THE SHOOTING PUNT
On the morning after her interview with Jim, Evelyn sat in front of a
writing-table by a window at Whitelees. She had meant to tell a friend
about her lover, but now did not know if she would or not. For one
thing, the morning was cold and dreary and she felt dull. Composition
was difficult; the glowing phrases she had thought to use would not
come. It was raining outside, the lawn was strewn with wet dead
leaves, and the bare trees tossed their branches in the wind. Shallow
pools spread about the terrace and the hills were blurred by mist.
Winter had begun and Evelyn did not like winter in the country.
She put down her pen. Last night's thrill had gone and she was
languid. When she had broken his reserve, Jim was the ardent and
romantic lover she had thought; but she had been forced to break down
his reserve and this carried a sting. For some hours she had been
dazzled by the glamor of romance and had rejoiced in her rashness, but
the light was getting dim. Things looked different in the morning.
Jim loved her and she was flattered by his exaggerated notion of her
worth. She had meant to justify his confidence, but she knew this
would be hard, because she knew herself. In a sense, Jim was not her
kind, and by and by they might jar. She had self-control, but she was
not patient. Moreover, it looked as if Jim were poor, and although she
had some money she was not rich. Thrilled by keen excitement and
half-consciously acting, she had told him that poverty did not daunt
her, but when she came to think, it would be hard to go without the
expensive refinements she enjoyed.
With something of an effort, she banished her disturbing thoughts. She
was going to marry Jim. Perhaps she could mold him a little. Yet she
did not know; she did not want to conventionalize him; there was
something rather fine about his ruggedness. Then she began to wonder
why she had asked him to tell nobody yet. Girls she knew had found an
obvious satisfaction in exhibiting their lovers, but she had felt a
need for concealment. This was not because she feared her mother's
disapproval; it looked as if she had unconsciously tried to leave open
a way of escape. By and by a car rolled up the drive and Mordaunt came
in.
"I am going to the town and wondered whether you wanted anything I
could get for you," he said.
Evelyn said he might call for some goods her mother had ordered, and he
was silent for a moment or two. Then he asked: "Were you and Jim
quarreling in the hall last evening?"
"No," she said, smiling. "Why do you imagine this?"
"Jim was preoccupied. I asked him for matches and he gave me his
cigarette case."
"He is often preoccupied," Evelyn rejoined, with a careless laugh. "I
expect he was thinking about his dykes; he talked about the marsh."
Mordaunt studied her. She was calm and looked amused by his curiosity.
Moreover, her suggestion was plausible.
"Jim is not always happy in his choice of subjects, but I won't
sympathize with you," he said. "You could have stopped him if you had
liked. You often stop me."
"I suppose that is so," Evelyn agreed. "For one thing, it is not much
trouble. You know when one is bored."
"Your tastes are mine; we belong to the same school. It makes for
understanding."
"After all," said Evelyn, "one likes something new."
Mordaunt laughed and said he must go, and when his car rolled away
Evelyn mused. Lance's remark was justified; they did belong to the
same school, and in the main their views agreed. This had some
drawbacks, but it had advantages. Novelty was stimulating for a time,
but soon lost its charm; one was safe if one held fast by the things
one knew and valued, even if one's standard of value was not altogether
just. Evelyn admitted her cynically philosophic mood was strange, but
the dreary day accounted for something, and perhaps a reaction from
last night's thrill had begun. A few minutes afterwards Mrs. Halliday
came in and they talked about household matters.
In the meantime, Mordaunt drove to the town and stopped at a lawyer's
office. There were three partners in the firm which managed Bernard
Dearham's business; two sober, white-haired gentlemen, and one who was
young. The others gave the house weight and respectability, but
Holbrook supplied the driving force and Mordaunt imagined his partners
did not know where he was leading them. Holbrook's room, in a tall old
house that looked across a quiet square, was handsomely furnished, and
Mordaunt sat down in a comfortable chair.
"I want to borrow some money for about six months," he said.
"How much do you want?" Holbrook asked, and when Mordaunt told him,
looked thoughtful. Mordaunt had borrowed before and had punctually
repaid principal and interest.
"We are not money-lenders, you know," he said. "I negotiated the last
loan rather as a favor than a matter of business."
Mordaunt smiled indulgently. "For all that, you lend money; your
clients', I suppose. I don't know if your legal business would keep
you going long."
"If we invest in anything outside the regular high-class securities, we
run some risk."
"I don't think the risk is great," Mordaunt replied. "I sometimes
speculate, and you have grounds for knowing I'm generally lucky. Well,
some friends floated a small private company to develop a West Indian
estate and we have spent much of our capital on new plantations. The
value of our produce is rising, but we need funds to carry us on until
the crop is shipped and have agreed to a fresh levy. I must pay my
share."
"The sum is large."
"You lent me nearly as much before."
"I did," said Holbrook. "Things were different then----"
He stopped, and Mordaunt gave him a keen glance. Holbrook's hesitation
was curious.
"How are things different?" Mordaunt asked.
"You bought shares that seldom fluctuate much. You risked losing a
small margin; now you may lose the principal."
"The loss would be mine. I have always paid."
"That is so. The trouble is, if this venture went wrong you might not
be able to pay."
Mordaunt was silent for a few moments. Holbrook had been willing to
negotiate the other loans; it looked as if the fellow had now less
grounds for trusting him, although it was not his honesty but his power
to pay he doubted. Why did Holbrook think his power had got less?
"Am I to understand you refuse to lend?" he asked.
"I would sooner not. However, if a smaller sum----"
"A smaller sum would not help," Mordaunt replied with a touch of
haughtiness. "Well, I will not urge you and dare say you are occupied."
The lawyer let him go and Mordaunt thought hard as he drove home.
Holbrook had formerly been accommodating, as if he wanted to satisfy a
client whose business might by and by be valuable, but his attitude was
now different. There was no traffic on the road that went up a long
hill, and Mordaunt could concentrate on the puzzle. When he was
half-way up he began to see a light. Bernard had gone to town and had
stayed some time; he had probably called on the lawyers who had made
his will. The light got clearer and when Mordaunt reached the top he
thought he understood.
Bernard had altered his will and Mordaunt would not get as much as he,
and no doubt Holbrook, had thought possible. The hospital would cost a
large sum, but this did not account for everything. Although Bernard
often used the formal manners of the old school, he had a rude vein; he
had broken down stubborn opposition and beaten determined strikers
while he developed the famous iron mines. No doubt, he saw in Jim
qualities like his and now meant to leave him the most part of his
estate. All Jim got would be taken from the others, and Mordaunt
thought Holbrook's caution indicated that his share had been severely
cut down. Jim was going to get money Mordaunt had imagined was his.
He let the engine go, the car leaped forward, and he drove furiously
until he reached the Dryholm lodge, for he wanted to find out if his
supposition was correct. When he put the car into the garage a man was
cleaning a limousine.
"I'm afraid I have given you another job," Mordaunt said. "You haven't
got the big car properly polished yet."
"She got very wet when I took Mr. Dearham to town."
"It was a bad day. Did he keep you waiting in the rain?"
"I was outside the lawyers' office for an hour," the man replied.
Mordaunt frowned as he went to the house. The reason for Holbrook's
caution was plain, and if Janet Halliday imagined Bernard meant to
leave Jim nothing, she was much deceived. Bernard had probably meant
to deceive her, but Mordaunt thought he would not meddle. He went to
his room and stopped for some time, smoking and pondering.
A few days afterwards, Jim and Jake, wearing long waders and yellow
oilskins, crept up a hollow in the sands. It was about nine o'clock in
the evening, they were a mile from land, and light mist drifted about
the bay, but the moon shone through. The tide was flowing, the water
rippled noisily in the channel, and flakes of muddy foam and trailing
weed floated past. The harsh cry of a black-backed gull rang across
the flats and small wading birds whistled about the water's edge.
Farther off, the clanging call of black geese came out of the mist.
Jim carried a heavy ten-bore gun and his feet sank in the mud as he
crept quietly up the hollow. He liked this rough shooting, and now and
then Jake and he went out at nights. When one had hunted fierce game
in Canada, shooting driven pheasants was tame sport, and the beaters
found the birds; but on the sands one must match one's intelligence
against the instinctive cunning of the ducks and geese. Besides, there
was some risk that gave the thing a spice. Belts of sand were
dangerously soft and the tides were treacherous. Sometimes they rose
faster than one reckoned.
"The brant-geese can't be far off," he remarked presently. "It's a
pretty big gaggle and I expect some of the fat gray-lag are feeding
with them."
Jake looked at the water. "If you want a shot, I guess you'll go on;
but if I'd been alone, I'd have started home some time since. The
tide's rising fast."
"We have a quarter of an hour yet," said Jim. "Anyhow, we'll shove on
for the next bend."
They went on. Their waders and oilskins scarcely showed against the
sand, and the murmur of the current drowned the noise they made. As
they came near the bend the calling of the geese got louder, there was
a creaking beat of wings and some of the harsh cries had a different
note.
"Grey-lag," said Jim. "Another lot is coming up. They'll fly across
to the marsh when the tide moves them."
"It will move us soon," Jake rejoined.
When they reached the corner Jim was a short distance in front. The
geese were obviously restless and he crouched as low as he could get.
Jake found a hollow in the bank where the sand, undermined by the
current, had fallen down, and stood with the water creeping to his
feet. He imagined it would nearly reach his waist in mid-channel, and
they must soon get across. The beat of wings began again and harsh
cries echoed in the mist. The geese were moving and Jake balanced his
gun when Jim rose half-upright. The bank behind Jim was low and his
bent figure was outlined against the glimmering reflection of the tide.
Then, although he did not know if he had heard a noise or not, Jake
looked round and saw a long gray object slide out of the mist. It was
indistinct and very low in the water, but he knew it was a shooting
punt. It drifted up the channel towards him; a faint ripple indicating
that somebody was steering it with a short paddle. A blurred figure
lay in the well behind a bunch of reeds, and the only bold line was the
barrel of the big punt-gun that would throw a pound of shot. Jim could
not see the punt, because he was looking the other way, but it was
obvious that the gunner could see him, although Jake thought he himself
was invisible against the bank.
As a rule, one cannot aim a punt-gun; one must turn the punt, and Jake
noted that the craft swerved. The long barrel was now in line with
Jim, and although the man on board was probably steering towards the
bank for concealment, Jake thought there was something sinister about
his quiet approach. He remembered that Shanks owned the only punt on
the lower bay. He waited a few moments, unwilling to call out, lest he
should spoil his comrade's shot, but feeling disturbed. The punt was
about fifty yards from Jim and the heavy shot would not spread much;
Jake admitted that his disturbance was perhaps illogical, but he did
not like the way the big gun pointed.
When the punt was level with him he stepped out from the bank. The
indistinct figure on board did not move, but the craft swerved again
and the gun pointed straight up the channel. Jake did not know if this
was significant or not, because the current eddied, but he imagined the
fellow had seen him. Then Jim threw his gun to his shoulder and a red
flash leaped from the muzzle. There was a splash, but next moment Jake
saw a dark object overhead and pulled the trigger. The goose came
down, whirling over with long neck hanging limp, until it struck the
other bank, and Jake plunged into the channel.
"Pick up your bird and get across," he shouted, while the current
rippled about his legs.
For the next minute or two they were occupied. The tide ran fast, the
bottom was soft, and Jim's goose drifted away. He reached it, however,
and they came out on the other bank. Jake could see nothing but the
glimmering water and a narrow belt of wet sand. The geese had flown
off and the punt had vanished in the fog.
"We stopped long enough, but we've got a brant and a gray-lag. You
ought to be satisfied," he said.
"I'd have got another if you hadn't been so anxious to get across," Jim
rejoined. "Wasn't there a punt about? I thought I saw something as I
threw up my gun."
"Yes," said Jake, dryly, "Shanks' punt!"
"Of course! Nobody else keeps a punt on the low marsh. Well, we
spoiled his shot and I expect he'll feel he has a fresh grievance.
That is, if he knew who I was."
"I reckon he knew all right," Jake remarked. "Nobody else has been on
the sands for some weeks."
Jim looked at him rather hard. "Anyhow, it doesn't matter. Let's get
home. There's a hole in my wader and the water has leaked through.
This sport is pretty good, but you need a punt. I'll order one from
the fellow across the bay."
They set off and Jake could not tell if he had excited his comrade's
suspicions. Jim was sometimes reserved. Jake admitted that his own
suspicions might not be justified, but he wondered what would have
happened had he not moved out from the bank.