(_With the British Army in France._)
"If I am to be a bold bad smuggler, old scream," said Percival, packing
pyjamas and parcels into his bag, "I demand the proper costume and
accessories of the craft. No self-respecting smuggler can be expected to
run a cargo in a British warm and field-boots."
"Of course, my swaggering buccaneer, if you want to do it in the grand
manner," answered Frederick, "I'll arrange for the saucy little cutter, the
sequestered cove an' the hard-riding exciseman with a cocked hat and
cutlass. But the simpler if less picturesque way is to dump your bag on the
counter at the Customs House and be taken with a fit of sneezing when the
Grand Inquisitor asks you if you have anything to declare."
"Whereupon he'll hand me a quinine tablet and, when I show signs of
convalescence, repeat the question in a loud voice. And if I don't know the
correct answer I'll find myself meditating in Portland or Pentonville.
That's what I'm exposing myself to by obliging corrupt an' unscrupulous
friends," continued Percival bitterly.
"Hang it!" expostulated Frederick, "the potty little bottle of scent I'm
asking you to deliver to my cousin Julia won't get you more than a
seven-days' stretch. And you've got _fourteen_ days' leave."
"Well, I won't grumble about that, although I'd arranged my programme
differently. But what about the box of Flor Fantomas I'm taking for the
Major, and the bottle of whisky with which the skipper has entrusted me for
the purpose of propitiating his projected father-in-law, to say nothing of
the piece of Brussels lace which Binnie says is for his aunt. Their
combined weight will just about earn me a lifer. I can see me wiring the
War Office for an extension of leave on urgent business grounds--nature of
business, to enable applicant to complete term of penal servitude."
"Don't, Percival, old crumpet," murmured Frederick, visibly affected; "the
thought of you languishing in a felon's cell, without cigarettes, gives me
a pain in my heart. Let me see what I can do for you."
In a few minutes he was back, beaming. "I've fixed it all right, _mon
lapin_," he said; "if the worst comes to the worst they'll bail you out
with the Mess funds. But they won't accept further responsibility. The
Major says, if a fellow who's spent his whole career dodging duties can't
dodge the duty on a box of cigars he doesn't deserve sympathy."
So Percival proceeded on leave with a heavy bag and a heavier conscience.
On the boat he was greeted hilariously by Gillow the gunner and Sparkes the
sapper, who invited him below to drink success to the voyage. In order to
give the voyage no chance of failure they continued to drink success to it
until the vessel backed into Folkestone Harbour, when they felt their
precautions might be relaxed.
"Thanks to our efforts we've arrived safely," said Gillow as they strolled
up on deck; "but the sight of jolly old England doesn't seem to be moving
you to mirth and song, Percival. Why this outward-bound expression when
we're on the homeward tack, my hearty?"
"It's the gnawing molar of conscience," said Percival ruefully; "I've got a
consignment of pink-ribboned parcels in my bag which I know to contain
contraband and which I also suspect--Frederick's and Binnie's anyway--to
contain amorous missives not meant for vulgar eyes. If I deliver the
parcels with the seals broken I shall get the glacial glare from the
damsels concerned, and when I get back scorpions and poisoned bill-hooks
will be too good for poor Percival."
"Phew!" whistled Sparkes. "They go through your baggage with a fine
toothcomb nowadays. Couldn't you drop over the side with your bag and drift
ashore on a deserted beach, disguised as a floating mine?"
"I've cut impersonations of hardware out of my _répertoire_ since the day I
failed to get past an R.T.O. disguised as a brass-hat," said Percival
sadly. "I suppose I must fall back on direct action. I've a feeling that
England expects every man this day to pay his duty."
On the quay there was the usual mad charge of porters. Percival indicated
his bag to one of them with a distracted air, and followed him to the
Customs House guiltily. The porter dumped the bag before an official, who
had a piece of chalk hopefully poised between his fingers.
"'Nything t' 'clare?" he asked, preparing to affix the sign which spelt
freedom.
Percival blew his nose violently, hoping the chalk would descend to save
him the necessity of answering, but it remained poised in mid-air.
"Anything to declare?" repeated the official, with emphasis.
"Er," said Percival weakly--"nothing that you need worry about--only a few
presents."
"I'll have to trouble you for your keys, then," said the incorruptible.
Percival sighed dismally and produced them. Suddenly he noticed Gillow
declaring his baggage, and became so interested that he failed to perceive
that the official was in difficulties with the lock of his bag.
"This the right key, Sir?" demanded the latter at length.
"Oh, yes," said Percival absently. "But perhaps the bag isn't locked."
The bag wasn't. It opened easily, and the official plunged into a welter of
articles of personal use; but no parcels or dutiable goods came to light.
"P'raps you think it's a joke, wasting my time like this," snorted the
official indignantly. "All I can say is, it's an infernal bad one."
"Awf'lly sorry," said Percival sweetly, as his eye followed Gillow, who had
emerged unchallenged. "I must have forgotten to bring the parcels I spoke
about."
Smiling cheerfully, he directed the porter to place his bag by the side of
Gillow's in a Pullman, and took his seat with an expression of complete
content.
"How fares the master criminal?" asked Sparkes.
"A sympathetic friend took my troubles on his shoulders," said Percival,
"and got the parcels through with an effrontery which amazed me. I always
took him for an upright youth, too."
"Who was it?" asked Gillow.
"You! Didn't you notice you took my bag by mistake? But don't let it weigh
unduly on your conscience. Mine's clear anyway, and I feel that my troubles
are over."
But it was not till he got home and opened his own bag that he discovered a
quantity of broken glass, a pungent odour of whisky and Cologne water, a
discoloured parcel of lace and a box of sodden cigars.
"I was never meant for a smuggler," he groaned.
* * * * *