“LET me get this yer all down on paper,” said George Hunt, searching his
pockets. “I find if I trust to my memory everything goes clean out of my
’ead. Been like that since I was a boy.”
The man from London with the empty kit bag remarked that George was
scarcely an octogenarian.
“I believe in eating roast meat if I can get it,” admitted the lad.
“Never been what you London people call a crank. Spite of which, somehow
or other, I don’t seem to make what you may call progress, and that’s the
truth, Mr. Polsworthy.”
“How do you know that is my name?”
“I don’t,” he admitted. “All I know is that that’s the name you’ve give
up at the ‘Unicorn’ where you be staying. Here’s something I can write
on. ‘Advice to Intending Emigrants.’ I’ve got no special use for that.
Now then, sir, let’s have it all over again.”
“I want you,” said the London man, drawing him away to a sheeted truck,
and speaking with great distinctness, “to take a message for me up to the
Vicarage.”
“Here’s a question I’ve very often considered to myself,” said George,
stopping with the paper flat against the truck. “Is there a ‘k’ in it,
or isn’t there a ‘k’ in it, or doesn’t it matter whether you put one or
not?”
“And see Miss Thirkell, and tell her—”
“She’s the one with the reddish hair, isn’t she?”
“She’s the one with black hair.”
“Not fur out,” remarked George, complacently. “Go on, sir.” He
continued to write laboriously.
“Tell her that some one from town wishes to see her on important
business, and will she be at the station here at half-past eight this
evening.”
“But they’ve got their party on. ’Sides which—”
“Nothing could be better.”
“’Sides which there’s no train about that time.”
“I don’t want her to go by train,” shouted the other in an irritable way.
“I only want to have a talk.”
“Excuse me asking, sir, but is it love?”
“You’ve guessed it!”
“A wonderful thing, once it catches you. I never been mixed up in it to
any considerable extent, but I keep my eyes open, and I noticed that once
parties get affected by it, why there’s no telling.”
“That,” said the other, “is the case with me. It’s all on her account
that I have come down here for a week, and I find it impossible for me to
go back until I have seen her. Just a few whispered words of affection
with her and October to me will seem like June.”
“Can’t promise to repeat all you say word for word,” mentioned George,
“but I’ll give her the general bearing of your remarks. I shall say that
you’re over head and ears.”
“I believe,” said Mr. Polsworthy, with something like enthusiasm, “I
shall have to give you a present. You’re an honest, worthy fellow, and
the most intelligent young man in the whole village.”
“I’ve said that to myself,” declared George, “frequent.” He folded the
document. “About what time, sir, did you think of getting me to do this
little job for you?”
When the Londoner had finished an address on the slothfulness of country
life, he permitted himself to announce, more calmly, that he expected it
to be performed now and at once. The young railway porter went across
the station-yard, spoke a word to the signalman on duty, and started off
up the hill at a pace that seemed too good to last. He did, indeed,
return to say that if later Mr. Polsworthy observed he was wearing a
white flower in his jacket, this might be taken as a hint that Miss
Thirkell was willing to keep the appointment; if the flower was red, it
would indicate she was unable to come. Mr. Polsworthy went to his hotel,
where, with the aid of scented soap, he put good sharp points to his
moustache, and ordered, seemingly to give opportunity for range and
ability in criticism, certain refreshment; the landlady said that his
complaint was the first she had received since the year ’92, and strongly
recommended him to take his bag to the “King’s Head,” which possessed but
a limited licence. Mr. Polsworthy, in apologising, remarked that he was
one accustomed to the very best of everything, and the lady expressed an
opinion that his looks and general appearance failed to bear out this
assertion.
George Hunt, sweeping the platform, was wearing a red flower, and Mr.
Polsworthy turned away regretfully, to consider some new mode of
approaching the vicarage lady. A whistle recalled him, and George
managed to make it clear that everything was right; he had placed the
wrong flower in his jacket—a mistake, he said, that might have happened
to anybody. George seemed highly interested now in the scheme, and
produced a beard with wires to go over each ear; challenged, he confessed
that he was not prepared to say to what use it should be put, or to
declare that it was of any use, but it had been in his possession for
some time, and he felt that either he or Mr. Polsworthy ought to wear it.
“By that means,” he urged, “recognition, if you understand what I mean,
will be avoided.”
“But who is there to recognise us, and what does it matter if we are
recognised?”
“There is that,” conceded George.
“You’re a fool,” declared Mr. Polsworthy.
“Not the first to pass that remark to me, not by a long chalk, you ain’t.
Mother says it ’bout once a day.”
Miss Thirkell came up the slope of the platform, and George went back
discreetly to his work with the broom, touching his cap to the young
woman as she went by. She acknowledged the salutation distantly, saying,
“Good evening, my man!” and gave a start of amazement on Mr. Polsworthy
lifting his hat and throwing away his cigar. She said that he had the
advantage over her and he expressed regret that her memory should
constitute the one defect in an otherwise perfect and beautiful nature.
Was it, asked Miss Thirkell, was it in Dover Street, the tenth of July of
the current year, on the occasion of coming out of a dressmaker’s with
her mistress? That, answered Mr. Polsworthy, was the very moment, and
the precise occasion. Miss Thirkell considered this curious and
interesting, since she was not in town on the date mentioned, and had
never been in Dover Street.
Mr. Polsworthy, slightly taken aback, begged of her to refresh a brain
that could never be relied upon implicitly; she admitted that they had
met once. Miss Thirkell remembered the day well, because her master took
the opportunity to make some extensive purchases at a sale in King
Street, St. James’s, and the articles had crowded the compartment on the
way down.
“A race special came in,” said Mr. Polsworthy, corroborating, “just
before your train went out from Victoria, and whilst your people were
having a few words with the guard I strolled across to see what was the
matter.”
“Now,” cried Miss Thirkell, delightedly, “now I know you’re telling the
truth!”
Her mistress, it appeared, was one who did not mind the expenditure of
money in useful things, such as dress and hats, but entertained a strong
objection to lumbering the house with a lot of old silver and other
articles, neither, in her opinion, useful or decorative. Mr. Polsworthy
expressed the view that in married life certain concessions had to be
made; he had not hitherto considered the possibility of entering the
state, but he was prepared to be generous in the direction referred to.
George Hunt, each time they went by, looked up and nodded and made some
reference to the weather; there was more rain about, in his opinion; what
we wanted was sunshine, so that cricket bats might be once more used.
The two, interested in their own conversation, scarcely gave notice to
his meteorological comments.
“When can I come up and see you?” asked Mr. Polsworthy. “I’m only down
here for a little while.”
“What seems so wonderful,” sighed Miss Thirkell, dreamily, “is that you
should have come specially to meet me.”
“To do that I would travel to the furthermost ends of the earth.” He
took her hand.
“Axcuse me interrupting,” said George, suddenly, “but in which direction
do you reckon Canada is? You’re better acquainted with geography than
what I am. S’posin’ now, you was going to walk there; which turning
would you take?”
Miss Thirkell cried alarmingly that she had to be getting home; she had
no idea the hour was so late. On Mr. Polsworthy offering to accompany
her, she gave a short sharp scream and declared this impossible; he, a
Londoner, little knew the appetite for scandal that existed in country
villages. George, corroborating, said that if, for instance, he himself
were observed escorting Miss Thirkell across the line, there were
busybodies about who would assert they were as good as engaged. The
visitor seemed inclined to snap fingers at public opinion, and dare it to
do its worst; the young woman said this was all very well for him, but
not nearly good enough for her; she had no wish to lose an excellent
situation.
“Character’s everything in these parts,” confirmed George. “Up in London
it probably don’t matter, but here it’s important. When I leave the
line—”
“Will to-night at ten be a suitable time for me to call at the house to
see you?”
“My dear, good man,” cried Miss Thirkell, “you must be off your head to
think of carrying on like that! Why, the dog would make short work of
any one who wasn’t in uniform. Besides, the butler has to go down to the
gate and let in everybody that comes to the party. Now I must run. You
send a message through George Hunt. He’s reliable. We were boy and girl
together.”
With a wave of the hand she went. Mr. Polsworthy looked steadily at
George for some moments.
“You’re a dull dog,” he said, slowly, “and that’s the only thing which
makes me inclined to trust you. If you were a sharp lad, the idea would
never come into my head.”
“I’m all for straightforwardness myself.”
“There is no use,” said the other, with a burst of recklessness, “no
sense whatever in disguising the fact that I’m madly in love with that
girl. And when a man’s in love, there’s nothing he’s not prepared to do.
In some way I must manage to gain admission to that house this evening.”
“And in some way, you’ll have to manage to get out of it.”
“An easy matter.”
George looked in at the booking-hall to make sure that no passengers were
about.
“You’re not the first, mister, that’s tried it on,” he remarked in an
undertone.
“What’s that? I’m the last man in the world to do anything dishonest!”
“If you are,” said George, evenly, “that means Wormwood Scrubs will have
to be took over by the White City. In any case, your best plan is to
treat me fairly, and treat me generously, and I’ll do what I can, so long
as my name’s not brought into it. My name must be kept out, on account
of mother.”
Mr. Polsworthy declared his satisfaction, and hinted at surprise, on
finding that George possessed so much acuteness. He did, in a general
way, prefer to work alone, but sometimes cases were encountered—here was
one—where assistance was indispensable. The great thing was to have a
quiet half-hour inside the vicarage, and to catch the 10.23 p.m. for
town. George nodded, and made one or two suggestions. Recommended a
sailor’s bag; there were two in the cloakroom at the present time left by
men home on furlough; one could be emptied. Mr. Polsworthy, having
inspected these, made his selection and, arranging concerning the loan of
an old uniform, shook hands. The kit-bag was presented to George, who
said he might be able to make use of it.
“All I can say is,” remarked the man from London, “that I’m very much
obliged to you. You shan’t be the loser.”
“Question is,” said George, “how much be I going to gain? I ain’t what
you’d call mercenary, but I like to make a bit of money as well as
anybody.”
Mr. Polsworthy seemed hurt by this view of the matter, and taking half a
sovereign from his pocket, placed it in the other’s hand; George said he
could go on. Polsworthy went on to the extent of four pounds and then
stopped, declaring irascibly that rather than go beyond this amount he
would take the entire sum back; George pointed out difficulties, one of
which included a reference to Police-Constable Saxby. The amount reached
five pounds, and the two again shook hands; the heartiness was this time
on the side of George.
“If you have a chance of seeing her,” said Polsworthy, “keep up the idea
that it’s simply and solely a love affair. It’ll make a good excuse in
case I happen to be interrupted at my work. Mention that I seem to be
able to talk of nothing else but her!”
“And that you worship the very ground she walks on.”
“Don’t overdo it. You can say it’s all because of love that I’m going to
dress up and come and see her. Say that from what you know of me I’m as
true as gold.”
“As true as five pound.”
“For Heaven’s sake,” urged Polsworthy, with some temper, “do try to avoid
making a muddle. If the business goes wrong, I’ll dog your footsteps to
the very last day of your life. If I get into trouble I shan’t be alone.
Make no mistake about that. Where’s that slip of paper that you wrote
down the particulars on?” It was produced, and the man from London, with
a snatch, secured it. “Now,” he remarked, “now, I’ve got documentary
evidence that you’re concerned in this game.”
“My mother won’t like me none the better for this,” said George,
dismally. “But I’ll go up to the vicarage again, and give the young
party your message.”
Polsworthy, in a uniform that had seen trouble, staggered into the
station-yard at ten o’clock that night and was stopped at the gates by
P.C. Saxby. The constable apologised for the act on seeing brass
buttons, accepted the explanation that the other was an extra hand, and
offered to give help with the sailor’s bag, but Polsworthy said that
having managed so far alone, he would complete the job. In the dimly
lighted booking-hall he set his load down with relief, and went to the
porters’ room, where he changed into his own clothes. Ordered George to
label the sack for London Bridge and, treating him as a stranger, gave
him twopence for his service. The window of the office opened and he
took his ticket from the stationmaster and strolled across the line in
order to be out of the way should disaster arrive prematurely.
Nothing amiss happened, and when the train arrived, he climbed into an
empty compartment on the off side, and ventured to glance out of the
window to see George hurling a well-loaded sack into the front break van.
They exchanged a congratulatory wave of the hand as the train went out,
and George wished him, with great heartiness, good luck, and a pleasant
journey.
Half an hour later George was ringing at the door of the vicarage, and
playing with the watch-dog, who had followed him up the avenue, showing
some inquisitiveness in regard to the load which George was carrying.
Lights appeared; a head looked out of a window; in five minutes he was
being received in the hall by the entire strength of the company in
varied stages of _deshabille_. The restored articles of silver were
taken out of the bag.
“A good deed,” announced the elderly vicar, addressing the audience,
“deserves an appropriate and immediate reward. My dear, run upstairs for
my pocket-book.”
“Thirkell,” said his wife, “run upstairs for your master’s pocket-book.”
“That’s right,” remarked the vicar, on the return of the lady’s-maid.
“Two five-pound notes; here we are. George Hunt, I have much pleasure in
presenting you with this acknowledgment of worthy services. My dear,
give him some bread and cheese and beer, and say good-night and thank
him.”
“Thirkell,” ordered his wife, “give him some bread and cheese and beer,
and say good-night, and thank him.”
Miss Thirkell, in dressing-gown later at the side door, promised to be at
the station in the morning in time for the first up train, and declared
George had managed nicely from the start. She thought it a pity there
was no chance of sending a letter to her married sister in Canada to let
her know they were coming, but George said he could afford to despatch a
telegram.
“And that reminds me,” he added. “I s’pose I shall have to leave ha’f a
sovereign to pay for the other sailor’s bag what’s gone off with that
London gentleman. I don’t want mother later on to get the idea that I
haven’t behaved fair and perfectly above-board!”