Jerome K. Jerome was a popular turn-of-the-century humorist. He was a born storyteller, and his works often began as anecdotes that he developed into short stories, plays, essays, or novels. He sometimes used his short stories as the initial embodiments of themes or moral twists that he later transferred to the stage. Often the lack of character development in his short fiction can be attributed to the fact that he was writing a synopsis or abstract to be fleshed out later in another genre, usually drama. Certainly the story “The Passing of the Third Floor Back” (1907) seems slight compared to the treatment given in the play of the same name, even though critics of the day still thought the stage characters stiff and flat. In this sense Jerome is a better playwright than a short-story writer. But many of his short stories seem to be written out of a true love for the genre and are quite successful as vehicles for his purposes, sometimes serious and sometimes humorous.

Jerome K. Jerome

Jerome K. Jerome PASSING OF THE THIRD FLOOR BACK

The neighbourhood of Bloomsbury Square towards four o'clock of a November afternoon is not so crowded as to secure to the stranger, of appearance anything out of the common, immunity from observation. Tibb's boy, screaming at the top of his voice that she was his honey, stopped suddenly, stepped backwards on to the toes of a voluble young lady wheeling a perambulator, and remained deaf, apparently, to the somewhat personal remarks of the voluble young lady. Not until he had reached the next corner — and then more as a soliloquy than as information to the street — did Tibb's boy recover sufficient interest in his own affairs to remark that he was her bee. The voluble young lady herself, following some half-a-dozen yards behind, forgot her wrongs in contemplation of the stranger's back. There was this that was peculiar about the stranger's back: that instead of being flat it presented a decided curve. “It ain't a 'ump, and it don't look like kervitcher of the spine,” observed the voluble young lady to herself. “Blimy if I don't believe 'e's taking 'ome 'is washing up his back.”

The constable at the corner, trying to seem busy doing nothing, noticed the stranger's approach with gathering interest. “That's an odd sort of a walk of yours, young man,” thought the constable. “You take care you don't fall down and tumble over yourself.”

“Thought he was a young man,” murmured the constable, the stranger having passed him. “He had a young face right enough.”

The daylight was fading. The stranger, finding it impossible to read the name of the street upon the corner house, turned back.

“Why, 'tis a young man,” the constable told himself; “a mere boy.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the stranger; “but would you mind telling me my way to Bloomsbury Square.”

“This is Bloomsbury Square,” explained the constable; “leastways round the corner is. What number might you be wanting?”

The stranger took from the ticket pocket of his tightly buttoned overcoat a piece of paper, unfolded it and read it out: “Mrs. Pennycherry. Number Forty-eight.”

“Round to the left,” instructed him the constable; “fourth house. Been recommended there?”

“By — by a friend,” replied the stranger. “Thank you very much.”

“Ah,” muttered the constable to himself; “guess you won't be calling him that by the end of the week, young—”

“Funny,” added the constable, gazing after the retreating figure of the stranger. “Seen plenty of the other sex as looked young behind and old in front. This cove looks young in front and old behind. Guess he'll look old all round if he stops long at mother Pennycherry's: stingy old cat.”

Constables whose beat included Bloomsbury Square had their reasons for not liking Mrs. Pennycherry. Indeed it might have been difficult to discover any human being with reasons for liking that sharp-featured lady. Maybe the keeping of second-rate boarding houses in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury does not tend to develop the virtues of generosity and amiability.

Meanwhile the stranger, proceeding upon his way, had rung the bell of Number Forty-eight. Mrs. Pennycherry, peeping from the area and catching a glimpse, above the railings, of a handsome if somewhat effeminate masculine face, hastened to readjust her widow's cap before the looking-glass while directing Mary Jane to show the stranger, should he prove a problematical boarder, into the dining-room, and to light the gas.

“And don't stop gossiping, and don't you take it upon yourself to answer questions. Say I'll be up in a minute,” were Mrs. Pennycherry's further instructions, “and mind you hide your hands as much as you can.”

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