THE TRAMPS
LEW BRADY sat disconsolately in Lola Bassano’s pretty drawing-room, and
a more incongruous figure in that delicate setting it was impossible to
imagine. A week’s growth of beard had transfigured him into the most
unsavoury looking ruffian, and the soiled old clothes he wore, the
broken and discoloured boots, the grimy shirt, no less than his own
personal uncleanliness of appearance made him a revolting object.
So Lola thought, eyeing him anxiously, a foreboding of trouble in her
heart.
“I’m finished with the Frog,” growled Brady. “He pays—of course he
pays! But how long is it going on, Lola? You brought me into this!” He
glowered at her.
“I brought you in, when you wanted to be brought into something,” she
said calmly. “You can’t live on my savings all your life, Lew, and it
was nearly time you made a little on the side.”
He played with a silver seal, twiddling it between his fingers, his eyes
gloomily downcast.
“Balder’s caught, and the old man’s dead,” he said. “They’re the big
people. What chance have I got?”
“What were your instructions, Lew?” she asked for the twentieth time
that day.
He shook his head.
“I’m taking no risks, Lola. I don’t trust anybody, not even you.”
He took a small bottle from his pocket and examined it.
“What is that?” she asked curiously.
“Dope of some kind.”
“Is that part of the instructions too?”
He nodded.
“Are you going in your own name?”
“No, I’m not,” he snapped. “Don’t ask questions. I’m not going to tell
you anything, see? This trip’s going to last a fortnight, and when it’s
finished, I’m finished with Frog.”
“The boy—is he going with you?”
“How do I know? I’m to meet somebody somewhere, and that’s all about
it.” He looked at the clock and rose with a grunt. “It’s the last time I
shall sit in a decent parlour for a fortnight.” He gave a curt nod and
walked to the door.
There was a servants’ entrance, a gallery which was reached through the
kitchen, and he passed down the stairs unobserved, into the night.
It was dark by the time he reached Barnet; his feet were aching; he was
hot and wretched. He had suffered the indignity of being chased off the
pavement by a policeman he could have licked with one hand, and he
cursed the Frog with every step he took. There was still a long walk
ahead of him once he was clear of Barnet; and it was not until a village
clock was striking the hour of eleven that he ambled up to a figure that
was sitting on the side of the road, just visible in the pale moonlight,
but only recognizable when he spoke.
“Is that you?” said a voice.
“Yes, it’s me. You’re Carter, aren’t you?”
“Good Lord!” gasped Ray as he recognized the voice. “It’s Lew Brady!”
“It’s nothing of the kind!” snarled the other man. “My name’s Phenan.
Yours is Carter. Sit down for a bit. I’m dead beat.”
“What is the idea?” asked the youth as they sat side by side.
“How the devil do I know?” said the other savagely as, with a tender
movement, he slipped off his boots and rubbed his bruised feet.
“I had no idea it was you,” said Ray.
“I knew it was you, all right,” said the other. “And why I should be
called upon to take a mug around this country, God knows!”
After a while he was rested sufficiently to continue the tramp.
“There’s a barn belonging to a shopkeeper in the next village. He’ll let
us sleep there for a few pence.”
“Why not try to get a room?”
“Don’t be a fool,” snapped Lew. “Who’s going to take in a couple of
tramps, do you think? We know we’re clean, but they don’t. No, we’ve got
to go the way the tramps go.”
“Where? To Nottingham?”
“I don’t know. If they told you Nottingham, I should say that’s the last
place in the world we shall go to. I’ve got a sealed envelope in my
pocket. When we reach Baldock I shall open it.”
They slept that night in the accommodating barn—a draughty shed,
populated, it seemed, by chickens and rats, and Ray had a restless night
and thought longingly of his own little bed at Maytree Cottage.
Strangely enough, he did not dwell on the more palatial establishment in
Knightsbridge.
The next day it rained, and they did not reach Baldock until late in the
afternoon, and, sitting down under the cover of a hedge, Brady opened
the envelope and read its contents, his companion watching him
expectantly.
“You will branch from Baldock and take the nearest G.W. train
for Bath. Then by road to Gloucester. At the village of
Laverstock you will reveal to Carter the fact that you are
married to Lola Bassano. You should take him to the _Red Lion_
for this purpose, and tell him as offensively as possible in
order to force a quarrel, but in no circumstances are you to
allow him to part company from you. Go on to Ibbley Copse. You
will find an open space near where three dead trees stand, and
there you will stop, take back the statement you made that you
are married to Lola, and make an apology. You are carrying with
you a whisky flask; you must have the dope and the whisky
together at this point. After he is asleep, you will make your
way to Gloucester, to 289 Hendry Street, where you will find a
complete change of clothing. Here you will shave and return to
town by the 2.19.”
Every word, every syllable, he read over and over again, until he had
mastered the details. Then, striking a match, he set fire to the paper
and watched it burn.
“What are the orders?” asked Ray.
“The same as yours, I suppose. What did you do with yours?”
“Burnt them,” said Ray. “Did he tell you where we’re going?”
“We are going to take the Gloucester Road; I thought we should. That
means striking across country till we reach the Bath Road. We can take a
train to Bath.”
“Thank goodness for that!” said Ray fervently. “I don’t feel I can walk
another step.”
At seven o’clock that night, two tramps turned out of a third-class
carriage on Bath station. One, the younger, was limping slightly, and
sat down on a station seat.
“Come on, you can’t stay here,” said the other gruffly. “We’ll get a bed
in the town. There’s a Salvation Army shelter somewhere in Bath.”
“Wait a bit,” said the other. “I’m so cramped with sitting in that
infernal carriage that I can hardly move.”
They had joined the London train at Reading, and the passengers were
pouring down the steps to the subway. Ray looked at them enviously. They
had homes to go to, clean and comfortable beds to sleep in. The thought
of it gave him a pain. And then he saw a figure and shrank back. A tall,
angular man, who carried a heavy box in one hand and a bag in the other.
It was his father.
John Bennett went down the steps, with a casual glance at the two
unsavoury tramps on the seat, never dreaming that one was the son whose
future he was at that moment planning.
John Bennett spent an ugly night, and an even more ugly early morning.
He collected the camera where he had left it, at a beerhouse on the
outskirts of the town, and, fixing the improvised carrier, he slipped
the big box on his back, and, with his bag in his hand, took the road. A
policeman eyed him disapprovingly as he passed, and seemed in two minds
as to whether or not he should stop him, but refrained. The strength and
stamina of this grey man were remarkable. He breasted a hill and,
without slackening his pace, reached the top, and strode steadily along
the white road that was cut in the face of the hill. Below him stretched
the meadow lands of Somerset, vast fields speckled with herds,
glittering streaks of light where the river wound; above his head a blue
sky, flecked white here and there. As he walked, the load on his heart
was absorbed. All that was bright and happy in life came to him. His
hand strayed to his waistcoat pocket mechanically. There were the
precious press cuttings that he had brought from town and had read and
re-read in the sleepless hours of the night.
He thought of Ella, and all that Ella meant to him, and of Dick
Gordon—but that made him wince, and he came back to the comfort of his
pictures. Somebody had told him that there were badgers to be seen; a
man in the train had carefully located a veritable paradise for the
lover of Nature; and it was toward this beauty spot that he was making
his way with the aid of a survey map which he had bought overnight at a
stationer’s shop.
Another hour’s tramp brought him to a wooden hollow, and, consulting his
map, he found he had reached his objective. There was ample evidence of
the truth that his chance-found friend had told him. He saw a stoat,
flying on the heels of a terrified rabbit; a hawk wheeled ceaselessly on
stiff pinions above him; and presently he found the “run” he was looking
for, the artfully concealed entrance to a badger’s lair.
In the years he had been following his hobby he had overcome many
difficulties, learnt much. To-day, failure had taught him something of
the art of concealment. It took him time to poise and hide the camera in
a bush of wild laurel, and even then it was necessary that he should
take a long shot, for the badger is the shyest of its kind. There were
young ones in the lair: he saw evidence of that; and a badger who has
young is doubly shy.
He had replaced the pneumatic attachment which set the camera moving, by
an electrical contrivance, and this enabled him to work with greater
surety. He unwound the long flex and laid it to its fullest extent,
taking a position on the slope of the hill eighty yards away, making
himself comfortable. Taking off his coat, which acted as a pillow on
which his arms rested, he put his field-glasses near at hand.
He had been waiting half an hour when he thought he saw a movement at
the mouth of the burrow, and slowly focussed his glasses. It was the tip
of a black nose he saw, and he took the switch of the starter in his
hand, ready to set the camera revolving. Minutes followed minutes;
five—ten—fifteen—but there was no further movement in the burrow, and
in a dull way John Bennett was glad, because the warmth of the day,
combined with his own weariness and his relaxed position, brought to him
a rare sensation of bodily comfort and well-being. Deeper and deeper
grew the languorous haze of comfort that fell on him like a fog, until
it obscured all that was visible and audible. John Bennett slept, and,
sleeping, dreamed of success and of peace and of freedom from all that
had broken his heart, and had dried up the sweet waters of life within
him. In his dream he heard voices and a sharp sound, like a shot. But he
knew it was not a shot, and shivered. He knew that “crack,” and in his
sleep clenched his hands convulsively. The electric starter was still in
his hand.
* * * * * *
At nine o’clock that morning there had come into Laverstock two limping
tramps, though one limped more than the other. The bigger of the two
stopped at the door of the _Red Lion_, and an unfriendly landlord
surveyed the men over the top of the curtain which gave the habitués of
the bar a semi-privacy.
“Come in,” growled Lew Brady.
Ray was glad to follow. The landlord’s bulk blocked the entrance to the
bar.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I want a drink.”
“There’s no free drinks going in this parish,” said the landlord,
looking at the unpromising customer.
“Where did you get that ‘free drink’ stuff from?” snarled Lew. “My
money’s as good as anybody else’s, isn’t it?”
“If it’s honestly come by,” said the landlord. “Let us have a look at
it.”
Lew pulled out a handful of silver, and the master of the _Red Lion_
stood back.
“Come in,” he said, “but don’t make a home of my bar. You can have your
drink and go.”
Lew growled the order, and the landlord poured out the two portions of
whisky.
“Here’s yours, Carter,” said Lew, and Ray swallowed the fiery dram and
choked.
“I’ll be glad to get back,” said Lew in a low voice. “It’s all right for
you single men, but this tramping is pretty tough on us fellows who’ve
got wives—even though the wives aren’t all they might be.”
“I didn’t know you were married,” said Ray, faintly interested.
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” sneered the other. “Of course I’m
married. You were told once, and you hadn’t the brains to believe it.”
Ray looked at the man open-mouthed.
“Do you mean—what Gordon said?”
The other nodded.
“You mean that Lola is your wife?”
“Why, certainly she’s my wife,” said Lew coolly. “I don’t know how many
husbands she’s had, but I’m her present one.”
“Oh, my God!”
Ray whispered the words.
“What’s the matter with you? And take that look off your face,” said Lew
Brady viciously. “I’m not blaming you for being sweet on her. I like to
see people admire my wife, even such kids as you.”
“Your wife!” said Ray again. He could not believe the man was speaking
the truth. “Is she—is she a Frog?”
“Why shouldn’t she be?” said Brady. “And keep your voice down, can’t
you? That fat old devil behind the counter is trying hard to listen. Of
course she’s Frog, and she’s crook. We’re all crooks. You’re crook too.
That’s the way with Lola, she likes the crooks best. Perhaps you’ll have
a chance, after you’ve done a job or two——”
“You beast!” hissed Ray, and struck the man full in the face.
Before Lew Brady could come to his feet, the landlord was between them.
“Outside, both of you!” he shouted, and, dashing to the door, roared
half a dozen names. He was back in time to see Lew Brady on his feet,
glaring at the other.
“You’ll know all about that, Mr. Carter, one of these days,” he said.
“I’ll settle with you!”
“And, by God, I’ll settle with you!” said Ray furiously, and at that
moment a brawny ostler caught him by the arm and flung him into the road
outside.
He waited for Brady to come out.
“I’ve finished with you,” he said. His face was white, his voice was
quivering. “Finished with the whole rotten shoot of you! I’m going
back.”
“You’re not going back,” said Lew. “Oh, listen, boy, what’s making you
mad? We’ve got to go on to Gloucester, and we might as well finish our
job. And if you don’t want to be with me after that—well, you can go
ahead just as you like.”
“I’m going alone,” said Ray.
“Don’t be a fool.” Lew Brady came after him and seized his arm.
For a second the situation looked ugly to the onlookers, and then, with
a shrug, Ray Bennett suffered the arm to remain.
“I don’t believe you,” he said—the first words he spoke for half an
hour after they had left the _Red Lion_. “Why should you have lied?”
“I’ve got sick of your good temper, that’s the whole truth, Ray—just
sick to death of it. I had to make you mad, or I’d have gone mad
myself.”
“But is it true about Lola?”
“Of course it’s not true,” lied Brady contemptuously. “Do you think
she’d have anything to do with a chap like me? Not likely! Lola’s a good
girl. Forget all I said, Ray.”
“I shall ask her myself. She wouldn’t lie to me,” said the boy.
“Of course she wouldn’t lie to you,” agreed the other.
They were nearing their rendezvous now—the tree-furred cut in the
hills—and his eyes were searching for the three white trunks that the
lightning had struck. Presently he saw them.
“Come on in, and I’ll tell you all about it,” he said. “I’m not going to
walk much farther to-day. My feet are so raw you couldn’t cook ’em!”
He led the way between the trees, over the age-old carpet of pine
needles, and presently he stopped.
“Sit down here, boy,” he said, “and let us have a drink and a smoke.”
Ray sat with his head on his hands, a figure so supremely miserable that
any other man than Lew Brady would have felt sorry for him.
“The whole truth is,” began Lew slowly, “that Lola’s very strong for
you, boy.”
“Then why did you tell me the other thing? Who was that?” He looked
round.
“What is it?” asked Lew. His own nerves were on edge.
“I thought I heard somebody moving.”
“A twig broke. Rabbits, it may be; there are thousands of ’em round
here,” said Lew. “No, Lola’s a good girl.” He fished from his pocket a
flask, pulled off the cup at the bottom and unscrewed the stopper,
holding the flask to the light. “She’s a good girl,” he repeated, “and
may she never be anything else.”
He poured out a cupful, looked at the remainder in the bottle.
“I’m going to drink her health. No, you drink first.”
Ray shook his head.
“I don’t like the stuff,” he said.
The other man laughed.
“For a fellow who’s been pickled night after night, that’s certainly an
amusing view to take,” he said. “If you can’t hold a dram of whisky for
the sake of drinking Lola’s health, well, you’re a poor——”
“Give it to me.” Ray snatched the cup, but spilt a portion, and,
drinking down the contents at a draught, he threw the metal holder to
his companion.
“Ugh! I don’t care for that whisky. I don’t think I care for any whisky
at all. There’s nothing harder to pretend you like than drinking, if you
don’t happen to like it.”
“I don’t think anybody likes it at first,” said Lew. “It’s like
tomatoes—a cultivated taste.”
He was watching his companion keenly.
“Where do we go from Gloucester?” asked Ray.
“We don’t go anywhere from Gloucester. We just stop there for a day, and
then we change and come back.”
“It’s a stupid idea,” said Ray Bennett, screwing up his eyes and
yawning. “Who is this Frog, Lew?” He yawned again, lay back on the
grass, his hands under his head.
Lew Brady emptied the remainder of the flask’s contents upon the grass,
screwed up the stopper and shook the cup before he rose and walked
across to the sleeping boy.
“Hi, get up!” he said.
There was no answer.
“Get up, you!”
With a groan, Ray turned over, his head on his arms, and did not move
again. A sudden misgiving came to Lew Brady. Suppose he was dead? He
went livid at the thought. That quarrel, so cleverly engineered by the
Frog, would be enough to convict him. He whipped the flask from his
pocket and slipped it into the coat pocket of the sleeper. And then he
heard a sound, and, turning, saw a man watching him. Lew stared, opened
his mouth to speak, and:
“_Plop!_”
He saw the flash of the flame before the bullet struck him. He tried to
open his mouth to speak, and:
“_Plop!_”
Lew Brady was dead before he touched the ground.
The man removed the silencer of the pistol, walked leisurely across to
where Ray Bennett was sleeping, and put the pistol by his hand. Then he
came back and turned over the body of the dead man, looking down into
the face. Taking one of three cigars from his waistcoat pocket, he lit
it, being careful to put the match in the box whence he had taken it. He
liked smoking cigars—especially other men’s cigars. Then, without
haste, he walked back the way he had come, gained the main road after a
careful reconnaissance, and reached the car he had left by the roadside.
Inside the car a youth was sitting in the shelter of the curtained hood,
loose-mouthed, glassy-eyed, staring at nothing. He wore an ill-fitting
suit and one end of his collar was unfastened.
“You know this place, Bill?”
“Yes, sir.” The voice was guttural and hoarse. “Ibbley Copse.”
“You have just killed a man: you shot him, just as you said you did in
your confession.”
The half-witted youth nodded.
“I killed him because I hated him,” he said.
The Frog nodded obediently and got into the driver’s seat. . . .
John Bennett woke with a start. He looked at the damp bell-push in his
hand with a rueful smile, and began winding up the flex. Presently he
reached the bush where the camera was concealed, and, to his dismay,
found that the indicator showed the loss—for loss it was—of five
hundred feet. He looked at the badger hole resentfully, and there, as in
mockery, he saw again the tip of a black nose, and shook his fist at it.
Beyond, he saw two men lying, both asleep, and both, apparently, tramps.
He carried the camera back to where he had left his coat, put it on,
hoisted the box into position and set off for Laverstock village, where,
if his watch was right, he could catch the local that would connect him
with Bath in time for the London express; and as he walked, he
calculated his loss.