ADVENTURE OF THE FURRED COLLAR.
"'_Do you know me, my lord?'
'Excellent well; you are a fishmonger._'"--HAMLET.
He stood on the edge of the wharf--a black figure in an Inverness cape--
with his back towards the angle of the store where the children hid.
There was no mistaking him. For two nights he had haunted Tilda's
dreams; and she could have picked him out, even in the twilight, from
among a thousand.
She gave another gasp, and with that her presence of mind returned.
He had not seen them; he was watching the barge. The angle of the store
would still hide them if they tip-toed to the wharf gate. But they must
be noiseless as mice; they must reach the road, and then--
She caught up 'Dolph by the scruff of his neck, tucked him under her
arm, and whispered to Arthur Miles to steal after her. But before she
had taken three paces another fright brought her heart into her mouth.
Footsteps were coming down the road. They could not belong to the
wagoner's son. He would be bringing his horse and cart. The footsteps
were light, too--light and hurried, and not to be associated with
hobnailed boots.
Almost desperate at this cutting off of retreat, Tilda pulled Arthur
Miles towards a wooden stairway, unrailed, painted over with Stockholm
tar, built against the outside of the store, and leading to its upper
chamber.
"Up! and quick!" she commanded, pushing him before her. She followed
panting, leaning against the wall for support, for 'Dolph was no light
burden, and his weight taxed her hurt leg painfully.
The door of the loft stood ajar. She staggered in after the boy,
dropped the dog, and closed all but a chink, at which she posted
herself, drawing quick breaths.
In the darkness behind her Arthur Miles listened. The footsteps drew
nearer, paused, and after a moment were audible again in the yard below.
"Good Lord--it's Gavel!"
"Eh?" The boy drew closer to her shoulder.
"It's Gavel, come in a sweat for 'is 'orses. I didn' reckernise 'im for
the moment--dressed out in a fur coat an' Trilby 'at. But it's Gavel,
an' 'e's walkin' straight into Glasson's arms. Stand by to do a bolt
soon as 'e turns the corner."
"But I don't see what he has to do with--with--" Arthur Miles hesitated
before the terrible name.
"Glasson? Oh, nothin'; on'y ten to one Gavel's met with the Mortimers,
an', Glasson bein' on the track already--W'y, what elst is the man 'ere
for?"
"He shan't take me," said the boy after a pause, and in a strained low
voice which, nevertheless, had no tremor in it. "Not if I throw myself
off the ladder."
"You stop that talk, please," threatened Tilda. "It's wicked; an'
besides, they 'aven't caught us yet. Do what I tell yer, an' stand by
to bolt."
She crept to the other door, which commanded the canal front, unbarred
it softly, and opened the upper hatch a few inches. Through this
aperture, by standing on tip-toe, she could watch the meeting of the two
men.
"When I call, run for yer life."
But a minute--two minutes--passed, and the command did not come.
Arthur Miles, posted by the bolt-hole, held his breath at the sound of
voices without, by the waterside. The tones of one he recognised with a
shiver. They were raised, and although he could not catch the words,
apparently in altercation. Forgetting orders, he tip-toed across to
Tilda's elbow.
Mr. James Gavel, proprietor of Imperial Steam Roundabouts--as well as of
half a dozen side-shows, including a Fat Lady and a Try-your-Strength
machine--was a small man with a purplish nose and a temper kept
irritable by alcohol; and to-day the Fates had conspired to rub that
temper on the raw. He swore aloud, and partly believed, that ever since
coming to Henley-in-Arden he was bewitched.
He had come at the instance, and upon the guarantee, of Sir Elphinstone
Breward, Baronet, C.B., K.C.V.O., a local landowner, who, happening to
visit Warwick on County Council business, which in its turn happened to
coincide with a fair day, had been greatly struck by the title
"Imperial" painted over Mr. Gavel's show, and with soldierly promptness
had engaged the whole outfit--Roundabouts, Fat Lady and all--for his
forthcoming Primrose Fete.
If beside his addiction to alcohol Mr. Gavel had a weakness, it was the
equally British one of worshipping a title. Flattered by the honest
baronet's invitation, he had met it almost more than half-way; and had
dispatched six of his shabbiest horses to Birmingham to be repainted for
the fete, and labelled "Kitchener," "Bobs," "Cecil Rhodes," "Doctor
Jim," "Our Joe," and "Strathcona"--names (as he observed) altogether
more up to date than the "Black Prince," "Brown Bess," "Saladin," and
others they superseded.
Respect for his patron had further prompted Mr. Gavel, on the morning of
the fete, to don a furred overcoat, and to swear off drink for the day.
This abstinence, laudable in itself, disastrously affected his temper,
and brought him before noon into wordy conflict with his engineer.
The quarrel, suppressed for the time, flamed out afresh in the
afternoon, and, unfortunately, at a moment when Sir Elphinstone, as
chairman, was introducing the star orator from London. Opprobrious
words had reached the ears of the company gathered on the platform, and
Sir Elphinstone had interrupted his remarks about Bucking Up and
Thinking Imperially to send a policeman through the crowd with
instructions to stop that damned brawling.
If the great Napoleon may be forgiven for losing his temper when at five
in the afternoon from the slope of La Belle Alliance he watched the
Prussians breaking through the opposite woods, while Grouchy yet
tarried, let it be pleaded in excuse for Mr. Gavel that ever since
eleven a.m. he had been awaiting the arrival of his six newly-painted
horses. The Birmingham decorator had pledged himself to deliver them
early at Preston Bagot, and Mr. Gavel knew him for a man of his word.
He had made arrangements for their prompt conveyance to the field.
He did not doubt, but he was undeniably anxious.
Imagine, then, his feelings when at four o'clock or a little later a
wagon--the wagon of his hiring--rolled into the enclosure bringing one
horse only, and in place of the others a pile of tent-cloths and
theatrical boxes, on which sat and smiled Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, his
professional rivals.
He had been drinking ginger-ale all day, and in copious draughts.
It must be confessed that he lost his temper woefully, and so
vociferously that Sir Elphinstone this time descended from the platform,
and strode across the meadow to demand what the devil he meant by it.
Nor was even this the last drop in the cup of Mr. Gavel's bitterness;
for the baronet, struck by Mr. Mortimer's appearance and genteel
address, at once invited him to set up his tent and save the situation
so desperately compromised.
Sam Bossom, perceiving that the wagon stood on ground well adapted for
pitching a tent, cheerfully proceeded to unload. Mr. Gavel watched in
speechless rage. Old Holly, the carrier, suggested that there was no
need to give up hope of the horses. They might turn up yet before dark.
Boats came down the canal at all hours of the day.
"Then why couldn't you have waited and given 'em a chance?" foamed the
proprietor; and commanding Holly to turn the empty wagon and follow, he
strode off in the direction of the Wharf. The afternoon was hot.
His furred coat oppressed him; his shoes--of patent leather, bought
ready-made--pinched his feet. On the road he came to a public-house,
entered, and gulped down two "goes" of whisky. Still the wagon lagged
behind. Re-emerging, he took the road again, his whole man hot within
his furred coat as a teapot within a cosy.
In this temper, then, Mr. Gavel came to the wharf at Preston Bagot
locks, and finding the _Success to Commerce_ moored there with a tall
man apparently in charge, demanded if he came from Birmingham.
"Or thereabouts," answered the tall man, eyeing him. "From there or
thereabouts. And, if I mistake not, you are the--er--person of whom I
came in search."
The man's voice took Mr. Gavel somewhat aback. It did not resemble an
ordinary bargee's. But at the moment he could no more check the
explosion of his wrath than you can hold back a cork in the act of
popping from a bottle of soda-water.
"Curse your laziness!" exploded Mr. Gavel; "and this is your notion of
searching for me, is it?"
"It appears to be a pretty successful one," said Dr. Glasson.
"I've discovered you, anyhow; and now I suggest to you that swearing
won't help the reckoning between us."
"Oh, stow your fine talk! I've heard of sea-lawyers, and I suppose
you're a canal specimen. Carriage was paid at the other end, and you
know it. I catch you here loafing, and I'm going to dispute the bill--
which means that you'll get the sack, my friend, whether I recover the
money or no. Pounds out of pocket I am by this, not to speak of
reputation. Where are they? Where have you put 'em?"
"That's what I'll trouble _you_ to answer, sir."
"My hosses! . . . You don't mean to tell me--" Mr. Gavel smote his brow.
"But you said just now you were looking for me!" he cried.
"You act well, sir," said Dr. Glasson sternly. "It is your profession.
But, as it happens, I have made inquiries along the canal, and am proof
against your bluster. A boat, the _Success to Commerce_--a bargeman in
a furred overcoat--the combination is unusual, and not (I put it to you)
likely to be repeated on this short stretch of waterway. Confess, Mr.--
confess, sir, your game is up. Kidnapping is an ugly offence in this
country, and, in short, I advise you without more ado to hand over the
two children."
Mr. Gavel leaned back against a crane for support.
"Children? What children?" he repeated, staring.
Clearly here was some hideous blunder, and he perceived at length that
the person addressing him in no way resembled a bargee.
"But--but my hosses?" he gasped.
Just then the sound of wheels fell on his ears, and both men faced
about. Mr. Gavel made sure that this must be old Holly with his wagon.
But no; there came around the corner a cart with a single horse, driven
by a lad; and the lad, pulling up before the store, went in, and in less
than a minute reappeared staggering under a heavy burden.
"But, Hallo!" cried Mr. Gavel, pulling himself together, and striding
towards the cart. "It _is_--" he began incredulously; but after a
second look raised his voice in triumphant recognition and demand.
"My hosses! What are you doing with my hosses?"
"Yours, be they?" the lad answered. "Well, I'm takin' 'em to Henley, as
you sent word."
"_I_ sent word?" echoed Mr. Gavel.
"_Somebody_ sent word," the lad persisted. "An' in the devil of a
'urry, 'cordin' to the child what brought it. But, as I said to mother,
where's the sense in sendin' messages by children?"
"Children?"
"There was two on 'em--a boy an' a girl--"
"Ah!" interrupted Dr. Glasson. "Describe them, please."
The lad scratched his head.
"Mother took the message. I was indoors, havin' tea, an' didn' see more
'n a glimpse. But here comes father," he added briskly, as again wheels
were heard on the road, and old Holly drove into the yard with his
belated wagon.
"You must admit, sir," said Dr. Glasson, addressing Mr. Gavel, "that
circumstances are beginning to look too strong for you."
"Oh, to--with circumstances!" retorted Mr. Gavel. "Mortimer's in this,
for a fiver. I don't see how--I don't make head or tail of it; but the
tail you've got hold of belongs to the wrong dog. Kidnapping, is it?
A couple of children you want? Suspect me, do you? Well, suspect away.
_I_ don't mind. I've got my hosses; and when we're loaded up you can
climb on board the wagon, if you like, and we'll pay a call on Mortimer.
I bet he's your man; and the harder you pinch Mortimer to make him
squeal, the better you'll please me."
"Arthur Miles," demanded Tilda in a harsh whisper, "what're yer doin'
'ere?"
"Listening," answered the boy simply.
"I 'opes yer likes it! . . . We're in a tight corner, Arthur Miles, an'
nothing for it but bolt while they're talkin'."
"We might hide here in the dark--but, of course, you know best."
"O' course I do," Tilda agreed. "'Ide 'ere? An' who's to warn the
Mortimers?"
She stooped and again caught 'Dolph under her arm. Then she
straightened herself up and stood listening to the voices, clearly
audible from the entrance of the store below.
"Tip-toe, mind! There's on'y a board between us--and quiet, for your
life!"
They stole to the steps and paused for a moment, peering into the gloom.
Here too their enemies' voices were audible, but around the corner of
the store, the coast was clear. They crept down the steps and gained
the road. In the highway Tilda drew breath.
"Things look pretty bad," she said; "but things ain't altogether so bad
as they look. Where we're goin' we'll find Bill; an' Bill's a tower o'
strength."
"But we don't even know the way," objected Arthur Miles.
"No, but 'Dolph does. 'Ere, 'Dolph"--she set down the dog--"you got to
lead us where the others went; an' at the end of it there's a little
surprise for yer. 'Ear?"
'Dolph heard, shook himself, wagged his tail, and padded forward into
the gathering darkness; ran a little way and halted, until they overtook
him. He understood.
"If they catch up with us we must nip into a gateway," panted Tilda.
But as yet there was no sound of wheels on the road behind. They passed
the Hollys' cottage and stable, and braved the undiscovered country.
The road twisted between tall hedgerows, black in the shadow of elms.
No rain had fallen for many days, and the powdered dust lay so thick
underfoot, that twice or thrice Tilda halted--still holding the boy's
hand--in doubt if they had wandered off upon turf. But always, as they
hesitated thus, 'Dolph came trotting back to reassure them.
In this manner, trotting and pausing, they had covered a bare
three-quarters of a mile when there smote on their ears a throbbing of
the air--a thud-thud which Arthur Miles took for the beat of a factory
engine, so like it was to the echoes that had floated daily, and all day
long, across the Orphanage wall; but Tilda, after hearkening a moment,
announced it to be the bass of Gavel's steam organ. The hoot of a
whistle presently confirmed her guess.
'Dolph was steering them steadily towards the sound; and a glow in the
sky, right ahead and easily discernible, would have guided them even
without his help. Tilda recognised that glow also.
"And the best is, it means Bill," she promised.
But they did not catch the tune itself until they were close upon the
meadow. At the top of a rise in the road it broke on them, the scene
almost simultaneously with its music; and a strange scene it was, and
curiously beautiful--a slope, and below the slope a grassy meadow set
with elms; a blaze of light, here and there in the open spaces; in one
space a steam roundabout revolving with mirrors, in another the soft
glow of naphtha-lamps through tent cloth; glints of light on the
boughs, dark shadows of foliage, a moving crowd, its murmur so silenced
by music and the beat of a drum that it seemed to sway to and fro
without sound, now pressing forward into the glare, now dissolving into
the penumbra.
Arthur Miles paused, trembling. He had never seen the like. But Tilda
had recovered all her courage.
"This," she assured him, "is a little bit of all right," and taking his
hand, led him down the slope and posted him in the shadow of a
thorn-bush.
"Wait here," she enjoined; and he waited, while she descended cautiously
towards the roundabout with its revolving mirrors.
He lost sight of her. He lay still where she had commanded him to lie,
watching the many twinkling lights, watching the roundabout turn and
flash and come to a stop, watching the horseplay of boys and maidens as
one set clambered off laughing and another pressed forward into their
places. The tune droned in his ears, came to an end, went on again.
He drowsed to its recurrent beat. From his couch in the wet shadow he
gazed up at the stars riding overhead, above the elms.
At the end of twenty minutes Tilda stole back to him; and, softly though
she came, her footfall woke him out of his dreams with a start.
Yet, and though he could barely discern her from the shadow of the
thorn-bush, he knew on the instant that she brought disappointment.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Everything's the matter. Bill's gone!"