Mr. Dick, who was a man of energy, rode fast. Mr. Sanders toiled behind
him, but was able to keep him in sight because Mr. Dick dismounted
and waited for him at the top of every hill. The day was hot, and
there was very little breeze. Neither of the men was in good training.
Both of them became thirsty. Five miles outside of Clonmore the road
crosses a small river. Mr. Dick stopped on the bridge, and, when Mr.
Sanders overtook him, proposed that they should take a drink. They
made their way down to the stream, lay on their stomachs, and sucked
up large quantities of luke-warm water. Then they rode on again, and,
as might have been expected, became much hotter and thirstier than
they were before. Mr. Dick stopped again, this time at a pool. Mr.
Sanders, though very thirsty, expressed doubts about the wholesomeness
of the water. Mr. Dick explained briefly that, as there was no human
habitation in sight, the pool could not possibly be polluted by drains.
Then he lay down and drank as eagerly as a camel at an oasis. The pool
was shallow, and the violence of his sucking stirred up a good deal
of mud. Mr. Sanders, realizing that every moment’s delay increased
the chance of his getting typhoid fever from his draught, chose the
cleanest corner of the pool and drank a great deal more than was good
for him. The water of the pool was even warmer than that of the river.
Then it was discovered that one of the tyres of the bicycle ridden by
Mr. Dick had burst. He had pumped it too vehemently, and the heat of
the sun had swelled the air inside until the strain was too great for
the cover. Both tool-bags were examined, but no materials for repair
were found in them. Even under these circumstances Mr. Dick remained
cheerful.
“We’ll walk on,” he said, “until we come to a police barrack. We’re
bound to come to one soon.”
“What good will that be?”
Mr. Sanders did not want to walk on if he could help it.
“In Ireland,” said Mr. Dick, “the police are experts at repairing
bicycles. One of the people we met last week told me that. He was an
inspector of something, and was always going about the country, so he’d
be sure to know.”
“In any case,” said Mr. Sanders, “there isn’t likely to be a police
barrack about here. There are no houses. We haven’t passed a single
human habitation for the last twenty minutes.”
Mr. Dick overruled this objection at once. He had been studying the
Irish question for a whole fortnight, and he thoroughly understood the
country.
“In Ireland,” he said, “the most likely place to find a police
barrack is where there are no houses. The reason for that is that the
uninhabited districts of the country are those from which the people
have been evicted. They naturally want to get back again, and so police
barracks are built to prevent them doing so. You will always find a
barrack where there are no people. A man who was greatly interested in
the land question told me that the day before yesterday.”
“I think,” said Mr. Sanders, “that I’ll sit down here and wait till
the cars overtake me. You can take your own bicycle and go on if you
like.”
“You’d better not, because the cars may never overtake you. We may be
on the wrong road altogether. I didn’t ask the way. I simply steered a
course by the sun like an explorer in central Africa.”
“What an ass you are, Dick!”
“Not an ass, Sanders, not an ass, an adventurer. I love risk for its
own sake. The blood of the ancient Bersekers is in my veins. I feel
like the man in the song ‘Fiddle and I,’ that is to say, in this case,
‘Biky and I
Wandering by
Over the world together.’
If you don’t come on with me, Sanders, you will get lost like a babe in
the wood, and then
‘When you are dead
The robins so red
Will take strawberry leaves and over you spread.’”
Mr. Sanders shrank from such a fate. Also he had sat down during the
discussion and felt rested. He agreed to go on. Mr. Dick, the Berseker
spirit strong in him, wheeled both bicycles. They climbed a long hill
and found walking even hotter work than bicycling. But they had their
reward. From the top of the hill the entrance gate and the trees of
Rosivera were visible.
“A sail, a sail!” cried Mr. Dick. “We are saved!
‘We shall hear the sweet music of speech,
Nor finish our journey alone.’”
“It looks like a gentleman’s place,” said Mr. Sanders, “a dilapidated
gentleman’s place. I mean to say, of course, the dilapidated place of a
gentleman.”
Mr. Dick was not a stickler for the nice arrangement of adjectives.
“Of course,” he said, “it’s a dilapidated gentleman’s place. All
gentlemen’s places in Ireland are dilapidated. That is one of the
consequences of the recent land legislation.”
“Rents,” said Mr. Sanders, who took a special delight in all kinds of
figures, “were reduced twenty per cent. all round on an average at the
first fixing. Then they were reduced again by----”
“Come on,” said Mr. Dick. “The proprietor, whoever he is, must have
enough left to buy a repair outfit. Let’s go and borrow it.”
He had heard quite as much as he wanted to hear about rent fixing and
land purchase during the fortnight he had spent in Ireland. He did not
want to go into the matter again. It required intricate calculations,
and Mr. Dick had no taste for arithmetic. Mr. Sanders sighed and
followed his friend down the hill.
They passed through the gate of Rosivera and went down the avenue, Mr.
Dick leading the way with the two bicycles. Turning a corner, they came
suddenly upon a view of the house. Beyond it, at the bottom of the
lawn, lay the bay.
“Dilapidated!” said Mr. Sanders, in disgust. “I knew it would be
dilapidated, but I didn’t expect it to be as bad as this. It looks to
me as if it were uninhabited.”
Mr. Dick paid no attention to the appearance of the house. The sight of
the sea seemed to intoxicate him. He was very hot and very dusty. The
idea of bathing in cold water was delightful.
“We’ll have a swim,” he said. “First we’ll knock up the proprietor,
borrow the repair outfit, and mend the tyre. Then we’ll go round the
corner, out of sight of the house, and wallow in the briny wave.”
But Mr. Sanders was cautious, more cautious than he had been about
drinking the water out of the pool.
“You’ve no towel,” he said.
“What do we care for towels? We are primitive men, savages on our
native wild, cave dwellers of the paleolithic age. I should spurn a
towel if it was offered me.”
“That’s all very well for you, Dick; but I have a weak heart, and I
have to be careful. In the heated state in which I am at present, I
daren’t risk bathing, especially without a towel.”
“Then I’ll bathe by myself. You can get the bicycle repaired. By the
time you have it settled I shall be ready to start again.”
They reached the house. Mr. Dick commented, laughing, on the fact that
there was no electric bell. Mr. Sanders sighed at this fresh evidence
of dilapidation. There was no knocker either. Mr. Dick hammered on the
door with his fist until he thought he had made noise enough to attract
attention. Then he walked on towards the shore, leaving his friend
alone to enjoy the hospitality or face the wrath of the inmates of the
house. Mr. Sanders waited for some time and then knocked again. After
another pause he tried kicking the door. Then he rang both the bicycle
bells. At last he began to despair of attracting attention. Some
men, under the circumstances, would have gone away. Mr. Sanders was
persevering and little troubled with delicacy of feeling. He pushed
open the door and walked in.
Mr. Dick, yearning for a swim, soon found a spot which seemed
sufficiently secluded. It was not particularly attractive as a
bathing-place. The beach was covered with small rough stones; and, the
tide being out, there was a considerable stretch of beach. The water
near the shore was full of jellyfish and brown seaweed. But Mr. Dick
was too hot and too eager to care much about these inconveniences. His
desire was to get as quickly as possible into the sea. He undressed
beside a large stone which lay just above high-water mark. Then his
troubles began. He had never before walked on such trying stones.
The pain which they gave his feet caused him to stumble and fall
suddenly forward on his hands. Part of the journey he accomplished on
all-fours. The seaweed was a relief when he reached it. The jellyfish
were deliciously soft under his feet. He floundered out through them
and over them until the water reached his knees. Then he flung himself
forward and struck out. The weed brushed his limbs and body. The
jellyfish, incredible numbers of them, slipped past him.
“This,” he said, “is delicious.”
He got past the belt of weed and jellyfish into deep water. He shouted
aloud in his joy--a wild inarticulate whoop which went sounding across
the waters of the bay. He lay on his back. He kicked with his legs,
raising what seemed to him splendid fountains of water. He shouted
again. Then he swam further out, using a side stroke which he had
learned in a swimming-bath, burying his head each time his arm left
the water, and then turning his face up and snorting like a porpoise.
After awhile he lay on his back again and began to sing--
“Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves.”
The ditty was appropriate enough. Mr. Dick M.P., represented in
Rosivera Bay the world’s greatest maritime power, and he had, plainly,
so far got the better of the sea that it was obliged to bear him on its
breast and minister to his delight. He ruled it. There were, indeed, no
waves; but that was not Mr. Dick’s fault. If there had been waves, he
would have ruled them.
“Rule, Britannia!” he sang again, “Britannia rules the waves.
Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.”
Mr. Dick had a poor ear for music, and his rendering of the tune
was far from correct; but he had a fine voice and it rang out
satisfactorily. He felt more than ever like an ancient Berseker. His
song was a kind of triumphant challenge to man and nature alike.
“This,” he said breathlessly, when he had finished the song for the
third time, “is better than mending bicycles. I wonder how poor Sanders
is getting on?”
He wallowed round and faced the shore. He saw a man approaching from
the direction in which the house lay.
“Hullo--lo--o!” he shouted. “Coo--ee, Sanders!”
Then he saw that it was not Mr. Sanders. He came to the conclusion that
it must be one of the inhabitants of the house. He was perfectly right.
It was Mr. Red.
“Funny-looking old cock he is,” said Mr. Dick.
Mr. Red stalked majestically along the shore. Mr. Dick swam to meet
him. His heart was light. He broke into a song of greeting--
“Come o’er the sea,
Stranger to me,
Mine through sunshine, storm and cloud!”
Mr. Red walked straight to the place where Mr. Dick’s clothes lay. It
seemed possible that he was bringing down a towel. Mr. Dick swam on
towards the shore, intending to express his gratitude for the civility.
Mr. Red reached the clothes, picked them up one by one and walked
away with them. Mr. Dick shouted after him, but without effect. He
swam for the shore as quickly as he could. If the proprietor of the
place objected to people bathing on the shore, Mr. Dick was prepared
to apologize. He would apologize humbly, get back his clothes, and
then point out that a notice ought to have been erected to warn the
public not to bathe. Mr. Red deposited the clothes on the grass at
some distance from the beach, turned round, and walked towards the sea
again. Mr. Dick felt bottom with his feet, and plunged forward until he
stood in water which only reached his knees. Mr. Red, standing on the
very brink of the sea, took a revolver out of his pocket and pointed it
at Mr. Dick.
“Come on shore,” he said.
By way of reply Mr. Dick sat down suddenly, rolled over on his side,
and lay with no part of him above water except his head. He did not
like standing naked in front of a revolver which might be loaded.
“Come!” said Mr. Red.
Mr. Dick put his head under water, and kept it there as long as he
could. When he came up, gasping, he saw the revolver still levelled at
him.
“Come at once,” said Mr. Red, “or I shall fire!”
Mr. Dick struggled to his feet and stumbled forward a few steps. Then
his self-respect, the self-respect which is the birthright of every
free-born Briton, asserted itself within him.
“I presume,” he said, speaking with a certain cold dignity, “that this
beach is private property, and that I have trespassed by bathing here.
If so, I offer my apologies; but I cannot refrain from saying at the
same time that the aggressive violence of your conduct----”
Mr. Red pulled the trigger of the revolver. A bullet struck the water
so close to Mr. Dick that his leg was splashed. He stopped short in his
protest and waded as rapidly as possible towards the shore. He pushed
his way through the seaweed and jellyfish and stood at last, a pitiful,
dripping figure, on dry land.
“Go on,” said Mr. Red, fingering the revolver.
The fear of instant death impelled Mr. Dick over the sharp stones. He
travelled rapidly for five or six yards, and then collapsed suddenly on
to all-fours.
“Go on quickly,” said Mr. Red.
Mr. Dick went on as quickly as he could on his hands and feet. He
looked like a large hairless ape of some bleached kind. Then, overcome
by the pain of both hands and feet, he sat down and faced Mr. Red.
“This is an outrage,” he said. “I protest against it in the strongest
possible manner. You have absolutely no right----”
“Get up,” said Mr. Red, “and precede me to the house.”
Mr. Dick got up with a groan. He was really suffering considerably.
The Berseker spirit, active in him during an earlier part of the day,
was almost dead. He staggered on a few steps. Then a new notion seized
him, a fear which was actually stronger than the fear of death. He
understood suddenly that he was not, as he had boasted, a primitive
man; that he was, on the contrary, highly civilized. He turned on Mr.
Red and faced the revolver without a tremor.
“I won’t go to the house without my clothes,” he said. “There may be
ladies. There may be servants.”
There was a determination in the way he spoke and in the expression of
his face which was quite unmistakable. Mr. Red tried to bully him, but
failed. No threat was of any avail.
“I won’t go,” said Mr. Dick, “unless I can have my shirt at least.”
“You can have your shirt,” said Mr. Red. “Go and get it.”
Mr. Dick made his way slowly across the beach. He looked over his
shoulder from time to time, and saw that Mr. Red was following closely
with the revolver. He reached the grass, felt it soft under his feet,
and moved more easily. It occurred to him that he might make a dash for
liberty. Mr. Red would shoot, no doubt; but he might miss. He might
hit, and still only wound--wound in some trifling way which would not
prevent further flight. There was a grove of trees not fifty yards
distant. They were small, scrubby trees, but they would afford some
shelter. He made up his mind to risk it. Then the awful prospect before
him made him pause. How could he--even supposing that he was not shot
dead at once--wander stark naked through a strange country?
He reached the pile of clothes, stooped down and picked up his shirt.
Then he took up his trousers.
“Drop that,” said Mr. Red.
Dean Swift noted the fact that an unarmed man in his shirt is likely
to get the worst of a struggle with eight armed men who are fully
dressed. The chances are more equal, if there is only one armed man, if
the unarmed man gets his trousers on. Mr. Red knew this, and strictly
limited Mr. Dick’s clothing. He was not prepared to run any unnecessary
risk with his prisoner. The warmth of the shirt, which was flannel,
restored Mr. Dick’s self-respect and courage. He turned on Mr. Red once
more.
“If this is the way that Irish landlords habitually behave,” he said,
“I don’t wonder that there has been an agrarian revolution in the
country. I always had a certain sympathy with your class before, but
now that I know what you really are I shall vote for the next Land Bill
that is brought in, whatever it is.”
“Precede me to the house,” said Mr. Red.
Mr. Dick walked on. He crossed the grass rapidly and came to the gravel
sweep in front of the house. Here his feet began to give him great pain
again. The gravel was in some ways worse than the stones on the beach
had been. Mr. Dick felt it severely.
“I’ve heard stories,” said Mr. Dick, “of the way you Irish landlords
treated your tenants in the past. I know now that I didn’t hear half
the truth. Anything more abominable, more outrageous, more utterly
illegal----”
He reached the door of the house as he spoke, and stepped with a sigh
of relief on to the smooth step.
“Look here,” he said, “where’s Sanders? Have you murdered Sanders?”
He went forward again, passed through the door, and stood in the hall.
There, in front of him, bound hand and foot, guarded by the
long-bearded anarchist, lay Mr. Sanders.