Safe for the time being, but with the memory of his offences pursuing
him, the cook first washed his face and hands in a trough, and next
removed the stains of the crime from his knife. He then pushed on again
rapidly until he struck another road, and begging a lift from a passing
wagon, lay full length on top of a load of straw and nervously scanned
the landscape as they travelled. Half a dozen miles farther on the
wagon halted before a comfortable farmhouse, and the cook, after
bestowing on the carter two of the few coins left him, went his way,
losing himself, with a view to baffling pursuit, among a maze of small
lanes, turning right or left as the fancy took him, until nightfall
found him tired and famished on the outskirts of a small village.
Conscious of the power of the telegraph, which he had no doubt was
interesting itself in his behalf over the surrounding districts, he
skulked behind a hedge until the lights went from the ground floor to
the first floor of the cottages and then went out altogether. He then,
with the utmost caution, looked round in search of shelter. He came at
last to two cottages standing by themselves about half a mile beyond
the village, one of which had a wooden shed in the garden which seemed
to offer the very shelter he required. Satisfied that the inmates of
the cottage were all abed he entered the garden, and, treading on
tiptoe, walked towards the shed, fumbled at the hasp and opened the
door. It was pitch dark within and silent, till something rustled
uneasily. There was a note of alarm and indignation. The cook tripped
on a stone, and only saved himself from falling by clutching at a perch
which a dozen fowls instantly vacated with loud and frenzied appeals
for assistance. Immediately the shed was full of flapping wings and
agitated hens darting wildly between his legs as he made for the door
again, only to run into the arms of a man who came from the cottage.
“I’ve got him, Poll!” shouted the latter, as he dealt the cook a blow
with a stick. “I’ve got him!”
He fetched him another blow and was preparing, for a third, when the
cook, maddened with the pain, struck at him wildly and sent him
sprawling. He was up again in an instant and, aided by his wife, who
had stopped to make a slight concession to appearances in the shape of
a flannel petticoat, threw the cook down and knelt on him. A man came
out from the adjoining cottage, and having, with great presence of
mind, first found a vacant spot on the cook and knelt on it, asked what
was the matter.
“After my hens,” said the first man breathlessly. “I just heard ’em in
time.”
“I wasn’t after your hens. I didn’t know they was there!” gasped the
cook.
“Lock him up!” said the second man warmly.
“I’m goin’ to,” said the other, “Keep still, you thief!”
“Get up!” said the cook faintly; “you’re killin’ me.
“Take him in the house and tie him up for the night, and we’ll take him
to Winton police station in the morning,” said the neighbor. “He’s a
desperate character.”
As they declined to trust the cook to walk, he was carried into the
kitchen, where the woman, leaving him for a moment, struck a match and
hastily lit a candle. She then opened a drawer and, to the cook’s
horror, began pulling out about twenty fathoms of clothes-line.
“The best way and the safest is to tie him in a chair,” said the
neighbor. “I remember my gran’-father used to tell a tale of how they
served a highwayman that way once.”
“That would be best, I think,” said the woman pondering. “He’d be more
comfortable in a chair, though I’m sure he don’t deserve it.”
They raised the exhausted cook, and placing him in a stout oak chair,
lashed him to it until he could scarcely breathe.
“After my gran’father had tied the highwayman in the chair, he gave him
a crack on the head with a stick,” said the neighbor, regarding the
cook thoughtfully.
“They was very brutal in those times,” said the cook, before anybody
else could speak.
“Just to keep him quiet like,” said the neighbor, somewhat chilled by
the silence of the other two.
“I think he’ll do as he is,” said the owner of the fowls, carefully
feeling the prisoner’s bonds. “If you’ll come in in the morning,
Pettit, we’ll borrow a cart an’ take him over to Winton. I expect
there’s a lot of things against him.”
“I expect there is,” said Pettit, as the cook shuddered. “Well,
good-night.”
He returned to his house, and the couple, after carefully inspecting
the cook again, and warning him of the consequences if he moved, blew
out the candle and returned to their interrupted slumbers.
For a long time the unfortunate cook sat in a state of dreary apathy,
wondering vaguely at the ease with which he had passed from crime to
crime, and trying to estimate how much he should get for each. A
cricket sang from the hearthstone, and a mouse squeaked upon the floor.
Worn out with fatigue and trouble, he at length fell asleep.
He awoke suddenly and tried to leap out of his bunk on to the floor and
hop on one leg as a specific for the cramp. Then, as he realized his
position, he strove madly to rise and straighten the afflicted limb. He
was so far successful that he managed to stand, and in the fantastic
appearance of a human snail, to shuffle slowly round the kitchen. At
first he thought only of the cramp, but after that had yielded to
treatment a wild idea of escape occurred to him. Still bowed with the
chair, he made his way to the door, and, after two or three attempts,
got the latch in his mouth and opened it. Within five minutes he had
shuffled his way through the garden gate, which was fortunately open,
and reached the road.
The exertion was so laborious that he sat down again upon his portable
seat and reckoned up his chances. Fear lent him wings, though of a very
elementary type, and as soon as he judged he was out of earshot he
backed up against a tree and vigorously banged the chair against it.
He shed one cracked hind leg in this way, and the next time he sat down
had to perform feats of balancing not unworthy of Blondin himself.
Until day broke did this persecuted man toil painfully along with the
chair, and the sun rose and found him sitting carefully in the middle
of the road, faintly anathematizing Captain Gething and everything
connected with him. He was startled by the sound of footsteps rapidly
approaching him, and, being unable to turn his head, he rose painfully
to his feet and faced about bodily.
The new-comer stopped abruptly, and, gazing in astonishment at the
extraordinary combination of man and chair before him, retired a few
paces in disorder. At a little distance he had mistaken the cook for a
lover of nature, communing with it at his ease; now he was undecided
whether it was a monstrosity or an apparition.
“Mornin’, mate,” said the cook in a weary voice.
“Morning,” said the man, backing still more.
“I ’spose,” said the cook, trying to smile cheerfully, “you’re
surprised to see me like this?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it afore,” said the man guardedly.
“I don’t s’pose you ’ave,” said the cook. “I’m the only man in England
that can do it.”
The man said he could quite believe it.
“I’m doin’ it for a bet,” said the cook.
“Oh-h,” said the man, his countenance clearing, “a bet. I thought you
were mad. How much is it?”
“Fifty pounds,” said the cook. “I’ve come all the way from London like
this.”
“Well, I’m blest!” said the man. “What won’t they think of next! Got
much farther to go?”
“Oakville,” said the cook, mentioning a place he had heard of in his
wanderings. “At least I was, but I find it’s too much for me. Would you
mind doing me the favor of cutting this line?”
“No, no,” said the other reproachfully, “don’t give up now. Why, it’s
only another seventeen miles.”
“I must give it up,” said the cook, with a sad smile.
“Don’t be beat,” said the man warmly. “Keep your ’art up, and you’ll be
as pleased as Punch presently to think how near you was losing.”
“Cut it off,” said the cook, trembling with impatience; “I’ve earned
forty pounds of it by coming so far. If you cut it off I’ll send you
ten of it.”
The man hesitated while an inborn love of sport struggled with his
greed.
“I’ve got a wife and family,” he said at last in extenuation, and
taking out a clasp-knife, steadied the cook with one hand while he
severed his bonds with the other.
“God bless you, mate!” said the cook, trying to straighten his bowed
back as the chair fell to the ground.
“My name’s Jack Thompson,” said his benefactor. “Jack Thompson,
Winchgate ’ll find me.”
“I’ll make it twelve pounds,” said the grateful cook, “and you can have
the chair.”
He shook him by the hand, and, freed from his burden, stepped out on
his return journey, while his innocent accomplice, shouldering the
chair, went back to learn from the rightful owner a few hard truths
about his mental capacity.
Not knowing how much start he would have, the cook, despite his hunger
and fatigue, pushed on with all the speed of which he was capable.
After an hour’s journey he ventured to ask the direction of an embryo
ploughman, and wheedled out of him a small, a very small, portion of
his breakfast. From the top of the next hill he caught a glimpse of the
sea, and taking care to keep this friend of his youth in sight, felt
his way along by it to Brittlesea. At midday he begged some broken
victuals from a gamekeeper’s cottage, and with renewed vigor resumed
his journey, and at ten o’clock that night staggered on to Brittlesea
quay and made his way cautiously to the ship. There was nobody on deck,
but a light burned in the foc’sle, and after a careful peep below he
descended. Henry, who was playing, a losing game of draughts with Sam,
looked up with a start, and overturned the board.
“Lord love us, cookie!” said Sam, “where ’ave you been?”
The cook straightened up, smiling faintly, and gave a wave of his hand
which took in all the points of the compass. “Everywhere,” he said
wearily.
“You’ve been on the spree,” said Sam, regarding him severely.
“_Spree!_” said the cook with expression. “_Spree!_”
His feelings choked him, and after a feeble attempt to translate them
into words, he abandoned the attempt, and turning a deaf ear to Sam’s
appeal for information, rolled into his bunk and fell fast asleep.