On the morning of the 10th of April Mr. French awoke from a night of
pleasant dreams to find the sun shining broad and strong through the
window of his bedroom.
He had dreamt of the great race; he had seen in a glorified vision the
field sweeping round Tattenham Corner, Garryowen a length ahead of the
favourite; he had heard the roar of the crowd, and had been
congratulated by all sorts of dream-people, and the exhilaration of the
vision clung to him as he dressed and accompanied him as he breakfasted.
Not a word had come from Mr. Dashwood since the letter announcing the
"bottling" of Giveen, but no news in this case was good news.
Only three days now lay between him and the eventful 13th, and if
Dashwood could only keep his prisoner safe for three days more, all
would be well. The chance that Garryowen might not win the race never
even occurred to French. He was certain; and one of the reasons of his
certainty was the opposition that Fate had put in his way. He felt dimly
that Fate would never have taken all this trouble to thwart him, would
never have put so many obstacles in his path, if she were not sure that
when the flag fell the victory of Garryowen would be a certainty.
After breakfast he went out on the Downs to watch the colt taking his
exercise.
The length of the City and Suburban course had been marked out on the
great flat table-land, and here Garryowen and The Cat, the swiftest
thing save Garryowen that French had ever possessed, were now
exercising, Andy up on Garryowen and Buck Slane on The Cat. Moriarty, a
straw in his mouth, was watching them.
"We'll do it, Moriarty," said French, as he took his stand beside his
henchman and fixed his eyes on the distant horses that were being walked
back towards him.
"I'm beginnin' to b'lave we will, sorr," replied Moriarty. "We'll just
hit the cruck in the middle be the 15th. There's not a bit of
overthrainin' about the colt. I've been keepin' him back for the last
few days, for a horse all fiddle-strings is no more use on the course
than a barber's cat at a concert.
"And did yiz ever hear of thim college chaps, sorr, that goes up for
their 'xaminations wid the stuff stickin' out of their heads, and
nothin' in their heads but addlement? Faith, Mr. Casey, of Thrinity
College, told me of thim when he was down for the shootin'.
"He said he'd seen thim college boys, some of thim, larnin' up their
stuff right till they were forenint the 'xaminers, wid their book in
their hands till the last minit, and thim sort of chaps, says he, always
gets stuck, for their 'rithmetic gets jammed in their Latin, and, when
they open their gobs to spake, their g'ography comes out when it's Greek
they ought to be answerin'. But you take the boys that aise off before
the 'xamination day, says he, and they git through because they're the
wise ones. Well, it's just the same wid a horse, sorr! Addle his legs
wid overthrainin', and you do for him."
"He's a good starter, he's a good goer, and he's got a jockey that knows
him," said French as he watched the horses approaching, "and the
jockey's a lot."
"A lot, sorr! It's everything, be the powers! Same as a wife to a man.
And what is a wife, sorr, to a man, if she's a decent wife, but a jockey
that brings him first past the winnin'-post if he's got the go in him?"
Mr. French assented to this sage pronouncement of Moriarty's, and
returned to the house in high good spirits. He had just reached the
verandah, when the sight of something coming up the path made him catch
his breath.
This something was a telegraph boy.
"French?" said the boy, presenting an envelope. Mr. French tore it open.
"Giveen loose--clean got away--motoring down.--Dashwood."
"Any answer, sir?"
"No," said Mr. French, "there's no answer."
He stood for a moment with the paper crushed in his hand. He could hear
the boy whistling as he went down the hill. Then he passed into the
bungalow.
"Norah," cried Mr. French.
"Yes, sir."
"Fetch me the whisky decanter, and ask Miss Grimshaw to come here."
He went into the sitting-room. "Giveen loose--clean got away." The words
danced before him and sang in his ears, turned somersaults, and stood
on their heads like a troop of tormenting gamins.
In the crisis of a complex and fantastic tragedy such as that of
French's, the most galling thing is the inability to seize the whole
situation and meet it philosophically. A bank smash which sweeps away
one's fortune is a four-square disaster, seizable if stunning; but this
business of Garryowen's was ungraspable, and unmeasureable, and
unfightable as a nightmare. The horse was in apparent safety one moment,
and the next in imminent danger. Fortune was quite close now, and
holding out her hand; now she was at a distance, and her hand, fingers
extended, was at her nose.
Yesterday the dreaded Giveen was safe in Ireland; to-day he was
attending the village bazaar. Now Mr. Dashwood had him a safe prisoner
down in the wilds of Essex, and now he had escaped. The fight for
fortune had been a long one, vast obstacles had been overcome. Was it
all to end at the last moment in disaster?
When Miss Grimshaw entered the room she found Mr. French seated at the
table, with the open telegram before him, and at his side a glass of
whisky and water and a decanter.
"Read that," said he.
She took the message and read it with a constriction at the heart.
"Well," said he, "what do you think of that?"
Miss Grimshaw, before answering, took the whisky decanter from the table
and put it on the side table.
"Oh, you needn't be afraid of me," said French. "I'm too much at the
end of my tether to care very much what happens. Faith, I wouldn't take
the bother to get drunk."
"All the same," said the girl, "we must meet this with as cool a head as
possible. 'Motoring down.'" (She was reading the message.) "Who does he
mean, I wonder? Of course, he must mean himself, because he evidently
does not know where Mr. Giveen is, or what he's doing. It was handed in
at Regent Street this morning at 9.15; received here at 10.2. It is now
nearly eleven."
"Listen!" said French.
Sounds came very clearly up here from the lower land, and the sound
which had attracted French's attention was the throb of a motor-car
approaching along the station road.
Moved by an identical impulse, they approached the window leading on to
the verandah. Mr. French opened it, and they passed out.
Miss Grimshaw and Mr. French could see the car--a large touring
car--approaching slowly; there was only one individual in it,
and--"That's him!" said Miss Grimshaw, forgetful of grammar, leaving the
verandah and taking the down-hill path to the road.
French followed her, and they reached the road just as the car was
coming to a halt. It was Mr. Dashwood, in very truth, but a more
different edition of the joyous and irresponsible Bobby it would be hard
to imagine. His hat on the back of his head exposed fully his face,
grimy, unwashed, and weary. He had, altogether, the disreputable
appearance of a person who has been out all night, and as he crawled
out of the car, his movements suggested old age or rheumatism.
"Something to eat!" said Bobby as he took French's arm with his left
hand and held out his right to Miss Grimshaw. "I'm nearly done. Giveen
is loose, but I'll tell you it all when I get up to the house. Thanks,
may I lean on you? The car will be all right here."
"Come along up," said French.
No word was said till Mr. Dashwood was seated in the sitting-room, with
a glass of whisky and soda in his hand.
"Oh, this is good!" said he. "I haven't had a drink since I don't know
how long."
"Don't drink till you have had some food," said the girl. "I'll get
something for you at once. There's a tin of tongue----"
"Don't!" said Mr. Dashwood. "Don't mention tinned meat or biscuits to
me. I've lived on them. Oh, heavens! don't let me think of it!"
"An egg?"
"Yes, an egg--anything but tinned meat. It's almost as bad as Giveen."
In five minutes the egg was boiled, and half an hour after Mr. Dashwood,
young again, smoking a pipe of French's, began his recital.
He told all we know--how he had "shanghaied" Mr. Giveen, how that
gentleman had tried to escape, and had stuck in the window. "I pulled
and hauled," said Bobby, "but it was all no use; and, upon my Sam! I
thought it would be a business of pulling the cottage down."
"How did you get him loose at last?" asked French. "And why the deuce
didn't you leave him stuck there till the race was over? You could have
fed him from the outside."
"Upon my soul, I never thought of that!" said Mr. Dashwood. "I felt I
had to get him free somehow, and then I thought of a patent dodge. I'd
heard of a chap lighting a fire of straw under a horse that wouldn't go,
and I knew the only way to free the beggar was to make him use all his
exertions, and even more; so I got some straw out of the outhouse place
and made a big wisp of it, and lit it. Made a torch, you know. 'What are
you doing?' he said. 'You wait and see,' I replied, and jabbed it in his
face. You wouldn't believe it, but he went in 'pop' like when you push a
cork down into a bottle. Then I ran round and secured him.
"Well, I pointed out to him next morning the error of his ways, and he
promised to make no more attempts to escape. 'Look here,' said I, 'I've
been pretending to you I was cracked. I'm not. I just got you down here
because I'm a friend of French, and I don't want you to set Lewis on
him, and here you'll stay till I choose to let you loose. It's as bad
for me as you--worse, for you're a beastly slow companion. Anyhow, here
you are, and here you'll stick till I give you leave to go.'
"At that he began saying that he had no enmity to you at all, and that
if I'd only let him loose he'd go back to Ireland and make no more
trouble; but I told him straight out I wouldn't trust him, and there
the matter ended. I had written a letter to you, and I had it in my
pocket. A half-witted sort of boy came round the place, and I gave him
the letter and sixpence to post it. Did you get it?"
"We did."
"I felt when I gave him it like old Noah letting the dove out of the
Ark, and then we settled down to our tinned meat and biscuits. Oh,
heavens! I don't want to talk or think of it. We played
beggar-my-neighbour with an old pack of cards. Then my tobacco gave out.
Giveen didn't mind. He was quite happy on the tinned meat, and he
doesn't smoke or drink, and I had to go through it all without
complaining, and that was the worst of it."
"I think it was splendid of you," said the girl. "Go on."
"Faith, and 'splendid' is no word," exclaimed French. "You're certainly
a friend in a million. Go on."
Fortified by these praises, the weary one continued his narrative.
"Well, day after day passed, till I began, like those chaps that get
shipwrecked, to lose count of time. I heard church bells ringing the day
before yesterday, for instance, and then I knew it was Sunday,
somewhere, for it didn't seem Sunday or any other day in that beastly
cottage. Time seemed to have stopped. You see, there were no books
there, no newspapers, nothing, and my tobacco had given out; and against
all that misery the tinned meat and biscuits began to stand out in such
high relief that mealtime became a horror. Oh, Heaven! don't let me
talk about it! I want to try to forget it.
"Well, things went on like that till it came to yesterday, and I said to
myself: 'This can't go on any longer, for I'm beginning to hear voices,
and the next thing will be I'll see things. Southend is only ten or
eleven miles away. It's a flat road, and there's a car outside. I'll
lock Giveen up in his room, make a dash for Southend, in the car, get
some tobacco and a bottle of whisky and some books, and dart back again.
I'll do the whole thing in an hour or so, and it's better to take the
risk than lose my reason.'
"So I just told Giveen I was very sorry, but he'd have to accommodate
himself to circumstances, and I got a fishing-line of the uncle's, and
fastened his wrists behind his back. Then I fastened him with a rope and
a rolling band knot to the iron bedstead in the bedroom, told him I
wouldn't be more than an hour away, locked the door on him, jumped into
the car, and drove off.
"I got to Southend in record time. I only ran over one hen, but I very
nearly had an old woman and a dog. I piled up with sixpenny novels and
comic papers at the first bookshop, got three bottles of whisky, half a
pound of navy-cut, and some matches, and started back. It was half-past
three when I left Southend, and I hadn't gone more than two miles when
the car came to a dead stop. I don't know the 'innards' of a car. I only
knew that the thing had stopped, that I was nine miles from the cottage,
and that the car was right in the fair way blocking the road.
"A butcher's cart came along, and the butcher got down and helped me to
push her out of the middle on to the side of the road. He said he didn't
know of any repairing-shop or blacksmith's nearer than Southend. I asked
him to lend me his horse to drag the car back to Southend, but he
couldn't. He had his meat to deliver, but he said I'd be sure to find
help before long, as there was a lot of traffic on the road. So off he
went and left me.
"I thought of leaving the old car to look after herself, and going back
to the cottage on foot; but I couldn't do that, as I'd never have been
able to come back for her, and she's worth eight or nine hundred. So I
just sat in her and smoked a pipe and waited.
"I tell you, I was in a stew, for I didn't know if I'd made the
fishing-line too tight for Giveen's wrists, and if they swelled,
mortification, or goodness knows what, might have come on; and I began
to think of having to support him for life if his hands had to be cut
off; and then I began to think that maybe he might die of it, and I'd be
hanged for murder or gaoled for life.
"Presently a big touring car came along, with a young fellow and a
chauffeur in it, and I signalled them to stop, and it pulled up, and who
should it be but Billy Bones! He's Lord St. Ivel's second son, you know;
they call him 'Billy Bones' because they say he never eats anything else
but grilled bones at three o'clock in the morning. Last time I'd seen
him was at the Rag-Tag Club, in Cork Street, at two o'clock on a Sunday
morning, playing bridge with one eye shut to see the pips on the cards.
Billy is one of those men who know everything, and he knows all about
the inside of a motor-car--or thinks he does.
"'Hello!' said Billy, 'what's up?'
"I told him, and he hopped out of his car, and said he'd have everything
right in a minute. He got out his repairing tools, whipped off his coat,
and got right under the car with his tools, lying on his back in the
dust of the road. He's one of those fellows who don't care what they do.
I could hear him under the car, and he seemed taking the whole thing to
pieces. You could hear the nuts coming out and the pipes being unscrewed
and the petrol escaping. He was stuck under there for half an hour or
so, and then he came out, looking like a sweep, and he said it was all
right, and I only had to start her. But she wouldn't stir.
"He got under her again, and spent another half-hour tinkering at her,
and then he came out and said it was all right this time, and told me to
start her. I started her, but she wouldn't budge. Then Billy told his
chauffeur to see what he could do, and the chauffeur didn't get under
the car; he just examined the petrol supply business, and in about
sixteen seconds she was all right. 'I thought I'd done it,' said Billy,
putting on his coat.
"There was an hour clean gone, and, I tell you, if I came fast to
Southend I flew going back. I got her under the shed and went to the
cottage. As soon as I went in I saw something was wrong, for the bedroom
door was open. I looked into the bedroom, and Giveen was gone."
"Bad cess to him!" said French, who had been following the raconteur
with deep interest.
"I went to the door and looked around," said Mr. Dashwood, "and then I
saw, far away on the road, the idiot chap that had taken my letter. He
must have come to the cottage looking after more sixpences and let
Giveen loose. It was now getting on for five, and the dusk was closing
in. I rushed to the car, got her out of the shed, and started off on the
London road. You see, I knew he hadn't taken the Southend road, or I'd
have met him, and there was nowhere else for him to go, unless he'd
taken to the marshes, or gone into the sea.
"I turned the car so sharp from the by-road into the London road that I
nearly upset her, and then I let her loose. I had a chapter of
accidents, for my hat blew off, and I had to stop and get it. Three
children were making mud-pies in the middle of the way right before a
cottage, and I as nearly as possible made hash of them. A fellow left
the cottage and chivied me half a mile, and took a short cut where the
road bent like a hairpin, and as nearly as possible nailed me. He wanted
to get my number, I suppose--but he didn't.
"Then I remembered that I ought to have my lamps lit," continued Mr.
Dashwood. "It was getting on for an hour after sundown, and those police
on the country roads don't mind swearing to ten minutes. I wouldn't have
minded if it had been an ordinary affair, but it wasn't by any means,
and I didn't want to be summoned or else I couldn't swear an alibi if
Giveen took an action against me for kidnapping him. So I stopped the
car and got down and lit the lamps."
Mr. Dashwood paused.
"Yes," said his listeners.
"Only for that piece of confoundedly foolish carefulness, I'd have
collared Giveen."
Mr. French swallowed hastily, as if he were swallowing down something
unpleasant, then: "Go on," he said.
"Think of it!" said Mr. Dashwood. "I've always taken chances and come
out all right, and the first time I'm careful there I go and spoil
everything. Isn't it enough to make a fellow cuss?"
"It is," said French, "and it's just the same way with me. But go on."
"I got the blessed old lamps alight," said Bobby, "and the blessed old
car going, and I'd gone scarcely half a mile when I saw before me, after
I'd rounded a bend of the road, a cart going full speed. It was one of
those gipsy sort of carts that fellows hawk chickens and things about
in, harness half string, and an old horse like a scarecrow to look at,
but like a steam engine to go. There were two men in the cart, and one
was Giveen. Though it was pretty dusk, I could tell him, for he'd taken
his hat off, and his bald head shone like a stone. He evidently met the
cart and paid the man for a lift.
"'Now,' said I to myself, slowing down a bit so that I could think,
'what am I to do? If I try to seize him by force the fellow he's with
will help him to resist, maybe, and, if he doesn't, he's sure to tell
about the affair at the next village, and I'll have the police on to me.
I know--a smash-up is the only thing. I'll ram them full speed and hang
the damage. I stand as good a chance to be killed as either of them. If
Giveen is killed, or the sweep he's with--well, it's the fortune of war.
If none of us is killed, I'll sit on Giveen's head and send the other
Johnnie for help. Then, while he's gone, I'll nobble Giveen and drag him
back to the cottage, across country this time, and leave the old motor
to look after herself.'"
"Did you really intend to do that?" asked Violet Grimshaw, looking at
Bobby with a mixture of wonder and admiration.
"Intend to do it? Why, I did it, only the old car didn't. I shoved the
lever full speed ahead, and what does she do but stop dead and shoot me
on to her bonnet!"
"Did Giveen see you?" asked French.
"No. He never looked back once, and he and the old cart he was in
vanished in the dusk. It was when I got down to light the lamps that
something happened to the machinery. I must have pulled up too sharp,
for I heard something go in the fore part of the engine. Anyhow, I was
done for.
"Well, there was nothing for me to do but look for help, and at last I
got a farmer chap to hire me two horses to drag the old rattle-trap back
to Southend. That was cheerful, wasn't it? At Southend I found a
motor-repairing shop, the only one in the town, and the mechanic who did
the repairing out with a car that wouldn't be back till midnight. So I
paid for the horses and sent them off, and got a bed for the night.
"Well, to cut it short, I was up at six this morning, got the car
mended in less than a quarter of an hour, and back I went to London full
speed. But the repairs and the horse hire and the bed had taken all my
money, and I had only sixpence in my pocket; and I hadn't eaten for I
don't know how long. I stopped at a village on the way and had a drink
of water at a pump.
"'Never mind,' I said to myself, 'when I get to the Albany I can borrow
something from Robert'--he's my servant, you know. But when I got to the
Albany Robert wasn't there, and my rooms were locked up. You see, he
thought I wasn't coming back for some time, and I always send him a wire
the day before I come. It was just eight o'clock, and I was as hungry as
anything, but I was in such a tearing rage that I never thought of
borrowing money from anyone, as I might have done. Sixpence is no use
for food in the West End, so I sent you a wire with it, got some more
petrol at Simpson's, and came down here full speed."
French got up and took Mr. Dashwood's hand and shook it.
"If I live to be five hundred," said the emotional French, "I'll never
forget this to you."
"Rubbish!" said Bobby. "It was nothing. I--I enjoyed it--at least, part
of it. Anyhow, I'd do it over again to-morrow for the excitement of the
thing."
"I think," said Miss Grimshaw, speaking as though she were criticising
some work of art, "that the finest part of the whole thing was your
determination to run into the cart at full speed and smash it up. I
suppose it was wicked, but it was fine!"
"See here," said Mr. Dashwood, anxious to turn away praise from
himself, "what we have to think of now is Giveen. What's to-day? The
10th, isn't it? Well, he'll see that man Lewis to-day, as sure as nuts."
"If he does," said French, "Lewis will have a bailiff here to-morrow,
and I'll be done for."
"I'm not so sure of that," said Mr. Dashwood.
"How do you mean?"
"I've been thinking the thing out on the way down. If he puts a bailiff
in, let's corrupt the bailiff."
"Sure, I've got nothing to corrupt him with," said French. "Money's the
only thing to corrupt a man with, and I haven't any."
"We might offer him a percentage of the profits if he'll just shut his
eyes and let us take the horse to Epsom," said Mr. Dashwood. "We don't
want to run away with the horse. We only want a loan of him for the
race."
"That's not a bad idea," said Miss Grimshaw.
"If the man has any sporting instincts," said Mr. Dashwood, "it ought to
be easy enough. Give him a few glasses of whisky and get him jolly, and
the thing's done."
"Faith, and it's not a bad idea, after all," said French. "I was
thinking myself of getting hold of the chap and making a prisoner of him
in one of the loose-boxes, same as Moriarty suggested for me to do with
Giveen; but I've thought it over, and there's no use in it. It would
only mean that they'd stick me in prison and Heaven knows what. It would
ruin me entirely. But if we can get the chap to consent, that's a
different matter."
"Oh, yes, it would never do to make him a prisoner," said the girl.
"That would be a common, brutal sort of thing to do. But if you can
persuade him just to let the horse run the race, it won't hurt the horse
and it may make your fortune. Even that, I'm afraid, is scarcely right.
It's tampering with his conscience."
"But none of these chaps have consciences," said Bobby. "At least, none
to speak of."
"Then, of course," said Miss Grimshaw, "you can't tamper with them."