"THE GOAT IN BOOTS."
It was almost noon of Saturday, June the twenty-first, when a party of
three halted in the shade of a few stunted hawthorns by the side of the
sandy, half-made road which leads from Margetstowe village to the
turnpike, which, branching from the main London Road fifteen miles to
the south-west, runs north-eastward through Ecclesthorpe-on-the-Moor to
the sea at the mouth of the great estuary.
From this tree-clump could be seen, facing the junction of the sandy
road with the metalled, the front and the swinging signboard of "The
Goat in Boots." And here, that its two more ordinary-looking members
might shed the oddity which they owed to the company of the third, the
party was to separate.
For in Amaryllis, sleep, Dick's care and Mrs. Brundage's wardrobe had
worked transformation. From the dust and mud on the thick little shoes,
up over five visible inches of coarse grey stocking to clumsy amplitude
of washed-out, pink-striped cotton skirt, and thence by severity of
blue-linen blouse to the face lurking in the pale lavender of the
quilted sun-bonnet, the eye met nothing which was not proper to the
country-girl, dressed a little older, when the tail of hair swung to her
body's movement, than her sixteen years required.
If the face was not so ruddy as a moorland girl's should be, and if the
mark of the "smutty finger" beneath each eye suggested, out of Ireland,
ill health--well, sickness and recovery are not restricted to the town,
and the bright eyes, when the lids would lift, gave promise of returning
health.
Dick matched her well.
With the cut cheek decently washed, the face shaved with Tom Brundage's
worst razor, and a patch of flour congealing the blood of his wound, he
looked very different from the ruffian who had disturbed, so short a
while since, the lunch of the Brundage chickens. For his brown boots,
brushed to the semblance of a shine, brown gaiters of the army cut,
green cord riding-breeches which had delighted the heart of Tom Brundage
until petrol prevailed over horseflesh and drove him into black; a
striped waistcoat, of the old-fashioned waspish, horsey favour, partly
buttoned over a grey army shirt and loosely covered by his own Norfolk
jacket, with a knotted bandanna in place of collar, made of him an odd,
but wholly credible nondescript of the lower sporting world.
Men on the roads of that joyous Saturday might have asked was it
whippets, horses, or the ring which best explained this lank, keen-eyed,
humorous-lipped, uneven-gaited fellow; but none would have suspected a
masquerade in the figure offered to their eyes with an assurance so
entirely devoid of self-consciousness.
Yet to Amaryllis it was perhaps the raffish green imitation-velours
Homburg hat which did most to alter Dick Bellamy's aspect; so that she
would wait for a glance of his eyes to assure herself that this was
indeed her wonderful friend and champion, and no new man nor changed
spirit.
But Pépe, its one honest and unpretentious person, had made the whole
trio bizarre and incredible.
For though, on one word from Dick, Amaryllis had given her credence and
trust to the Lizard, she yet felt that he suited so ill with any English
surroundings that his incongruity would show up any boggled stitch in
their two disguises. So, while she nibbled the biscuit which Dick had
taken from the paper in his pocket and ordered her to eat, and listened
to the unintelligible valedictory advice which Pépe was ladling out in
Spanish, she was longing to be alone with the gentleman who looked so
impossible, and free from the company of the man who the very pricking
of her thumbs told her was a criminal, in spite of the modest bearing
and the uplifted gaze at his idol.
Did she also adore her Limping Dick, as Pépe his Cojeante? Was the one
worship antagonistic to the other? Why then--but Amaryllis, like many
another woman, was so good a logician that she knew when to halt on the
road to an awkward conclusion.
Pépe at last swept off his hat in profound obeisance to "la señorita
roja," took Dick's hand with reverence and his generous wad of notes
without shame, and hurried back on his road to "The Myrtles."
She looked at Dick's face as his eyes followed the Lizard, and read in
it an expression so strange and so mixed, that she turned again to take
her own last sight of the man she was glad to be rid of.
Pépe had vanished utterly.
"Yes," said Dick, following her thought, and responsive even to the
terms of her recent reflection, "he never would fit an English landscape
till it swallowed him."
"'Amigo de grillos'?" said the girl. "Why do you call him that? _Amigo_
must be _friend_. But _grillos_?"
"Irons--fetters," said Dick; and taking her by the arm, started in the
direction of "The Goat in Boots," walking with a curiously swaggering
gait which went far to mask his limp. "Amigos de grillos--fetter-pals.
We were chained together for six months."
"In--in prison? Oh, Dick!" she cried, "I knew he was horrid."
"And me?"
"I know you aren't," she replied.
"I'm afraid he is, from your point of view," he replied. "But Pépe el
Lagarto has one streak which interests me."
"Tell me," said Amaryllis.
And as they walked slowly towards the inn, he told her of Pépe and his
coca-leaves; of the Peruvian Indians' use of them to resist hunger and
fatigue; and of how the little man had given his all, which he could not
replace, to help la señorita roja over the roughness of her way.
"I had to keep a little in a bit of paper to satisfy him," said Dick.
"Then he's kind to women, at least," said Amaryllis.
"When I met him, he was in for five years--murdering his wife."
"Why?"
"Found her in company he wasn't fond of," said Dick, "so he threw her
out of window."
"And the--company?"
"Pépe slit its throat."
Amaryllis shuddered.
"No," resumed Dick, "you won't find any pretty Idylls of the King
gadgets about Pépe. He gave you all his coca-leaves because he regarded
you as El Cojeante's woman--that's all."
"Do you?" asked Amaryllis, and her colour for the first time matched her
head-gear.
"For to-day--of course," he answered. "You're my daughter--and don't you
forget it."
Amaryllis, if the word may be used of a sound so pleasant, giggled.
"Well, daddy dear," she replied, "I admit that your friend has a shiny
streak running through his horridness. And I like him for worshipping
you with his dog's eyes. And I shouldn't wonder if you often find those
silver veins in queer places, dad."
She said it like a question but received no response.
"If I've caught on to Pépe's topography," he said, "the road to the
right there runs on an easy downward grade for two miles, then dips
sharply for another. At the lowest point--they call it Gallowstree
Dip--there's another road, to the left, which runs straight to
Harthborough Junction--the place we want. But at Gallowstree Dip, says
Pépe, we shall find a motor-bike and side-car with two men ready to put
our lights out on contact--if there aren't too many witnesses. So when
we pass them we've got to be a larger party than two. So we start by
going into the bar here, and you're going to swallow bread and cheese
and beer, there's a good daughter."
Amaryllis nodded. "But, Dick," she said, "if they aren't at Gallowstree
Dip?"
"We've got to make our plans as we go, and change 'em when we must. It'd
seem incredible, wouldn't it--if it weren't for what you've seen and
suffered since last night. England! And you and I as much cut off from
Bobbies and Bow Street as if we were in Petrograd or Central New Guinea.
Suppose we _could_ find a village constable in a cottage--they'd kill
him as gaily as they would you or me--but it isn't his at-home day, he's
at Timsdale-Horton Races. When this gaff's over, the belated soothsayers
will tell me: 'you ought to have roused the police and laid your case
before them,' in one of the three great towns that I drove through last
night. And what yarn was I to pitch? That there might be murder going to
be done at a place called 'The Myrtles'? And what time had I to tell it
in? And where'd you be now, daughter, if I'd been two minutes later than
I was?"
Ever so gently Amaryllis squeezed his arm against her side in gratitude,
and then quivered a little, remembering the horror of Dutch Fridji and
her knife--and where last she had seen it.
But Dick went on, as if he had noticed nothing, to tell her of the two
letters which had barely yet, he supposed, reached Scotland Yard. He had
no certainty, indeed, that the second, given to the landlord of "The
Coach and Horses," had even been posted. Before nightfall, at the
earliest, therefore, no help could be counted upon from the police.
"Either," said Dick, "we must break through the bars of Melchard's cage,
or keep hidden inside it. The bosses of this mob, you see, won't give a
damn how many of their people get strafed as long as they suppress us,
and get back what I've got in my pocket."
They were now not fifty yards from the horse-trough in front of "The
Goat in Boots."
A little way from the entrance, drawn up opposite to the stable-yard,
stood a long, clumsy wagonette-brake with coats and green-carpet
cricket-bags lying about its seats. Two horses were at the pole,
seriously bowed over their nose-bags. A swingle-tree hung at the pole's
end, and a second pair of reins was fast to the driver's seat, the four
cheek-buckles lying crossed over the wheeler's backs.
"Fower-in-hand, and leaders in staable! Sick, likely, or more gradely
stuff," said Dick, musing aloud.
Amaryllis, whose eyes were on the signboard, started as if a stranger
had spoken at her side. She looked quickly in his face, and found it so
altered in expression that she knew the words had come from his lips.
"Oh, Dick!" she whispered. "You're wonderful. But whatever shall I do?
If I open my mouth, I shall give us away."
"Howd tha mouth shut, then, 'Minta, lass," he said. Then, lowering his
tone, he added in his own language: "I'll account for you. Don't forget
your name's Araminta. You've been ill, and the doctor's ordered open-air
treatment."
As they reached the threshold, the roar of Millsborough dialect came to
them through the windows of the bar-parlour.
Dick pointed to the bench by the door.
"Set there, lass, and Ah'll fetch t' grub," he said aloud. "'Tis bad air
for 'ee in tap-room."
As if the world were his, he swung into the bar, where he found two
yokels listening to the half-drunken lamentations of a middle-aged,
plum-cheeked fellow in a shabby blue livery coatee with shabbier gilt
buttons; and even while he was giving his order for a glass of mild, and
a bit of bread and cheese on plate for daughter--who'd been main sick,
and would likely throw her stomach if she sat in tap-room, for doctor
said for her open-air treatment was best medicine--he was listening
patiently to the man he guessed to be the driver of the cricketers'
brake.
He took the glass and plate and a pat on the shoulder to 'Minta.
"You just make un go doan, lovey," he said. "More eaten, more stomick
next time. Eat slow and steady, says Dr. Pape."
Back in the bar, he buried his nose in his tankard.
For the tenth time Plum-face summed up his woes.
"Boy and man, nineteen year Ah've tooled St. Asaph's Eleven to
Ecclesthorpe June Fixture. Four-in-'and's historical, like goose to
Michaelmas. But to-day, Old Grudgers--ye know Grudger's Bait, far end o'
Mill Street? To-day, old Grudge, 'e says, 'You hitch Fancy Blood
near-lead,' and I says 'im back, 'If 'ee puts 'er 'long o' Tod Sloan,
Fancy'll go dead lame afore "T'Goat in Boots."' And dead lame she
stands in staable here, first time six month. Not offerin' lame, mind
you, with a peck an' a limp when she keeps 'er mind on 'er wicked
meanin', but sore up to the off fore pastern, and the hoof that hot
it'd light a lucifer. Fancy's a female, she is, same as your wife or
mine; and Tod, 'e just sours 'er blood, and there ye are. Ah tell
'ee, boys, Ned Blossom's shamed, 'e is, if he comes slatherin' into
Ecclesthorpe-on-the-Moor wi' two sweatin' wheelers in twentieth year o'
the match."
By this time Dick had received from the tapster his second order, a
tankard of old ale, laced with a surreptitious noggin of unsweetened
gin.
"And what-like nature o' a nag may this Tod be?" he asked, speaking with
so easy a familiarity, and holding the pewter so invitingly that Ned
Blossom responded as to an old friend.
"Gradely bit o' stuff sure-ly," he replied. "And do love to fill his
collar; but sulky-like he's been on t' road this day, wi' Fancy doin'
nowt to share."
"Then leave Fancy in staable," said Dick, "and drive owd Tod unicorn
into Ecclesthorpe wi' style."
Ned Blossom chuckled foolishly, and took the tankard Dick was offering,
handle free, to his fingers.
"Like t' owd flea-bitten mare used to stand bottom o' Church Hill out o'
Water Street, waitin' for t' bus comin'. They'd take the bar offen 'er
back, hitch it to pole, an' away she'd go, scratchin' and scramblin' up
to moor, like cat on roof-tiles. Ha! ha!" laughed Ned, and took a pull
from the pewter. "But, say, who be you, standin' drinks like an owd
friend?"
"Forgotten Doncaster races, nineteen five, hast tha, Ned? Well, Ah'm
pained in my choicest feelin's. Here Ah finds 'ee in misfortune, order
the stuff tha needs, pay for it, give 'ee good counsel and call 'ee Ned,
and 'tis not till ale's drownin' t' sadness of 'ee where it bides, that
'ee call to mind you've forgotten Sam Bunce."
"Sam'l--ay, Sam'l Ah remembers. 'Twas t' Bunce as came 'ard like. But
nineteen five? Challacombe's Leger, that was. Ay, Bunce fits into it.
This ale clears the wits wunnerful."
Dick was at the bar, money passing to the tapster.
"There's another, owd cock, where that came from," he said, turning to
Blossom. "Mebbe the next pint'll make 'ee call to mind how Challacombe's
win cleaned me out--and me bound to get south away to Coventry?"
"Ay," said Ned again, politely remembering all that he was told. "See'd
'ee off by t' train, I did."
"Good old Blossom you be," said Dick, laughing kindly, "sayin' nowt o'
the two jimmies you lent to get me home--an' us both that full we forgot
all about where I was to send the blunt! But it's not Sam Bunce'll
forget what he owes a man, and Ah knew as Ah'd meet 'ee again."
And he pushed three one-pound notes into the fuddled Ned's hand, who saw
no reason in denying a friend of this kind.
"'Most gone out o' my head, the money," he muttered. "But Ah knew 'ee
meant paying."
Then, as he awkwardly separated the notes, puzzling over the third, "Bit
of interest for the waitin'," said Dick. "Put 'em away, while I go and
get that Tod Sloan hitched single to lead your pair."
"I'll never drive 'im," objected Ned mournfully. "Ah've been turned all
ends up, wi' this 'ere 'appening. Tod, 'e'll turn an' laugh at me."
"'Tis easy, owd man, if you keep 'im canterin' from start."
"Tried 'im tandem once, they did--oh, Gawd!"
"What you needs, owd Ned, is a kip, e'en if 'ee can't sleep. Who's
Captain of o' this St. Asaph's cricketin' lot?"
"Rev'runt Mallaby--Dixon Mallaby. Gradely chap. Champion bat 'e be,
nobbut 'e's a parson."
"Then I'll drive 'em," said Dick, "and you get a lift o'er to
Ecclesthorpe later, an' tool 'em home. 'Long about that time you'll be
rested, an' Tod'll be after his oats."
Blossom nodded, lifting his tankard and waving it on the way to his
mouth, in feeble farewell.
As he went out Dick glanced sideways at Amaryllis. The sparkle in her
eyes stopped him.
"Oh, daddy!" she murmured, "what a liar you are!"
"Cha-ampion!" said Dick, adding, as he left her: "Rubberneck!"
Already the cricketers were gathering about the rear of the brake,
amongst them a gentleman.
To him Dick touched his hat.
"T' driver, sir, be o'ercome with near leader fallin' la-ame. He be an
owd pal. Seems me tryin' t' buck 'im oop's gone wrong way down. So be
you offers no objection, sir, I'll drive 'ee myself. Sam'l Bunce I'm
called, and 'tis Ecclesthorpe where us wants to go."
The Reverend Mr. Dixon Mallaby looked him up and down with good-humoured
scrutiny.
"I can't object to being pulled out of a hole," he replied. "And I don't
think I should enjoy driving Mr. Grudger's cattle myself."
"Then if ye'll bid landlord have Ned Blossom sent on t' Ecclesthorpe
when he be sober, I'll get t' three-cornered team hitched up."
And Dick went towards the stable, but turned back.
"Ought t' 'ave said, sir," he explained, "as I'll drive 'ee, so be as
there's room for my daughter."
"The pretty girl on the bench there? Why, of course there's room. Does
she want to see the match?"
"Doctor's orders she's to take all the fresh air there be, sir, and
we're paying for't in shoe-leather. By same token, she looks after me
too. Wouldn't let me out 'lone to-day, 'cos yesterday Ah went too free,
an' got into a bit o' rough house."
"I see," said the clergyman. "That's a nasty cut on your cheek."
Dick laughed.
"One o' them others got a worse," he answered, and went in search of Tod
Sloan.