TWO MEN AND A BOY
There was a lamp on the table. The fire was lighted in the grate; the
table was drawn close up in front of it. The couch was beside the
table, and on it a man reclined full length. The head was turned
towards Bertie, so that he only had a back view of the person lying
down. He could see that he had brown hair, worn rather long, and that
he was smoking a cigar, and that was all he could see.
By the table, standing so that his face was turned towards Bertie, was
another man--evidently the impetuous speaker. He was about the middle
height, slight, yet sinewy, with coal-black hair cut very short, and a
dark olive skin, his face being concealed by neither moustache nor
beard. He was holding something in his hands, something which he eyed
with ravenous eyes. From his position Bertie was not able to perceive
what this something was, but he could see that the table was littered
with other articles, and that a roll of paper and two boxes of a
peculiar shape lay open on the floor.
The dark man was holding the something in his hands in a variety of
positions, so that he might get the full effect from different points
of view.
"Did you ever see such stones?"
"They are not bad, considering. Their value consists in their number,
my dear friend. Separate stones of better quality can be found."
"How much do you say we shall get for it?"
"That remains to be seen. If you ask me how much it cost I should say,
probably, altogether, twenty thousand pounds."
Twenty thousand pounds! The dark man was holding in his hand something
which cost twenty thousand pounds. Curiosity was too much for Bertie's
discretion. The magnitude of the sum had so startling an effect on his
bump of inquisitiveness that before he knew it he was trying his best
to see what surprising thing it was which had cost twenty thousand
pounds. Half-unconsciously he quitted the security of the bed, and
standing in his shirt bare-legged on the floor he strained his eyes to
see.
Just then the dark man moved into such a position that the unexpected
spectator was yet unable to see what it was he held. It was
aggravating, but what followed was rather more aggravating still.
"Fancy wearing a thing like that! I wonder how I should look with
twenty thousand pounds worth of diamonds round my neck."
He put his hand up to his neck, clasping round it what seemed to
Bertie a line of glittering light. Then he turned, probably with the
intention of studying the effect in the looking-glass, and, turning,
he saw Bertie.
For a moment there was silence--silence so complete that you could
have heard much fainter sounds than the fall of the proverbial pin.
The man was apparently thunderstruck, as well he might be. He stared
at the figure in the shirt as though it were that of one risen from
the dead. As for Bertie, his feet seemed glued to the floor, and his
tongue to the roof of his mouth. It suddenly dawned upon him that it
would have perhaps been better if he had stayed in bed.
The man was the first to regain his self-possession. It was to be a
very long time indeed before Bertie was to be again master of his.
"What the something are you?"
At the sound of his companion's voice, the man on the sofa sprang to
his feet as though he had been shot. He gave one quick glance; then,
snatching up a revolver which lay upon the table, he fired at the
frightened boy.
"Rosenheim!"
At the very moment of pulling the trigger the dark man struck up his
arm, so that the bullet was buried in the ceiling. But the effect upon
Bertie was just as though it had penetrated his heart--he fell like a
log.
"He's only a boy. You've shot him."
"I have not shot him. That I will do in a minute or two."
When Bertie recovered from his swoon the dark man was bending over
him. His companion was sitting in a chair regarding him with cold,
staring eyes--a long, thin man, with a slight moustache and beard, and
a peculiarly cruel cast of countenance.
The dark man was the first to address him.
"So you've come too, have you? Perhaps it's a pity, after all. It'll
only prolong your misery. Now stand up, put your hands behind your
back, and look me in the face."
Bertie did as he was bid, feeling very weak and tottering on his feet.
The dark man was perched on the edge of the table, holding a revolver
in his hand. His companion, the long, thin man who sat in the chair,
held a revolver too. Bertie felt that his position was not an
agreeable one. Of one thing he was conscious, that the table was
cleared of its contents, and that the roll of paper and boxes which he
had noticed on the floor had disappeared.
The dark man commenced the cross-examination, handling his revolver in
a way which was peculiarly unpleasant, as though it were a toy which
he was anxious to have a little practice with.
"Look me in the face."
Bertie did as he was bid as best he could, though he found it
difficult to meet the keen black eyes.
"He needn't look me in the face, or I'll put five shots inside of
him."
This was from the long, thin man. Bertie was careful not to show the
slightest symptom of a desire to turn that way. The dark man went on.
"Do you know what truth is? If you don't it'll be a pity, because if
you tell me so much as the millionth part of a lie I'll empty my
revolver into you where you stand."
As if to emphasize this genial threat the dark man pointed his
revolver point-blank at his head.
"I'm on that line. I'll empty mine inside him too."
Bertie was conscious that the long, thin man was following his
companion's lead. A couple of revolvers were being pointed at him
within three feet of his head. He felt more anxious to tell the truth,
even though under difficulties, than he had ever been in all his life.
"What's your name?"
"Bertie Bailey."
"What are you doing here?"
"I--I don't know!"
Bertie very certainly didn't. If he could only have undreamt his
dreams about the Land of Golden Dreams how happy had he been.
"Oh, you don't know. Who brought you here?"
"Freddy."
"Freddy? Do you mean Faking Fred?"
"If you please, sir, I--I don't know. The old woman called him
Freddy."
"Oh, the old woman had a finger in the pie, had she? I'll have a
finger in her pie before I've done, and Freddy's too. So you've been
sleeping in my bed?"
"Please, sir, I--I didn't know it was your bed."
"Turn round to me."
As this command came from the long, thin man--he had apparently
changed his mind about being looked in the face--Bertie turned with
the celerity with which a teetotum turns.
"Where do you live?"
"At Upton, sir."
[Illustration: "A couple of revolvers were being pointed at him."]
_A Hero of Romance_.] [_Page_ 238.
"Where's that?"
"In Berkshire."
"You're not a thief?"
"No--o, sir."
In his present society Bertie positively felt ashamed to own it. He
perhaps felt that these gentlemen might resent it as a slight upon
their profession.
"Have you run away from home?"
"Ye--es, sir."
"What for?"
"Fu--fun, sir."
"A good thing to run away for."
Bertie felt that it was a bad thing just then, especially if this sort
of thing might be looked upon in the light of fun.
"What's your father?"
"A doctor, sir."
"So you're the son of Dr. Bailey, of Upton, in Berkshire?"
"Ye--es, sir."
"Turn round again!--sharp!"
No one could have turned round sharper than Bertie did then. The dark
man took up the questioning.
"How long have you been awake?"
"I--I don't know, sir."
"Did you hear what we were talking about?"
"Ye--es, sir."
"What did you hear?"
"I--I don't know."
"That won't do. Out with it! What did you hear?"
The revolver was brought on a level with Bertie's face. With his eyes
apparently doing their best to investigate the contents of the barrel
he endeavoured to describe what he had heard.
"I--I heard about the Countess of Ferndale's jewels, and--and about
fifty thousand pounds."
"Oh! you did, did you? And what did you hear about the Countess of
Ferndale's jewels?"
"I heard that you had--stolen them."
"Is that so? You seem to be gifted with uncommonly good hearing,
Master Bailey. What else did you hear? Go on."
"I--I heard that they were insured for fifty thousand pounds, and--and
that--that you'd stolen the policy."
"Dear me! What a remarkably fine ear this boy must have! Go on, young
man!"
Bertie was painfully conscious that these compliments upon his hearing
were not to be taken as they were spoken. He earnestly wished that his
hearing had not been quite so good, but with that revolver staring him
in the face he felt that perhaps it was better on the whole he should
go on. Yet the next confession was made with an effort. He felt that
his audience would not receive it well.
"I--I--I heard that if--if you were ta--taken you--you would get
pe--penal servitude for life."
There was an ominous silence. The words had had exactly the effect he
had intuitively expected. It was the long, thin man who spoke.
"Oh! you heard that if we were caught we should get penal servitude
for life? And it didn't occur to you that you might help to catch us,
eh?"
"No-o, sir."
"It wouldn't. Now wouldn't it occur to you that such a thing as a
reward might perhaps be offered, which it might perhaps be worth your
while to handle, eh? That such a trifle as five or ten thousand
pounds, in the shape of a reward, might come in useful, eh?"
Bertie did not answer. He could not have answered for his life. The
fellow's tone seemed to freeze his blood. The dark man put a question.
"Did you hear any names mentioned?"
"Yes, sir."
"What name did you hear mentioned?"
"I heard you call this gentleman Rosenheim, sir."
In an instant a hand was round his neck, which grasped him as though
it were made of steel. There was a sudden twist, and Mr. Rosenheim had
flung the lad upon his back. The grasp tightened; he began to choke.
If Mr. Rosenheim had been allowed to work his own sweet will it would
have been over with him there and then. But the dark man interfered.
"What's the use of killing him?"
The answer was hissed rather than spoken.
"I'll tell you what's the use; it is I who will put him away, not he
who will put me away, eh?"
"Leave him alone for a minute; I want to speak to you. It's a
nuisance, but I don't think it's so bad as you think. Anyhow, I don't
see how we're going to gain anything by killing the boy--at least, not
in here."
There was a meaning conveyed in the speaker's last few words which Mr.
Rosenheim seemed to understand. They looked at each other for a
moment, eye to eye. Then Mr. Rosenheim, standing up, loosed his grasp
on Bertie's throat, and the lad was free to breathe again.
"Get up; walk to the end of the room, put your hands behind your back,
shut your eyes, and stand with your face to the wall. I'm going to
cover you with my revolver, and if you move it'll be for the very last
time of asking, for I'll shoot you as dead as mutton. Sharp's the
word!"
Sharp was the word. Bewildered, half-stunned, panic-stricken as he
was, Bertie had still sense enough to know that he had no alternative
but to do as he was bid. The dark man meant what he said, and the
youthful admirer of Dick Turpin knew it. The ever-ready revolver
covered him as he walked quickly down the room, and took up the
ignominious position he was ordered to. Hands behind his back, eyes
shut, and his face against the wall! It was worse than standing in the
corner at Mecklemburg House Collegiate School, and only little boys
had been sent into the corner there.
How long he remained standing there he never knew. It seemed to him
hours. But time goes slowly when we stand with our hands behind, eyes
shut, face to the wall, and know that a revolver is taking deliberate
aim at us behind our backs. A minute becomes an hour, and we feel that
old age will overtake us prematurely if we stand there long. They say
that when a man is drowning his whole life passes in a moment before
his eyes. As Bailey stood with his face against the wall he felt
something of that feeling too, and if ever there was a veritable Land
of Golden Dreams his home at Upton was that land then. If he could
only stand again within the shadow of his mother's door, ah, what a
different young gentleman he would be!
Certainly, Mr. Rosenheim and his friend took their time. What they
said Bertie could not hear, strain his ears how he might. The sound of
their subdued whispering added to the terror of the situation. What
might they not be resolving? For all he knew, they might be both
examining their revolvers with a view of taking alternate pops at him.
The idea was torture. As the moments passed and still no sign was made
his imagination entered into details. There was a movement behind him.
He fancied they were taking their positions. Silence again. He waited
for the shooting to begin. He wondered where the first shot would hit
him. Somewhere, he fancied, about the region of the left knee. That
would probably bring him to the ground, and the second and third shots
would hit him where he fell--probably in the side. The fourth and
fifth shots would miss, but the sixth would carry away his nose, while
the seventh would finish his career. Promiscuous shooting would ensue,
the details of which would have no interest for him, but for some
occult reason he decided that they would not cease firing until they
had put inside him about a couple of pounds of lead.
In the midst of these agreeable speculations it was a relief to hear
the dark man's voice.
"Turn round!"
Bertie turned round, with surprising velocity.
"Where are your clothes?"
"I think they're on the bed, sir."
"Put them on! Sharp's the word!"
Sharp always was the word. Bertie had done some quick things in
dressing before to-day, but never anything quite so quick as that. Mr.
Rosenheim was sitting in the arm-chair, still fondling his revolver,
eyeing Bertie with a most uncomfortable pair of eyes. When Bertie
found that in his haste he was putting on his trousers hind side
foremost Mr. Rosenheim gave a start. Bertie gave one too, a cold
shiver went down his back, and the time in which he reversed the
garment and got inside his breeches was perhaps the best on record.
The dark man meanwhile was brushing his hat, putting on his overcoat,
and apparently preparing himself for a journey. There was a Gladstone
bag on the table. Into this he put several articles which he took from
the chest of drawers. Bertie had completed his own costume for some
little time before either spoke.
It was Mr. Rosenheim who addressed him first.
"Come here!"
Bertie went with remarkable celerity. "For a doctor's son, my friend,
you are not too well dressed, eh?"
Bertie hung his head; he was conscious of the defects in his attire.
The dark man flung him a clothes-brush.
"Brush yourself, and make yourself presentable. There's a jug and
basin behind that curtain; wash yourself and brush your hair."
Bertie did as he was bid; never had he been so docile.
It was the most uncomfortable toilet he had ever made. When he had
carefully soaped his face all over, and was about to wash it off
again, there was a report. A shot whistled through the air and buried
itself in the wall about a foot above his head. He dropped as though
it had struck him, and all but repeated his former swoon.
"You can get up, my friend. It is only a little practice I am having."
Bertie got up, but the pleasure of that wash was destroyed for him.
Mr. Rosenheim's ideas of revolver practice were so peculiar that he
was in momentary terror of his aiming at an imaginary bull's-eye in
the centre of his back.
"How long are you going to be? Come here and let me have a look at
you."
Though only half-dried, the soap-suds still remaining in the corners
of his eyes, Bertie obeyed the dark man's order and stood in front of
him. That gentleman still held the too-familiar revolver in his hand.
It had long been the secret longing of Bertie's soul to possess one of
his own; henceforward he would hate the sight of the too-agile arm for
evermore.
"You don't look like a doctor's son. Own up you lied."
"I--I didn't, sir."
"A pretty sort of doctor's son you look! Has your father any money?"
A wild idea entered Bertie's brain. He remembered how Mr. and Mrs.
Jenkins had risen to the bait.
"Ye--yes, sir; he's very rich. He'd give a thousand pounds to get me
back again."
But this time the bait failed, and signally.
"Oh, he would, would he? Then he must be about the most remarkable
fool of a father I ever came across. Don't you try to stuff your lies
down my throat, my joker, because I'm a liar myself, and know the
smell. You listen to me. You'd better; because if you don't listen to
every word, and stick it inside your head, it'll be a case of
shooting, though I'm hung for you five minutes after. Do you hear?"
"Ye--yes, sir."
"My name's Captain Loftus. Do you hear that?"
"Ye--yes, sir."
"And I'm your uncle--your Uncle Tom. Do you hear that? I'm your Uncle
Tom."
"Ye--yes, sir."
"Don't say 'sir,' say 'Uncle Tom.'"
"Ye--yes, Un--Uncle Tom."
"And don't you stutter and stammer; there's no stuttering and
stammering about this."
"This" was the revolver which "Uncle Tom" pointed in his playful way
at his nephew.
"And you've been a bad boy, and you've run away from your poor mother,
and I'm going to take you back again. You understand?"
"Ye--yes, sir--I mean, Uncle Tom."
"Mind you do mean 'Uncle Tom,' and don't let us have any fooling about
it. Do you hear? Don't let's have any fooling about it."
"No--o, Uncle Tom."
How devoutly he hoped that what his "uncle" said was true, and that he
was going to be taken back to his mother. But the hope was shattered
by the words which followed.
"Now just you listen to me. I've got half a dozen more words to say,
and they're the pick of the lot. I'm going to take you with me. You'll
be all right so long as you keep your mouth shut; but if you speak a
word without permission from me, or if you hint anyhow at the pleasant
little conversation we've had here, I'll shoot you on the spot. You
see, I'm going to put my revolver into the inside pocket of my coat;
it will be always there, and always ready for you, and mind you don't
forget it."
Bertie was not likely to forget it. He watched the captain placing the
weapon in a convenient inner pocket of his overcoat with an interest
too deep for words. Mr. Rosenheim added an agreeable little remark of
his own.
"You understand, my friend? You are to dismiss from your mind any
little ideas you may have had about the Countess of Ferndale's jewels,
or your uncle, Captain Tom Loftus, will practise a little revolver
shooting upon you, eh, my friend?"
And Mr. Rosenheim covered the lad with his own revolver. There was
such an absolutely diabolical grin upon the gentleman's face that
Bertie felt as though his blood had congealed in his veins. The
revolver might go off at any moment, and this time it would be a case
of hitting. Bertie was persuaded that one more of Mr. Rosenheim's
little practice shots would be quite enough for him.
The change from Mr. Rosenheim to Captain Loftus was actually a relief.
"Are you ready?"
"Ye--yes, sir!"
"_Sir?_"
The "sir" was shouted in a voice of thunder, and the captain's hand
moved towards the inner pocket of his coat.
"Un--Uncle Tom, I mean."
"And you better mean it too, and say it, or you'll never say another
word. Put your hat on. Catch hold of that Gladstone."
Bertie put his hat on, and took the bag. The captain turned to Mr.
Rosenheim.
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye, my friend; I wish you a pleasant journey, and your nephew
too."
The captain put his own hat on, took Bertie's hand, led him out of the
room, and almost before the lad knew it they were standing in the
street. Bertie thanked his stars that at least Mr. Rosenheim was left
behind.