  At every corner was a knot of people, at most windows a face.  And the Deputy-Mayor never spoke nor smiled.  The farce was enormous; the memory of it would survive revolutions and religions.

Halfway down Oldcastle Street the first disaster happened.  Electric tramways had not then knitted the Five Towns in a network of steel; but the last word of civilization and refinement was about to be uttered, and a gang of men were making patterns with wires on the skyscape of Oldcastle Street.  One of the wires, slipping from its temporary gripper, swirled with an extraordinary sound into the roadway, and writhed there in spirals.  Several of Mr. Curtenty’s geese were knocked down, and rose obviously annoyed; but the Barnacle gander fell with a clinging circle of wire round his muscular, glossy neck, and did not rise again.  It was a violent, mysterious, agonizing, and sudden death for him, and must have confirmed his theories about the arbitrariness of things.  The thirteen passed pitilessly on.  Mr. Curtenty freed the gander from the coiling wire, and picked it up, but, finding it far too heavy to carry, he handed it to a Corporation road-sweeper.

‘I’ll send for it,’ he said; ‘wait here.’

These were the only words uttered by him during a memorable journey.

The second disaster was that the deceitful afternoon turned to rain—­cold, cruel rain, persistent rain, full of sinister significance.  Mr. Curtenty ruefully raised the velvet of his Melton.  As he did so a brougham rolled into Oldcastle Street, a little in front of him, from the direction of St. Peter’s Church, and vanished towards Hillport.  He knew the carriage; he had bought it and paid for it.  Deep, far down, in his mind stirred the thought: