PIN-PRICKS
Late that afternoon, Warrender and Pratt started for a spin in the
dinghy to the mouth of the river, intending to return on the tide. In
accordance with their newly formed plan, Armstrong remained on guard in
the camp.
Just before the scullers gained the river mouth they overtook a
weather-beaten old fisherman leisurely rowing his heavy tub out to sea.
Pratt gave him a cheery hail as they came abreast of him, and learning,
in answer to a question, that he was proceeding to inspect his lobster
pots nearly a mile out, they asked if they might accompany him.
"Ay sure, I've nothing against it," said the old man.
"Nor against us, I hope," rejoined Pratt, smiling.
"Not as I knows on."
"Then we're friends already. I always make friends in two seconds and a
half, and being, like Caesar, constant as the northern star, I stick
like a limpet. You can't shake me off."
"Same as a lobster when he gets a grip."
"Ah! you know more about lobsters than I do. Is that a lobster pot on
the beach there?"
He indicated a low wooden hut, standing a little above high-water mark,
on the shore curving away to the east.
"You be a joker, sir," said the fisher, his native taciturnity thawed.
"That be a fisherman's hut. Fisherman, says I, but 'tis little fishing
as goes on hereabouts nowadays. I mind the time when there was a tidy
little fleet in these waters, but that was long ago. There was good
harbourage in those days, but the sea have cast up a bar across the
mouth of the river; we're going over it now; and it makes the passage
dangerous for a boat of any draught. One or two old gaffers like me
goes out now and again, but 'tis not what it was in my young days."
"That hut looks a bit dilapidated--is it yours?"
"No, it belongs to Mr. Pratt, up along at the house."
"You don't say so! I dare say you'll be surprised to hear it, but it
wouldn't be fair to you to keep it a secret; Mr. Pratt is my uncle."
"Do 'ee tell me that, now?"
"But I hope you won't think any the worse of me. It's not my fault--I'm
sure you'll admit that."
"Think the worse of 'ee! I reckon 'tis t'other way about. He be my
landlord, and a rare good 'un; never raised my rent all the thirty years
I've knowed 'un. We thinks a rare lot of 'un in village."
"I say, do you mean that?"
"What for not? He never gives us no trouble, and if you can say that of
the landlord as owns best part o' the village, you may reckon there
ain't much wrong with 'un. Not but what he've a bit of a temper, and
can't abide being put upon; but treat him fair, and he'll treat you
fair. Ay, and more. That there hut, now. It do belong to him, but I
doubt he's never been richer for any rent paid him for't."
"Who rents it, then?"
"Uses it, I'd say. Nick Rush never paid no rent, that I'd swear."
"Siren Rush again, Phil," said Pratt, in an undertone, to Warrender. "I
thought Rush was a poacher," he added, to the fisherman.
The old man made no reply. Pratt guessed that for some reason or other
he was unwilling to commit himself.
"My uncle, as you say, can't stand being put upon," he went on. "Which
makes it the more surprising that he should allow a rascal like Rush to
use his hut rent free. I wonder he doesn't turn him out."
"He did, a year or two back," said the fisherman, tersely.
"That was when Rush went to gaol for poaching, of course?" said Pratt,
with the air of one who was well acquainted with the circumstances. "I
should have done the same myself. No one would be hard on a poor fellow
who kept straight, but when Mr. Crawshay had to sentence him for
poaching, that was the last straw. But how is it that he has been
allowed to come back? Has he turned over a new leaf?"
"The hut was empty for a year or two, and was falling to pieces,"
answered the fisherman. "When Rush came back to these parts he mended
it a bit, and Mr. Pratt having gone to furrin parts again, I reckon his
secretary didn't think it worth while to bother about the feller."
"I dare say that was it. In these days it's not easy to get rid of an
unsatisfactory tenant, I understand. But my uncle won't be pleased when
he comes home, I'm sure. The secretary ought to know that."
"Ay, and so he would if 'twas an Englishman, but with these furriners,
there's no accountin' for them. The village do have a grudge against
Mr. Pratt on that score; the folk don't like 'em. I feel a bit strong
about it myself. There's my son Henery, as owns a dairy farm up yonder,
was courting Molly Rogers, sister of Joe at the inn, afore the war;
terrible sweet on she, he was; and everybody thought, give her time,
they'd make a match of it. But bless 'ee, afore he was demobbed, as
they call it, these furriners come along, and daze me if the smallest of
'em weren't Molly's husband inside of a month. And to make matters
worse, it do seem as she've cast off all her old friends, becas nobody
sees nothing of her these days. But there 'tis; you can't never
understand a woman."
The greater part of this conversation took place while the old man was
lifting his lobster pots--the others lying by. He went on to give them
information about the coast--where good line-fishing could be had, rocks
where crabs could be picked up at low tide. Having bought a couple of
lobsters, Warrender turned the dinghy's head for home.
The sun was going down as they approached the island. Near its southern
point they met Rush, slowly pulling a tubby boat down stream. He did not
look at them as they passed; his square countenance was expressionless.
Rowing straight along the narrow channel to their camping-place, they
lifted the dinghy ashore, and carried it towards the tent. Armstrong
was not to be seen.
"The sentry has deserted his post," remarked Pratt. "But I dare say
he's not far."
He gave a shrill whistle. An answer came distantly from the woods, and
presently Armstrong appeared, pushing his way through the thickets on
the western side of the clearing.
"All quiet, old man?" asked Warrender.
"Until a little while ago," Armstrong replied. "I heard a rustling and
crackling in the thicket yonder. I couldn't see anything, and for a
time I simply kept on the watch; but it went on so long that I got sick
of doing nothing, and started off quietly to investigate, and nab the
fellow if I could. But though I couldn't see him, it's clear he could
see me. What his game was, I don't know; I only know that I could
always hear him moving some little distance ahead of me, and before I
realised how far I had got, I found myself pretty near the farther
shore. I just caught a glimpse of a back among the bushes, but when I
got to the place there was nothing to be seen or heard either. It
occurred to me then that I'd been decoyed away while some one played
hanky-panky here, and I cursed myself for an ass and hurried back, but
things look undisturbed."
They glanced around the camp and inspected the interior of the tent.
Their various properties appeared to be exactly as they had been left;
nothing was obviously missing.
"I suppose it was another little freak of Siren Rush," remarked Pratt.
"We met him rowing down as we came up. No doubt he was going to visit
his hut on the beach."
He retailed the bits of information derived from the fisherman, dwelling
particularly on the surprising fact that, "potty" though he might be,
Mr. Ambrose Pratt was respected, and even liked, by the country folk.
It was not until they began to make preparations for their evening meal
that a new light was cast on the mysterious movements in the thicket.
Armstrong took their kettle and bucket down to the river. Neither would
hold water. Examining them, he found a hole in the bottom of each,
clean cut as if made by a bradawl. Meanwhile Pratt had discovered that
their tea was afloat in the caddy, and the wick had been removed from
their stove.
"More pin-pricks," he said. "Any one would think the blighters had
learnt ragging at a public school."
"Pin-pricks be hanged!" cried Armstrong, wrathfully. "They're much
worse than a jolly good set-to--much more difficult to deal with. If
they'd come out into the open, we'd jolly well settle their hash."
The others guessed that Armstrong's anger was largely due to his own
failure as a watchman.
"One thing is clear," said Warrender, considerately. "Whoever played
these tricks, it was not Rush. He couldn't possibly have drawn you to
the shore, cut round here and done the damage, and then got back to his
boat and dropped down stream to where we met him, while you were coming
straight across. On the other hand, if he had got into his boat
directly after he disappeared, he could just have done it. If he was
the decoy, who was the confederate?"
"'Time's glory is to calm contending kings,'" quoted Pratt, "and among
other stupendous feats, 'to wrong the wronger till he render right.'
But I'm not disposed to leave old Time to his own unaided resources.
These island Pucks are decidedly annoying, but they're also uncommonly
interesting. 'Life is a war,' some one said. Well, it's to be a war of
wits, by the look of it, and I'll back our wits in the end against
sirens or sorcerers, or any old scaramouch. Only I'm bound to confess
that up to the present the enemy is several points up."