TONY TONKS.
ONCE I met a man who was a mighty swimmer, spending half his waking
time in the water, and even sleeping there sometimes, according to his
own account; though I found it rather hard to believe that altogether.
But one thing he told me, which I do believe, because it is not so far
out of the way, and the same thing might have happened to myself almost.
He had made a wager to swim across one of those inlets, or arms of the
sea, which may be found upon our western coast, where the tide runs in
with great force and speed, over a vast expanse of sands.
The distance from headland to headland was less than he had often
been able to traverse; but, being a stranger on that coast, he had
not reckoned, as he should have done, upon the power and strong swirl
of the tide. By these he was soon so swung about, and almost carried
under, that the sand-hills, where the people stood to watch him, stood
still themselves, instead of slowly gliding by. And the yellow current
flaked with white, across which he was striving, seemed to be the only
thing that moved.
He began to doubt about his destination, whether in this world or
the next; for the cup of his hands, as he fetched them back, and the
concave impulse of his feet as he spread his toes behind him, seemed to
tell nothing upon the vast body of water he was involved in; there was
no slide of surface along his shoulder-blades, and his chin rose and
fell at each labouring stroke, without budging an inch from the dip or
the rise. He began to feel that he was beaten, and a quiet resignation
sank into the stoutness of his heart, such as a brave man feels at
death. And he never would have lived to tell the tale, except for a
big voice from the shore, the voice of the very man who had the money
hanging on it.
“Put your feet down, Tom,” he cried; “for God’s sake put your feet
down.”
The vanquished swimmer put his feet down, though he thought it was his
death to do it; and there he felt firm sand, and stood, with the tide
which had threatened to engulf him, rippling round his panting breast,
and lapping his poor weary arms. There happened to be a spit of sand
there, far away from shore and rock, and known to the boatmen only.
There he stood, and renewed his strength, with cheers of encouragement
from the shore; and then, as the rush of the tide was slackening, after
filling the depths inshore, he threw his chest forward upon the water,
and fought his way safely to the landing-place.
“But I would not take the money,” he said; “if I had taken that man’s
money, I should have deserved to be drowned next time.”
This appeared to me to be a noble tale, showing goodness on both sides,
which is the true nobility. And it came to my memory now, because it
seemed to apply to my present state. I had battled long with unknown
waters, and against a tide too strong for me; and now, though still far
away from land, I had obtained firm footing. By what cross purpose and
crooked inrush, my power and pride had been washed away, was a question
still as dark as ever; but now I could rest on the firm conviction,
which had been only faith before, that my Kitty still was true to me,
though beguiled by some low stratagem. And I knew pretty surely who had
done it, though it might be very hard to prove.
“Don’t lose a day,” said Uncle Corny, when I told him all we had done
and heard; “never mind me, or the garden. You can make up for all
that by-and-by; and you have left your part in first-rate order. That
scoundrel follows in his mother’s track; but he is ten times worse
than she is, because he keeps his temper. You must try to do the same,
my lad. It would never do to have a row with him, and to take him by
the throat, as he deserves. There is nothing you can prove at present.
And the moment he knows that you suspect him, he will double all his
wiles and dodges. He might even make away with your poor wife. He would
rather do that, than let you regain her, and convict him of his tricks.”
“Bad as he is, he could never do that. I cannot believe that any person
living, who knows what Kitty is, could raise his hand against her. But
the wonder is, where can he have put her? Gentle as she is, she is not
a fool; and she would never submit to be restrained by force. And all
that sort of thing is quite out of date now, at any rate in England.”
“So people suppose; but stranger things are done, even in this country
still. He may even have got her in a lunatic asylum, after driving
her out of her senses first. Or more likely still, on the Continent
somewhere. Why, they do worse things than that in Spain, and in Italy,
too, from what I have heard. And as for Turkey—why, bless my heart,
they keep the women in sacks and feed them, till they are fat enough
for the Sultan. And you heard that he has gone abroad. Mrs. Wilcox said
so. That is what he has done with her; you may depend upon it.”
“But she would not have travelled with him, uncle. He would not have
dared to take her into any public place. But don’t talk about it; it
drives me wild. I see nothing to do, but to force him to confess, to
get him away somewhere by himself, and hold a pistol to his head. A
blackguard is always a coward, you know.”
“Nine out of ten are, but the tenth is not,” my uncle replied
sententiously; “no sort of violence will serve our turn. We must try
to be crafty as he is. The only plan I can see is to have him watched,
followed everywhere without his knowledge, and not put upon his guard
by a syllable from us. We had no reason to do that till now; but now we
have, for I feel pretty sure that old Hotchpot was right. You ought to
have got more out of him.”
“It was not to be done. We tried everything. And I believe he knows no
more than this—that before they quarrelled, the younger villain made a
boast of it that he would have his revenge, but never let out what his
plan was. And when Hotchpot heard that it had been done, he naturally
concluded who had done it. When we compared notes, Sam and I agreed
that in all probability there is nothing more than that.”
“It is very unlucky for us,” said my uncle, “that Henderson is going
to be married so soon. We cannot expect him to help us any more, for
a long time to come; and he has twice the head that you have. I don’t
mean to say for useful work, for there you would beat him hollow, but
for plotting, and scheming, and all sorts of dirty tricks. He has been
brought up to those things from the cradle, and he can tell a lie
splendidly, which you cannot. You are much too simple and truthful,
Kit, just as I am, for dealing with rogues and knaves. And he knows a
lot more of the bad world than we do. He is hand in glove also with a
host of swells, such as you and I never spoke to. Why, I never shook
hands with a lord in my life, although I should do it like a man—if
he offered, mind, for I should wait for that. And you are in the same
condition.”
“Not a bit of it. I shook hands with two at Newmarket, and they seemed
to think very well of me. But that reminds me that I met the very man
for our job, if he would undertake it. And I believe he would, if we
paid him well.”
“For spying upon Bulwrag, you mean, Kit. I can’t bear the idea of
spying, even on that fellow. But I fear we must make up our minds to
it, just as the police watch a murderer. And as for the cost of it,
I would go half, and I am sure your Aunt Parslow would pay the other
half. But what makes you think that he would suit? A very sharp fellow
is wanted, mind. Not a bit like Selsey Bill.”
“If it must be done, he is the very man. But you shall not pay a
farthing, Uncle Corny; you have plenty to do with your money. At any
rate I will not ask you, until I have spent all I have for the purpose.
Your advice is quite enough for you to give, and it is worth more than
money. See what I should have done without you now! I had made up my
mind to pursue that fellow, and seize him, and shake the truth out of
him. But I should only have shaken out a heap of lies, and probably got
locked up for my trouble. But I see that your plan is the only wise
one.”
“You are a sensible young fellow, Kit, when you have good advisers.
But who is this man of craft you were speaking of, and how has he got
experience for a job like this?”
“He has been brought up to every kind of nasty work; and the nastier it
is, the more he likes it. He is a spy on horses, to watch them in their
trials, and sneak into their boxes, and learn everything they think of.
It seems to be a regular profession, where they keep racehorses; and
Sam knows all about this man. They call them Touts, or Ditch-frogs, or
Sky-blinkers, or half-a-dozen other names; but they get well paid, and
they don’t care. His name, or nick-name, is Tony Tonks, which he takes
from some story-book, I believe. He is a very queer sort of fellow; if
you saw him once, you would know him always; not a bit like any of our
folk down here. Sam says he could canter round any of his chaps, and he
would try to afford him, if he did crooked work; but Tony is a costly
luxury.”
“Never mind the cost. Your aunt shall pay; she has nothing to do with
all her cash, except to blow out a lot of dogs, like footballs. But is
this Tony to be trusted? He might be a Jack of both sides.”
“That is just what he isn’t. And that is how he gets double the wages
of any other Tout. He puts his whole heart into anything he takes up;
and yet he is cool as a weazle. He makes a point of honour of winning,
Sam told me; and he would rather pay money out of his own pocket, than
be beaten, whenever he takes up a job. And he is very small; he can
slip in and out, while people say—‘Oh, what boy was that?’ But I doubt
whether he would take up this. He would have made a wonderful jockey,
I was told; and he rides as well as the best of them. But he loses
his head, when he is put upon a horse, or he might be now making ten
thousand a year. Nobody can explain such things.”
“Nobody can explain anything;” my uncle replied with his usual wisdom;
“look at me. I have been in a garden all my life, and I have kept
my eyes open, and I am no fool. But if you ask what canker is in an
apple-tree or pear, or blister in a peach, or silver-leaf, or shanking
in grapes, or sudden death in a Moorpark, or fifty other things that we
meet with every day, all I can say is—‘Go and ask the men of science,
and if two of them tell you the same thing, believe it.’ No, my lad, we
know nothing yet, though we find bigger words than used to serve the
turn. Have you told young Henderson, that you would like to try this
fellow, Tony Tonks?”
“No, I never thought of it, until just now, when you suggested that the
villain should be watched, to find out where he goes, and all his dirty
doings. It is fair play with such a deadly sneak. But for all that, I
hate the thought of it.”
“We must meet the devil with his own weapons. Sam is going to be
married at Ludred, I suppose.”
“Yes, next Thursday. And I have promised to be there. Although it will
be a bad time for me.”
“Never mind, Kit. You shall have your time again. As I have told you
more than once. I am an old man now, and have seen a lot of wickedness.
But I never knew it triumph in the end. Go up at once to Halliford, and
get your friend to write to this fellow by the afternoon post. We might
have him here to-morrow night, and settle matters with him, while we
have Henderson to help us.”
I was lucky enough to find Henderson at home, and he entered into our
plan with zeal; for he had his own grudge with Bulwrag. But he told me
that we must be prepared to part with a heap of money, if we began it;
and he could not tell how long it might last. I answered that we had a
good bank to draw on, and that I should be able to repay it in the end
out of my own little property, which I should insist upon doing.
“Tony will want five pounds a week, and all expenses covered; and you
may put that probably at five pounds more.” Sam looked as if he thought
I could not afford it. “And then if he does any good, he will expect a
handsome tip. And you must let him have his own head. He is the best
man in England for the job, if he will take it. And perhaps he will.
There is nothing on now in his line of business much, till the Leger
comes on. Tony will do a good deal for me. I shall put it as a personal
favour, you know. But we won’t tell him what it is, until he comes to
see.”
Busy as he was with his own affairs, Henderson wrote to the great
horse-watcher, and receiving reply by telegraph, met him at Feltham the
following afternoon; and after showing him all over his own places,
brought him to supper with us at my uncle’s cottage at nine o’clock,
as had been arranged in the morning. And it was as good as a play—as
we express it—and better than most of the French plays now in vogue,
to see my solid uncle, with his English contempt for a spy, and strong
habit of speaking his mind, yet doing his utmost to be hospitable, and
checking himself in his blunt deliveries, and catching up any words
that might be too honest for the convenience of his visitor. He told me
afterwards that he felt like a rogue, and was afraid of sitting square
to his own table.
The visitor, however, did not in the least appreciate these exertions,
or even perceive their existence. He was perfectly contented with his
own moral state, and although he said little, I could almost have
believed that he regarded my good uncle with as much superiority, as
was felt—but not shown—towards himself. And his principal ambition was
to take in a good supper.
Being concerned more than all the rest in his qualities, I observed him
closely, and became disappointed when he said nothing of any particular
astuteness. But perhaps, like most men who have to work their brains
hard, he allowed them a holiday when off duty, and cared very little
what was thought of them then, if they came up to the scratch at
signal. And although he said little, what he said was to the point,
and he did not expend great ability in proving, as most men do, that
two and two make four.
His outer man was of such puny build, that when he sat by my uncle’s
elbow, it seemed as if he might have jumped into the big pocket,
wherein the fruit-grower was wont to carry a hammer, a stick of string,
a twist of bast, a spectacle-case full of wall-nails, a peach-knife,
a pair of clips, a little copper wire, and a few other things to suit
the season, according to its latest needs. Tony Tonks glanced every now
and then with great curiosity at my uncle, and at this pocket which was
hanging with its weight under the arm of a curved Windsor chair; as a
fisherman likes to see his bag hang down, but only once in his lifetime
has that pleasure.
But though Tony Tonks might go (more readily than the fish who
won’t come at all) into that pocket, Nature had provided him with
compensation for his want of magnitude. There never lived a very small
man yet, who was not in his own opinion big. Great qualities combine in
him, of mind and soul, and even of the body for the sake of paradox;
so that no one knows what he can amount to, but himself. And as the
looking-glass presents us with ourselves set wrong; so the mirror of
the man who weighs but half the proper weight, may exalt him to the
ceiling, if he slopes it to his mind.
Tony spoke little, but he spoke with weight, and expected to be
followed closely, when he gave us anything. And it became pleasant
to behold my uncle gradually forming a great opinion of him, because
he was not offered much to build it on. Sam Henderson nodded very
knowingly to me, and I returned it with a wink behind my Uncle Corny’s
head, when the pipes were put upon the table, and the grower took the
clean one he intended for himself, and gave it (with a grunt at his own
generosity) to Tonks.
“Now we all know where we are,” began my uncle, as if a puffing pipe
had been the cloudy pillar; “the best thing, as I have always found in
life, is for people to know what they are at, before they do it.”
Tony Tonks nodded, and my uncle was well pleased, both to have the
discourse to himself, and to perceive that the visitor smoked slowly,
and could dwell upon good things.
“You give us your experience and skill, for the period of one month at
least if needful, for the sum of five pounds a week payable in advance,
as well as travelling expenses, if required, and lodgings. You report
to us by post, when there is anything to tell, and you come down at
the end of every week, to let us know how you get on, and to draw your
money for the next week. And you attend to nothing else, but the job
you are engaged on.”
“Nothing else. Never take two things in hand at once.”
“And the business you undertake for us is to find out everything that
can be found about the doings of Donovan Bulwrag. Where he goes, who
his companions are, what messages he receives or sends, how he employs
his time, what he is up to, everything about him that is of interest to
us. It seems a nasty, shabby thing, but he has brought it on himself.
We can’t bear doing it; but it must be done.”
“Nothing shabby in it,” Tonks exclaimed with spirit, and a quick flash
in his small gray eyes; “trickey people must be tricked.”
“A man who has wronged another man,” said my uncle, putting it on a
larger footing, “as that low scoundrel has wronged us, has put himself
outside of all honour. You know the man very well by sight, I believe.”
“And by more than sight;” answered Tony, in a voice that made us look
at him. But as he offered no explanation, we did not ask him what he
meant, but concluded that he had his own bone to pick with this crafty
enemy.