A BICYCLE AND SOME OVERALLS
I was taken so utterly by surprise that nothing except sheer strength
saved me from going over. As it was I staggered back a couple of
paces, fetching up against the railings with a bang that nearly
knocked the breath out of me. By a stroke of luck I must have crushed
my opponent's hand against one of the bars, for with a cry of pain he
momentarily slackened his grip.
That was all I wanted. Wrenching my left arm free, I brought up my
elbow under his chin with a wicked jolt; and then, before he could
recover, I smashed home a short right-arm punch that must have landed
somewhere in the neighbourhood of his third waistcoat button. Anyhow
it did the business all right. With a quaint noise, like the gurgle of
a half-empty bath, he promptly released me from his embrace, and sank
down on to the grass almost as swiftly and silently as he had arisen.
I doubt if a more perfectly timed blow has ever been delivered, but
unfortunately I had no chance of studying its effects. Through the fog
I could hear the sound of footsteps--quick heavy footsteps hurrying
towards me from either direction. For one second I thought of
scrambling back over the railings and taking to the wood again. Then
suddenly a kind of mischievous exhilaration at the danger gripped hold
of me, and jumping over the prostrate figure on the ground I bolted
forwards into the mist. The warders, who must have been quite close,
evidently heard me, for from both sides came hoarse shouts of "There
he goes!" "Look out there!" and other well-meant pieces of advice.
It was a funny sort of sensation dodging through the fog, feeling that
at any moment one might blunder up against the muzzle of a loaded
carbine. The only guide I had as to my direction was the slope of the
ground. I knew that as long as I kept on going uphill I was more or
less on the right track, for the big granite-strewn bulk of North
Hessary lay right in front of me, and I had to cross it to get to the
Walkham Valley.
On I went, the ground rising higher and higher, until at last the
wet slippery grass began to give way to a broken waste of rocks and
heather. I had reached the top, and although I could see nothing on
account of the mist, I knew that right below me lay the woods, with
only about a mile of steeply sloping hillside separating me from their
agreeable privacy.
Despite the cold and the wet and the fact that I was getting devilish
hungry, my spirits somehow began to rise. Good luck always acts on me
as a sort of tonic, and so far I had certainly been amazingly lucky. I
felt that if only the rain would clear up now and give me a chance of
getting dry, Fate would have treated me as handsomely as an escaped
murderer had any right to expect.
Making my way carefully across the plateau, for the ground was stiff
with small holes and gullies and I had no wish to sprain my ankle, I
began the descent of the opposite side. The mist here was a good deal
thinner, but night was coming on so rapidly that as far as seeing
where I was going was concerned I was very little better off than I
had been on the top of the hill.
Below me, away to the right, a blurred glimmer of light just made
itself visible. This I took to be Merivale village, on the Tavistock
road; and not being anxious to trespass upon its simple hospitality, I
sheered off slightly in the opposite direction. At last, after about
twenty minutes' scrambling, I began to hear a faint trickle of running
water, and a few more steps brought me to the bank of the Walkham.
I stood there for a little while in the darkness, feeling a kind of
tired elation at my achievement. My chances of escape might still be
pretty thin, but I had at least reached a temporary shelter. For five
miles away to my left stretched the pleasantly fertile valley, and
until I chose to come out of it all the warders on Dartmoor might hunt
themselves black in the face without finding me.
I can't say exactly how much farther I tramped that evening. When one
is stumbling along at night through an exceedingly ill-kept wood in a
state of hunger, dampness, and exhaustion, one's judgment of distance
is apt to lose some of its finer accuracy. I imagine, however, that I
must have covered at least three more miles before my desire to lie
down and sleep became too poignant to be any longer resisted.
I hunted about in the darkness until I discovered a small patch of
fairly dry grass which had been more or less protected from the rain
by an overhanging rock. I might perhaps have done better, but I was
too tired to bother. I just dropped peacefully down where I stood, and
in spite of my bruises and my soaked clothes I don't think I had been
two minutes on the ground before I was fast asleep.
* * * * *
Tommy Morrison always used to say that only unintelligent people
woke up feeling really well. If he was right I must have been in a
singularly brilliant mood when I again opened my eyes.
It was still fairly dark, with the raw, sour darkness of an early
March morning, and all round me the invisible drip of the trees was as
persistent as ever. Very slowly and shakily I scrambled to my feet. My
head ached savagely, I was chilled to the core, and every part of
my body felt as if it had been trampled on by a powerful and rather
ill-tempered mule.
I was hungry too--Lord, how hungry I was! Breakfast in the prison is
not exactly an appetizing meal, but at that moment the memory of its
thin gruel and greasy cocoa and bread seemed to me beautiful beyond
words.
I looked round rather forlornly. As an unpromising field for foraging
in, a Dartmoor wood on a dark March morning takes a lot of beating.
It is true that there was plenty of water--the whole ground and air
reeked with it--but water, even in unlimited quantities, is a poor
basis for prolonged exertion.
There was nothing else to be got, however, so I had to make the best
of it. I lay down full length beside a small spring which gurgled
along the ground at my feet, and with the aid of my hands lapped up
about a pint and a half. When I had finished, apart from the ache in
my limbs I felt distinctly better.
The question was what to do next. Hungry or not, it would be madness
to leave the shelter of the woods until evening, for not only would
the warders be all over the place, but by this time everyone who lived
in the neighbourhood would have been warned of my escape. My best
chance seemed to lie in stopping where I was as long as daylight
lasted, and then staking everything on a successful burglary.
It was not a cheerful prospect, and before the morning was much older
it seemed less cheerful still. If you can imagine what it feels
like to spend hour after hour crouching in the heart of a wood in a
pitiless drizzle of rain, you will be able to get some idea of what I
went through. If I had only had a pipe and some baccy, things would
have been more tolerable; as it was there was nothing to do but to sit
and shiver and grind my teeth and think about George.
I thought quite a lot about George. I seemed to see his face as he
read the news of my escape, and I could picture the feverish way in
which he would turn to each edition of the paper to find out whether I
had been recaptured. Then I began to imagine our meeting, and George's
expression when he realized who it was. The idea was so pleasing that
it almost made me forget my present misery.
It must have been about midday when I decided on a move. In a way I
suppose it was a rash thing to do, but I had got so cursedly cramped
and cold again that I felt if I didn't take some exercise I should
never last out the day. Even as it was, my legs had lost practically
all feeling, and for the first few steps I took I was staggering about
like a drunkard.
Keeping to the thickest part of the wood, I made my way slowly
forward; my idea being to reach the top of the valley and then lie low
again until nightfall. My progress was not exactly rapid, for after
creeping a yard or two at a time I would crouch down and listen
carefully for any sounds of danger. I had covered perhaps a mile in
this spasmodic fashion when a gradual improvement in the light ahead
told me that I was approaching open ground. A few steps farther, and
through a gap in the trees a red roof suddenly came into view, with a
couple of chimney-pots smoking away cheerfully in the rain.
It gave me a bit of a start, for I had not expected to run into
civilization quite so soon as this. I stopped where I was and did
a little bit of rapid thinking. Where there's a house there must
necessarily be some way of getting at it, and the only way I could
think of in this case was a private drive up the hill into the main
Devonport road. If there was such a drive the house was no doubt a
private residence and a fairly large one at that.
With infinite precaution I began to creep forward again. Between the
trunks of the trees I could catch glimpses of a stout wood paling
about six feet high which apparently ran the whole length of the
grounds, separating them from the wood. On the other side of this
fence I could hear, as I drew nearer, a kind of splashing noise, and
every now and then the sound of somebody moving about and whistling.
The last few yards consisted of a strip of open grass marked by deep
cart-ruts. Across this I crawled on my hands and knees, and getting
right up against the fence began very carefully to search around for
a peep-hole. At last I found a tiny gap between two of the boards. It
was the merest chink, but by gluing my eye to it I was just able to
see through.
I was looking into a square gravel-covered yard, in the centre of
which a man in blue overalls was cleaning the mud off a small
motor car. He was evidently the owner, for he was a prosperous,
genial-looking person of the retired Major type, and he was lightening
his somewhat damp task by puffing away steadily at a pipe. I watched
him with a kind of bitter jealousy. I had no idea who he was, but
for the moment I hated him fiercely. Why should he be able to potter
around in that comfortable self-satisfied fashion, while I, Neil
Lyndon, starved, soaked, and hunted like a wild beast, was crouching
desperately outside his palings?
It was a natural enough emotion, but I was in too critical a position
to waste time in asking myself questions. I realized that if burglary
had to be done, here was the right spot. By going farther I should
only be running myself into unnecessary risk, and probably without
finding a house any more suitable to my purpose.
I squinted sideways through the hole, trying to master the geography
of the place. On the left was a high bank of laurels, and just at the
corner I could see the curve of the drive, turning away up the hill.
On the other side of the yard was a small garage, built against the
wall, while directly facing me was the back of the house.
I was just digesting these details, when a sudden sigh from the
gentleman in the yard attracted my attention. He had apparently had
enough of cleaning the car, for laying down the cloth he had been
using, he stepped back and began to contemplate his handiwork.
It was not much to boast about, but it seemed to be good enough for
him. At all events he came forward again, and taking off the brake,
proceeded very slowly to push the car back towards the garage. At
the entrance he stopped for a moment, and going inside brought out a
bicycle which he leaned against the wall. Then he laboriously shoved
the car into its appointed place, put back the bicycle, and standing
in the doorway started to take off his overalls.
I need hardly say I watched him with absorbed interest. The sight of
the bicycle had sent a little thrill of excitement tingling down my
back, for it opened up possibilities in the way of escape that five
minutes before had seemed wildly out of reach. If I could only steal
the machine and the overalls as well, I should at least stand a good
chance of getting clear away from the Moor before I was starved or
captured. In addition to that I should be richer by a costume which
would completely cover up the tasteful but rather pronounced pattern
of my clothes.
My heart beat faster with excitement as with my eye pressed tight to
the peep-hole I followed every movement of my unconscious quarry.
Whistling cheerfully to himself, he stripped off the dark blue cotton
trousers and oil-stained jacket that he was wearing and hung them on a
nail just inside the door. Then he gave a last look round, presumably
to satisfy himself that everything was in order, and shutting the door
with a bang, turned the key in the lock.
I naturally thought he was going to stuff that desirable object into
his pocket, but as it happened he did nothing of the kind. With a
throb of half-incredulous delight I saw that he was standing on
tiptoe, inserting it into some small hiding-place just under the edge
of the iron roof.
I didn't wait for further information. At any moment someone might
have come blundering round the corner of the paling, and I felt that I
had tempted Fate quite enough already. So, abandoning my peep-hole,
I turned round, and with infinite care crawled back across the grass
into the shelter of the trees.
Once there, however, I rolled over on the ground and metaphorically
hugged myself. The situation may not appear to have warranted such
excessive rapture, but when a man is practically hopeless even the
wildest of possible chances comes to him like music and sunshine.
Forgetting my hunger and my wet clothes in my excitement, I lay there
thinking out my plan of action. I could do nothing, of course, until
it was dark: in fact it would be really better to wait till the
household had gone to bed, for several of the back windows looked
right out on the garage. Then, provided I could climb the paling and
get out the bicycle without being spotted, I had only to push it up
the drive to find myself on the Devonport road.
With this comforting reflection I settled myself down to wait. It was
at least four hours from darkness, with another four to be added to
that before I dared make a move. Looking back now, I sometimes wonder
how I managed to stick it out. Long before dusk my legs and arms
had begun to ache again with a dull throbbing sort of pain that got
steadily worse, while the chill of my wet clothes seemed to eat into
my bones. Once or twice I got up and crawled a few yards backwards and
forwards, but the little additional warmth this performance gave me
did not last long. I dared not indulge in any more violent exercise
for fear that there might be warders about in the wood.
What really saved me, I think, was the rain stopping. It came to an
end quite suddenly, in the usual Dartmoor fashion, and within half an
hour most of the mist had cleared off too. I knew enough of the local
weather signs to be pretty certain that we were in for a fine night;
and sure enough, half an hour after the sun had set a large moon was
shining down from a practically cloudless sky.
From where I was lying I could, by raising my head, just see the
two top windows of the house. About ten, as near as I could judge,
somebody lit a candle in one of these rooms, and then coming to the
window drew down the blind. I waited patiently till I saw this dull
glimmer of light disappear, then, with a not unpleasant throb of
excitement, I crawled out from my hiding-place and recrossed the grass
to my former point of observation. Very gingerly I lifted myself up
and peered over the top of the paling. The yard was in shadow, and so
far as I could see the back door and all the various outbuildings were
locked up for the night.
Under ordinary circumstances I could have cleared that blessed paling
in about thirty seconds, but in my present state of exhaustion it
proved to be no easy matter. However, with a mighty effort I at last
succeeded in getting my right elbow on the top, and from that point I
managed to scramble up and hoist myself over. Then, keeping a watchful
eye on the windows, I advanced towards the garage.
I found the key first shot. It was resting on a little ledge under the
roof, and a thrill of joy went through me as my fingers closed over
it. I pushed it into the keyhole, and very carefully I turned the
lock.
It was quite dark inside, but I could just see the outline of the
overalls hanging on the nail. I unhooked them, and placing the coat on
the ground I drew on the oily trousers over my convict breeches
and stockings. I could tell by the feel that they covered me up
completely.
As I picked up the coat something rattled in one of the side pockets.
I put my hand in and pulled out a box of wax matches, which despite
the dampness of the garment still seemed dry enough to strike. For a
moment I hesitated, wondering whether I dared to light one. It was
dangerous, especially if there happened to be a window looking out
towards the house, but on the other hand I badly wanted a little
illumination to see what I was doing.
I decided to risk it, and closing the door, struck one against the
wall. It flared up, and shading it with my hand I cast a hasty glance
round the garage. The bicycle was leaning against a shelf just beyond
me, and on a nail above it I saw an old disreputable-looking cap. I
pounced on it joyfully, for it was the one thing I needed to complete
my disguise. Then, wheeling the bicycle past the car, I blew out the
match and reopened the door.
Stepping as noiselessly as possible on the gravel, I pushed the bike
across the yard. There was a large patch of moonlight between me and
the end of the drive, and I went through it with a horrible feeling
in the small of my back that at any moment someone might fling up
a window and bawl out, "Stop thief!" Nothing of the kind occurred,
however, and with a vast sense of thankfulness I gained the shelter of
the laurels.
The only thing that worried me was the thought that there might be a
lodge at the top. If so I was by no means out of the wood. Even the
most guileless of lodge-keepers would be bound to think it rather
curious that I should be creeping out at this time of night
accompanied by his master's bicycle.
Keeping one hand against the bushes to guide me, and pushing the
machine with the other, I groped my way slowly up the winding path. As
I came cautiously round the last corner I saw with a sigh of relief
that my fears were groundless. A few yards ahead of me in the
moonlight was a plain white gate, and beyond that the road.
I opened the gate with deliberate care, and closed it in similar
fashion behind me. Then for a moment I stopped. I was badly out of
breath, partly from weakness and partly from excitement, so laying the
machine against the bank I leaned back beside it.
Everything was quite still. On each side of me the broad, white,
moonlit roadway stretched away into the night, flanked by a row of
telegraph poles which stood out like gaunt sentries. It was curious
to think that they had probably put in a busy day's work, carrying
messages about me.
There was a lamp on the front bracket, and as soon as I felt a little
better I took out my matches and proceeded to light it. Then, wheeling
my bike out into the roadway, I turned in the direction of Devonport
and mounted. I felt a bit shaky at first, for, apart from the fact
that I was worn out and pretty near starving, I had not been on a
machine for over three years. However, after wobbling wildly from side
to side, I managed to get the thing going, and pedalled off down the
centre of the road as steadily as my half-numbed senses would allow.
For perhaps a quarter of a mile the ground kept fairly level, then,
breasting a slight rise, I found myself at the top of a hill. I shoved
on the brake and went slowly round the first corner, where I got an
unexpected surprise. From this point the road ran straight away down
through a small village, across a bridge over the river, and up a
short steep slope on the farther side.
I took in the situation at a glance, and, releasing my brake, I let
the old bike have her head. It certainly wouldn't suit me to have to
dismount in the village and walk up the opposite slope, and I was much
too exhausted to do anything else unless I could take it in a rush.
Down I went, the machine flying noiselessly along and gathering pace
every yard. I had nearly reached the bottom and was just getting ready
to pedal, when all of a sudden, I caught sight of something that
almost paralyzed me. Right ahead, in the centre of the village square,
stood a prison warder. His back was towards me and I could see the
moonlight gleaming on the barrel of his carbine.