“I’ll tell you the reason on the way. I’ve made a fool of myself and I
want to get away from London. The fact is that I’ve run foul of the
racing crowd--and they’re after me.”
“Ah! I’ve read in the papers how a set of race-course roughs are going
about, trying to ‘do in’ people who object to their ways,” he said.
“Yes, sir, I’ll give you a lift. But you’re a bit wet, ain’t you?”
“A little bit,” I laughed. Whereupon he climbed into the covered lorry
and produced an old overcoat, which he bade me exchange for my wet
one, and a spare cap which I put on in place of my crush hat. In that
moment I was already disguised as a lorry-driver, and a few minutes
later we moved away, along the broad, wet high-road, in the direction
of Barnet.
In the first hour that I sat at his side gossiping, I was ignorant
that we were not alone, until he casually mentioned:
“My mate, Dick, is having a good snooze inside. He drove to London
to-day, and I’m driving back. We do this trip three days a week.”
Then I realized that inside the lorry, which was half-filled with
wooden cases, apparently from the docks, there was lying, upon a heap
of tarpaulin, the figure of a young man, deep in sleep. This was
somewhat disconcerting. I had to reckon with two men keeping their
mouths shut next day when the papers would give an account of the
tragedy in Bloomsbury. On the other hand, I had further design than
that of travel--that of disguise.
As we went along to St. Albans, I related to the driver a fantastic
story of how I had denounced a small bookmaker, and thereby, quite
unconsciously had brought upon myself what I feared was a vendetta. I
had had secret warning that something serious was to happen to me, and
I had thought flight the most discreet course to adopt.
My story was, of course, a very lame one, but the young man, being
fond of racing, listened to me intently, because, fortunately for me,
three members of a racing gang, only a few days before had been given
heavy sentences at the Old Bailey.
We had traveled perhaps forty odd miles when the sleeping Dick
awakened and seemed greatly surprised to find that they had a
passenger. After he had slipped in between us, his friend explained
the reason of my presence, hinting that I had promised a reward for
their assistance.
“Yes,” I said. “For certain reasons I don’t want my friends to know
anything. You may think I’m a crook, but I assure you I’m not. In
these evening-clothes I might be even a cat-burglar.”
Both men laughed.
“Well, I’m not!” I said. “But if you fellows will keep a still tongue,
I’ll give you five pounds each at the end of the run, and if one of
you will sell your clothes to me, I’ll give you money to buy a new
suit--what shall we say--seven pounds?”
A brief silence fell.
“Make it a tenner, guv’nor, and you can have mine,” Dick said. “You’re
about my build.”
“Very well,” I replied. “Let’s both get into the back and change.”
My companion, the driver, laughed heartily as we both crept into the
back among the cases, and there, while we were traveling, we exchanged
clothes.
“What’ll your wife say when you arrive home in the morning dressed as
a gentleman--eh, Dick?” shouted the driver, turning his head back a
moment.
“She’ll think I’ve come into a fortune when I give her a couple o’
quid,” laughed his pal, as he drew off his trousers and handed them to
me in return for mine.
“You fellows won’t utter a word. Promise me!” I shouted.
“Of course we won’t, sir,” both assured me, setting me considerably at
my ease.
Up to that moment I had been full of fear lest the driver, suspecting
me, and desirous of being in the good graces of the police, might pull
up before a constable and express his suspicions. In that case, my
only chance of escape would have gone, with only ruin before me.
While traveling over that interminable wet road in that lumbering
lorry, I had realized the scandal which must ensue if I were hauled
before a magistrate, and the scene with the flashy daughter of the
night described by her! Her enmity, turning upon me as she had done,
would result in a charge of wilful murder!