“ARE THERE ANY LETTERS FOR HENRY JEANES, PLEASE?”
Were it not that they have no immediate connection with my story,
I should like to describe here some of the curious and amusing
experiences which befell me while I was acting as assistant to a barber
and betting agent. But in a narrative like the present it is perhaps
best that I should confine myself to the incidents and adventures which
have direct bearing upon my search for Captain Shannon.
That the Professor would betray me to his clients I did not think at
all likely, as to do so would necessitate his admitting to them that
he had been bribed to allow a spy, if not a detective, to enter his
service under a disguise, and to have access to the correspondence of
the establishment. At the same time, I did not think it advisable--at
all events for the present--to take him into my confidence by telling
him who was the object of my search. Hence I had to pursue my
investigations in a more or less indirect manner, inquiring first about
one of the parties for whom letters came and then about another, and
so getting an opportunity to refer to Jeanes without appearing to be
more curious about him than about the others. In reply to my casual
question as to who Jeanes was, the Professor replied, with apparent
indifference, that the party in question was young and good-looking,
and that he did not suppose the correspondence which was being carried
on meant any more than a foolish love-affair.
Several days went by, and the letter for Jeanes still remained uncalled
for, until one afternoon the Professor asked me, as he had asked me
on previous occasions, if I would keep an eye to the shop while he
ran over the way to get half-a-pint. I nodded assent, and, promising
that he would not be long, he disappeared down the stairs, only to
return immediately afterwards for his pipe, which was lying on the
mantel-shelf. As he passed the rack he took the letters down and ran
through them as if to see how many there were, and then giving me a
look, which I took to mean that it would be no use my tampering with
them in his absence, he again descended the stairs in search of the
desired refreshment.
He had been gone about a quarter of an hour when a man, muffled up
to the nose with a big “comforter,” and with a soft hat pulled down
so closely over his brows that little more of him was visible than
a pair of blue spectacles, opened the door and, without coming in,
stood coughing and panting like a consumptive on the mat outside. As
he did not show any disposition to enter, I inquired what he wanted,
but shaking his head, as if to indicate that he was unable to answer,
he continued hacking and coughing with stooped head and bent shoulders
for half a minute, and then in a hollow voice, which seemed strangely
familiar to me, asked if there was a letter for Mr. Henry Jeanes.
As calmly as if his coming were a thing of the utmost indifference to
me I reached for the packet of letters in order to select that which
was addressed to Jeanes. To my dismay I found it gone, but repressing
the exclamation of surprise which rose to my lips I turned to the
waiting messenger and shook my head.
He mumbled something that sounded like “Thank you,” and then, closing
the door, toiled painfully downstairs. Scarcely had he reached the
first landing before I had made what is called in music-hall parlance a
“lightning change.”
Tearing off my canvas coat and white apron and tossing them in a heap
upon a chair, I shot into, rather than got into, my reefer jacket, and
snatching at my hat was down the stairs and out in the street before my
visitor was half-way to the first corner, which led to an unfrequented
side street. The instant he had turned it I was after him like the
wind, and, looking warily round, saw him making for a narrow lane that
ran at right angles to the direction in which he was going. No sooner
was he hidden by the corner than I was after him once again, but not
so hurriedly as to forget to stop and peer cautiously round before
exposing my own person to view. The sight which met my eyes put me,
I must confess, fairly out of countenance, for there, just round the
corner, with the crush hat pushed to the back of his head, the muffler
thrown open and the blue spectacles in the hand which he pointed
derisively at me, was none other than the Professor, literally rolling
about with uncontrollable laughter.
“Oh, my poor korf! it is so bad I ain’t able to speak!” he gasped
between his convulsions of merriment. “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh, you
’a’porth o’ pigeon’s milk wot thought you could get up early enough in
the mornin’ to take a rise out of old Tom Lawrance! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
Oh, you feedin’-bottle fool and mug as thought yer’d got the bulge on
Downy Tom! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Come and laugh at him, sonnies, for the
biggest fool and mammy’s-milk Juggins and Johnny in all Stanby!”