They made Brittlesea in four days—days in which the skipper, a prey to
gentle melancholy, left things mostly to the mate. Whereupon
melancholia became contagious, and Sam’s concertina having been
impounded by the energetic mate, disaffection reared its ugly head in
the foc’sle and called him improper names when he was out of earshot.
They entered the small river on which stands the ancient town of
Brittlesea at nightfall. Business for the day was over. A few
fishermen, pipe in mouth, lounged upon the quay, while sounds of
revelry, which in some mysterious way reminded the crew of their
mission to find Captain Gething, proceeded from the open doors of a
small tavern opposite. The most sanguine of them hardly expected to
find him the first time; but, as Sam said, the sooner they started the
better. For all they knew he might be sitting in that very public-house
waiting to be found.
They went ashore a little later and looked for him there, but without
success. All they did find was a rather hot-tempered old man, who,
irritated by the searching scrutiny of the cook, asked him shortly
whether he had lost anything, because, if so, and he, the cook, thought
he was sitting on it, perhaps he’d be good enough to say so. The cook
having replied in fitting terms, they moved off down the quay to the
next tavern. Here they fared no better, Dick declaring that the beer
was if anything worse than the other, and that nobody who had lived in
the place any time would spend his money there. They therefore moved on
once more, and closing time came before their labors were half
completed.
“It’s quite a little romans,” said Sam thickly, as he was pushed
outside the last house of call, and a bolt shot desolately behind him.
“Where shall we go now?”
“Get back to the ship,” said Dick; “come along.”
“Not ’fore I foun’ ’im,” said Sam solemnly, as he drew back from Dick’s
detaining hand.
“You won’t find him to-night, Sam,” said the cook humorsomely.
“Why not?” said Sam, regarding him with glassy eyes. “We came out fin’
’im!”
“Cos it’s dark, for one thing,” said the cook.
Sam laughed scornfully.
“Come on!” said Dick, catching him by the arm again.
“I come out fin’ cap’n, cap’n—fin’ ’im,” said Sam. “I’m not goin’ back
’thout ’im.”
He rolled off down the road, and the two men, the simple traditions of
whose lives forbade them to leave a shipmate when in that condition,
followed him, growling. For half an hour they walked with him through
the silent streets of the little town. Dick with difficulty repressing
his impatience as the stout seaman bent down at intervals and
thoroughly searched doorsteps and other likely places for the missing
man. Finally, he stopped in front of a small house, walked on a little
way, came back, and then, as though he had suddenly made up his mind,
walked towards it.
“Hold him, cook!” shouted Dick, throwing his arms around him.
The cook flung his arms round Sam’s neck, and the two men, panting
fiercely, dragged him away.
“Now you come aboard, you old fool!” said Dick, losing his temper;
“we’ve had enough o’ your games.”
“Leg go!” said Sam, struggling.
“You leave that knocker alone, then,” said Dick warningly.
“’E’s in there!” said Sam, nodding wisely at the house.
“You come back, you old fool!” repeated Dick. “You never ’ort to ’ave
nothin’ stronger than milk.”
“Ole my coat, cookie!” said Sam, his manner changing suddenly to an
alarming sternness.
“Don’t be a fool, Sam!” said the cook entreatingly.
“’Ole my coat!” repeated Sam, eyeing him haughtily.
“You _know_ you haven’t got a coat on,” said the cook appealingly.
“Can’t you see it’s a jersey? You ain’t so far gone as all that!”
“Well, ’ole me while I take it off,” said Sam, sensibly.
Against his better sense the cook steadied the stout seaman while he
proceeded to peel, Dick waited until the garment—a very tight one—was
over his head, and then, pushing the cook aside, took his victim and
made him slowly gyrate on the pavement.
“Turn round three times and catch who you can, Sam,” he said cruelly.
“Well, sit down, then.”
He lowered him to the pavement, and, accompanied by the cook, drew off
and left him to his fate. Their last glance showed them a stout,
able-bodied seaman, with his head and arms confined in a jersey, going
through contortions of an extraordinary nature to free himself, and
indulging in language which, even when filtered by the garment in
question, was of a singularly comprehensive and powerful description.
He freed himself at last, and after flinging the garment away in his
anger, picked it up again, and, carrying it under his arm, zigzagged
his way back to the ship.
His memory when he awoke next morning was not quite clear, but a hazy
recollection of having been insulted led him to treat Dick and the cook
with marked coldness, which did not wear off until they were all busy
on deck. Working at cement is a dry job, and, after hardening his heart
for some time, the stout seaman allowed the cook to call him to the
galley and present him with a mug of cold coffee left from the cabin
table.
The cook washed the mug up, and, preferring the dusty deck to the heat
of the fire, sat down to wash a bowl of potatoes. It was a task which
lent itself to meditation, and his thoughts, as he looked wistfully at
the shore, reverted to Captain Gething and the best means of finding
him. It was clear that the photograph was an important factor in the
search, and, possessed with a new idea, he left the potatoes and went
down to the cabin in search of it. He found it on a shelf in the
skipper’s state-room, and, passing up on deck again, stepped ashore.
From the first three people he spoke to he obtained no information
whatever. They all inspected the photograph curiously and indulged in
comments, mostly unfavorable, but all agreed that there was nobody like
it in Brittlesea. He had almost given it up as a bad job, and was about
to return, when he saw an aged fisherman reclining against a post.
“Fine day, mate,” said the cook.
The old man courteously removed a short clay pipe from his puckered
mouth in order to nod, and replacing it, resumed his glance seaward.
“Ever seen anybody like that?” inquired the cook, producing the
portrait.
The old man patiently removed the pipe again, and taking the portrait,
scanned it narrowly.
“It’s wonderful how they get these things up nowadays,” he said in a
quavering voice; “there was nothing like that when you an’ me was
boys.”
“There ’as been improvements,” admitted the cook indignantly.
“All oils they was,” continued the old man meditatively, “or crains.”
“’Ave you ever seen anybody like that?” demanded the cook impatiently.
“Why, o’ course I have. I’m goin’ to tell you in a minute,” said the
old man querulously. “Let me see—what’s his name again?”
“I don’t know ’is name,” said the cook untruthfully.
“I should know it if I was to hear it,” said the old man slowly. “Ah,
I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”
He tapped his head triumphantly, and, with a bleared, shining old eye,
winked at the cook.
“My memory’s as good as ever it was,” he said complacently. “Sometimes
I forget things, but they come back. My mother used to be the same, and
she lived to ninety-three.”
“Lor!” interrupted the anxious cook. “What’s the name?”
The old man stopped. “Drat it!” he said, with a worried look, “I’ve
lost it again; but it’ll come back.”
The cook waited ten minutes for the prodigal. “It ain’t Gething, I
s’pose?” he said at length.
“No,” said the old man; “don’t you be in a hurry; it’ll come back.”
“When?” asked the cook rebelliously.
“It might be in five minutes’ time, and it might be in a month,” said
the old man firmly, “but it’ll come back.”
He took the portrait from the hands of the now sulky cook and strove to
jog his memory with it.
“John Dunn’s his name,” he cried suddenly. “John Dunn.”
“Where does ’e live?” inquired the cook eagerly.
“Holebourne,” said the old man—“a little place seven miles off the
road.”
“Are you sure it’s the same,” asked the cook in a trembling voice.
“Sartain,” said the other firmly. “He come here first about six years
ago, an’ then he quarrelled with his landlord and went off to
Holebourne.”
The cook, with a flushed face, glanced along the quay to the schooner.
Work was still proceeding amid a cloud of white dust, and so far his
absence appeared to have passed unnoticed.
“If they want any dinner,” he muttered, alluding to the powdered
figures at work on the schooner, “they must get it for theirselves,
that’s all. Will you come and ’ave a drop, old man?”
The old man, nothing loath, assented, and having tasted of the cook’s
bounty, crawled beside him through the little town to put him on the
road to Holebourne, and after seeing him safe, returned to his beloved
post.
The cook went along whistling, thinking pleasantly of the discomfiture
of the other members of the crew when they should discover his luck.
For three miles he kept on sturdily, until a small signboard,
projecting from between a couple of tall elms, attracted his attention
to a little inn just off the road, at the porch of which a stout
landlord sat on a wooden stool waiting for custom.
The cook hesitated a moment, and then marching slowly up, took a stool
which stood opposite and ordered a pint.
The landlord rose and in a heavy, leisurely fashion, entered the house
to execute the order, and returned carefully bearing a foaming mug.
“Take the top off,” said the cook courteously.
The stout man, with a nod towards him, complied.
“’Ave a pint with me,” said the cook, after a hasty glance into the
interior, as the landlord handed him the mug. “You keep that one,” he
added.
The stout man drew another pint, and subsiding on to his stool with a
little sigh, disposed himself for conversation.
“Taking a country walk?” he inquired.
The cook nodded. “Not all pleasure,” he said importantly; “I’m on
business.”
“Ah, it’s you fellows what make all the money,” said the landlord.
“I’ve only drawn these two pints this morning. Going far?”
“Holebourne,” said the other.
“Know anybody there?” asked the landlord.
“Well, not exactly,” said the cook; “I carn’t say as I know ’im. I’m
after a party o’ the name o’ Dunn.”
“You won’t get much out of him,” said the landlady, who had just joined
them. “He’s a close un, he is.”
The cook closed his eyes and smiled knowingly.
“There’s a mystery about that man,” said the landlady. “Nobody knows
who he is or what he is, and he won’t tell ’em. When a man’s like that
you generally know there’s something wrong—leastways I do.”
“Insulting, he is,” said the landlord.
“Ah,” said the cook, “’e won’t insult me!”
“You know something about him?” said the landlady.
“A little,” said the cook.
The landlord reached over to his wife, who bent her ear readily and
dutifully towards him, and the cook distinctly caught the whispered
word “’tec.”
The landlady, after a curious glance at the cook, withdrew to serve a
couple of wagoners who had drawn up at the door. Conversation became
general, and it was evident that the wagoners shared the sentiments of
the landlord and his wife with regard to Mr. Dunn. They regarded the
cook with awe, and after proffering him a pint with respectful
timidity, offered to give him a lift to Holebourne.
“I’d sooner go on my own,” said the cook, with a glance at the wagons;
“I want to get in the place quiet like and ’ave a look round before I
do anythin’.”
He sat there for some time resting, and evading as best he could the
skilful questions of the landlady. The wagons moved off first, jolting
and creaking their way to Holebourne, and the cook, after making a
modest luncheon of bread and cheese and smoking a pipe, got on the road
again.
“Look how he walks!” said the landlord, as the couple watched him up
the road.
“Ah!” said his wife.
“Like a bloodhound,” said the landlord impressively; “just watch him. I
knew what he was directly I clapped eyes on him.”
The cook continued his journey, unconscious of the admiration excited
by his movements. He began to think that he had been a trifle foolish
in talking so freely. Still, he had not said much, and if people liked
to make mistakes, why, that was their business.
In this frame of mind he entered Holebourne, a small village consisting
of a little street, an inn, and a church. At the end of the street, in
front of a tidy little cottage with a well-kept front garden, a small
knot of people were talking.
“Somethin’ on,” said the cook to himself as he returned with interest
the stares of the villagers. “Which is Mr. Dunn’s house, boy?”
“There it is, sir,” said the boy, pointing to the house where the
people were standing. “Are you the detective?”
“No,” said the cook sharply.
He walked across to the house and opened the little garden gate, quite
a little hum of excitement following him as he walked up to the door
and knocked upon it with his knuckles.
“Come in,” growled a deep voice.
The cook entered and carefully closed the door behind him. He found
himself in a small sitting-room, the only occupant of which was an old
man of forbidding aspect sitting in an easy chair with a newspaper open
in his hand.
“What do you want?” he demanded, looking up.
“I want to see Mr. Dunn,” said the cook nervously.
“I’m Mr. Dunn,” said the other, waiting.
The cook’s heart sank, for, with the exception of a beard, Mr. Dunn no
more resembled the portrait than he did.
“I’m Mr. Dunn,” repeated the old man, regarding him ferociously from
beneath his shaggy eyebrows.
The cook smiled, but faintly. He tried to think, but the old man’s gaze
sent all the ideas out of his head.
“Oh, are you?” he said at length.
“I heard you were looking for me,” said the old man, gradually raising
his voice to a roar. “All the village knows it, I think, and now you’ve
found me what the devil is it you want?”
“I—I think there’s a mistake,” stammered the cook.
“Oh,” said the old man. “Ha! is there? Pretty detective you are. I’ll
bring an action against you. I’ll have you imprisoned and dismissed the
force.”
“It’s all a mistake,” said the cook; “I’m not a detective.”
“Come this way,” said the old man, rising.
The cook followed him into a smaller room at the back.
“You’re not a detective?” said the old man, as he motioned him to a
seat. “I suppose you know that impersonating a detective is a serious
offence? Just stay here while I fetch a policeman, will you?”
The cook said he wouldn’t.
“Ah,” said the old man with a savage grin, “I think you will.” Then he
went to the door and called loudly for “Roger.”
Before the dazed cook of the _Seamew_ could collect his scattered
senses a pattering sounded on the stairs, and a bulldog came
unobtrusively into the room. It was a perfectly bred animal, with at
least a dozen points about it calling for notice and admiration, but
all that the cook noticed was the excellent preservation of its teeth.
“Watch him, Roger,” said the old man, taking a hat from a sideboard.
“Don’t let him move.”
The animal growled intelligently, and sitting down a yard or two in
front of the cook watched him with much interest.
“I’m sure I’m very sorry,” muttered the cook. “Don’t go away and leave
me with this dog, sir.”
“He won’t touch you unless you move,” said the old man.
The cook’s head swam; he felt vaguely round for a subtle compliment.
“I’d rather you stayed,” he quavered, “I would indeed. I don’t know any
man I’ve took a greater fancy to at first sight.”
“I don’t want any of your confounded insolence,” said the other
sternly. “Watch him, Roger.”
Roger growled with all the cheerfulness of a dog who had found a job
which suited him, and his owner, after again warning the cook of what
would happen if he moved out of the chair, left the room, shutting the
door as he went. The cook heard the front door close behind him, and
then all was silence, except for the strong breathing of Roger.
For some time the man and dog sat eyeing each other in silence, then
the former, moistening his dry lips with his tongue, gave a
conciliatory chirrup. Roger responded with a deep growl, and, rising to
his feet, yawned expressively.
“Poor Roger!” said the cook in trembling accents, “poor old Rogy-wogy!
Good old dog!”
The good old dog came a little nearer and closely inspected the cook’s
legs, which were knocking together with fright.
“Cats!” said the cook, pointing to the door as an idea occurred to him.
“S-cat! Seize ’em, dog! seize ’em!”
“G-w-r-r,” said Roger menacingly. The quivering limbs had a strange
fascination for him, and coming closer he sniffed at them loudly.
In a perfect panic the cook, after glancing helplessly at the poker,
put his hand gently behind him and drew his sheath-knife. Then, with a
courage born of fear, he struck the dog suddenly in the body, and
before it could recover from the suddenness of the attack, withdrew his
knife and plunged it in again. The dog gave a choking growl and, game
to the last, made a grab at the cook’s leg, and missing it, rolled over
on the floor, giving a faint kick or two as the breath left its body.
It had all happened so quickly that the cook, mechanically wiping his
blade on the tablecloth, hardly realized the foulness of the crime of
which he had been guilty, but felt inclined to congratulate himself
upon his desperate bravery. Then as he realized that, in addition to
the offence for which the choleric Mr. Dunn was even now seeking the
aid of the law, there was a dead bulldog and a spoiled carpet to answer
for, he resolved upon an immediate departure. He made his way to the
back door, and sheathing his knife, crept stealthily down the garden,
and clambered over the fence at the bottom. Then, with his back to the
scene of the murder, he put up his hands and ran.
He crossed two fields and got on to a road, his breath coming painfully
as he toiled along with an occasional glance behind him. It was uphill,
but he kept on until he had gained the top, and then he threw himself
down panting by the side of the road with his face turned in the
direction of Holebourne. Five minutes later he started up again and
resumed his flight, as several figures burst into the road from the
village in hot pursuit.
For a little while he kept to the road, then, as the idea occurred to
him that some of his pursuers might use a vehicle, he broke through the
hedge and took to the fields. His legs gave way beneath him, and he
stumbled rather than ran, but he kept on alternately walking and
running until all signs of the pursuit had ceased.