SQUARING ACCOUNTS
Armstrong profited by the enemy's first check to bind his handkerchief
round Mr. Pratt's arm.
"Hadn't you better go upstairs, sir, out of harm's way?" he asked.
"Call myself a casualty and slink to the rear? No, thank you, my lad.
Not while I can stand and use my left arm. We must hold our ground here
at all costs."
"Here, sir?"
"Yes. They must not drive us beyond the first floor. No doubt they
have released the man you tied up, and the fact that they still attack
us shows there is something upstairs they don't want to leave."
"I saw some tin cases in the room above."
"Filled with forged notes, beyond doubt. But what's this? Do you smell
burning?"
"Smoke--wood smoke. D'you hear the crackling? They have fired the
tower."
"Not they. They won't burn their notes. They want to drive us above.
It is very ingenious--and very unpleasant."
The pungent smoke from burning wood rolled up the staircase in
ever-increasing volume. Percy came running down, carrying, not an iron
bar, but an assegai taken from the wall of the top room.
"Didn't notice it before," he said.
"Run up again and open the door to the roof," said his uncle. "We may
as well stave off asphyxia as long as we can."
Armstrong caught sight of a head peering up from the round of the wall
below. He raised his hand suddenly as if to fire. The head
disappeared.
"Spying to see if we have gone," chuckled Mr. Pratt.
With the opening of the door above, the smoke rose more rapidly. Mr.
Pratt coughed.
"I have the misfortune to be a trifle asthmatical," he said. "It is
very unpleasant."
"May as well cough, too. It will encourage 'em," said Armstrong, with a
grim smile. "Percy, you can manage a churchyard cough."
They both coughed, at first deliberately, but as the smoke thickened,
involuntarily.
Suddenly there was a rush of feet below. Armstrong bent forward,
thrusting out his iron bar; but the foremost of the assailants, the
Swede, seemed to have expected the move, for he slipped aside, bent
almost double, crying to his comrade behind him, and sprang towards
Percy. The boy, having just run downstairs and only at that moment
caught up the assegai, was a little late with his lunge. Jensen seized
the head of the weapon and tugged at it, forcing Percy down a step or
two. To save himself, Percy let go; the Swede staggered backward
against Radewski, who was in the act of discharging his revolver at
Armstrong. The jostling of the man's arm spoilt his aim, and the
bullet, which, fired point-blank, would probably have found its billet
in Armstrong's breast, struck him on the right shoulder and spun him
half round. Mr. Pratt had hitherto been unable to use his pistol for
fear of hitting one or other of the boys; but now, seeing that both were
for the moment at a disadvantage, he dashed between them, fired with his
left hand at the Pole, only two steps below, and sent him rolling down
the stairs with a shot in his groin.
But the enemy were not this time to be denied. Jensen, inspired with
lust of vengeance, had quickly recovered his footing. Immediately below
him Rod and Sibelius, pointing their revolvers, only awaited an
opportunity of firing as soon as there was no risk of hitting their own
comrade. Mr. Pratt, who was weaker than he knew, had just pulled his
trigger without effect; either the chamber was empty or something had
jammed. Armstrong, with a wound in the shoulder, was leaning, for the
moment overcome with pain, against the wall of the staircase. Taking in
the whole scene, Percy felt that all was over. His own weapon was gone;
even if he should seize Armstrong's bar, single-handed he must soon be
overpowered.
At this crisis, by one of those tricks of the mind which no one can
account for, he suddenly remembered the packet of pepper he had bought
in the village, and one of the uses to which pepper could be put. It
was still in his pocket. Snatching it out, he swiftly unfolded the top
of the cone-shaped paper bag, and holding the bag by the screwed-up end,
he scattered its contents upon the face of Jensen, just rounding the
bend. With a howl of rage and pain the Swede recoiled on his comrades
behind, driving them back upon the remainder of their party at the foot
of the stairs. The volume of wood smoke had lessened when they started
the attack; and now the cloud of pepper, floating down slowly upon the
fumes, spread over the whole width of the staircase. A chorus of
sneezes soared up--a chorus in many parts, from the shrill tenor of
Prutti, the Italian chauffeur, to the resonant bass of the corpulent
Swiss, Maximilien Rod. Gradoff's sneeze was distinguishable from
Jensen's, and the two strangers performed a duet in sternutation. There
were interludes of cursing and yelling; Rush's sense of humour appeared
to be tickled, as well as his nostrils; for Pratt declared that he heard
him guffawing between his sneezes. After all, Rush was an Englishman.
The performers were still busy--the audience on the stairs was about to
move a little higher up--when there came, from some spot without, a
sound of cheers. Never was applause so unwelcome to a foreign band.
With the sneezes now mingled cries of alarm, the noise of feet scuffling
amid litter, a running to and fro. Percy, with a whoop of delight,
dashed downstairs, picking up his assegai on the way. When he reached
the room below, he was momentarily checked by a sneeze; then, through
the clearing smoke, his streaming eyes beheld two figures struggling on
the floor. A second glance distinguished them as Jensen and his old
enemy, Henery Drew. The farmer was uppermost.
[Illustration: "THE FARMER WAS UPPERMOST."]
"Come and see fair play, Jack," Pratt shouted up the stairs to
Armstrong, who had pulled himself together and was following him.
From outside came fierce shouts, pistol shots, the clash of weapons.
Pratt dashed out. Gradoff and his gang (all but Rush, who had
surrendered at once) were sustaining an unequal struggle with the
infuriated villagers who had closed upon them. On the one side
Warrender, with Rogers and the rest, on the other the group of villagers
collected by Drew--of whom the general dealer, smarting for his unpaid
bill, had constituted himself the temporary leader in rivalry with
Constable Hardstone--a body of some twenty determined men, who were
perhaps a little breathless from haste. Not so with the others. As
Samson lost his strength with his hair, so these international
adventurers, desperate, courageous enough, holding life cheap, became as
children under the debilitating pungency of pepper. A man cannot sneeze
and fight. Some few shots were fired; a bullet grazed Rogers's shining
skull; another struck out of Blevins's hand the mallet he carried; a
third carried away the lobe of an ear from a young carter, who refused
to leave the field until he had found it. Short, sharp, decisive, the
battle ended in a general capitulation. Only one of the foreigners
escaped; Gradoff, seeing that all was lost, kept his last bullet for
himself.
From the doorway Mr. Pratt had watched the pinioning of the prisoners.
A cheer broke from his neighbours and tenants. And, just as a move
towards the house was being made, Mr. Crawshay and two of his men, armed
with shot-guns, came trotting across the sward.
"God bless you, Pratt, my dear fellow," cried the old gentleman,
grasping his neighbour by the hand, and shaking it vigorously up and
down.
Mr. Pratt sneezed.
"And you, Crawshay," he said. "But try the other hand, my friend; my
right arm bears an honourable wound."
EPILOGUE
It was Saturday afternoon. The spacious lawn in front of Mr. Crawshay's
house was spread with bamboo tables and deck-chairs. At the porch stood
Mr. Crawshay and Mr. Ambrose Pratt side by side, smoking long cigars,
chatting and laughing with the familiarity of old friends. Mr. Pratt's
right arm was in a sling.
"It's time they came," said Mr. Crawshay, taking out his watch. He wore
a large panama, and his suit of spotless ducks gave him a festal air.
"They're probably squabbling for precedence," said Mr. Pratt; "not on
social grounds, but for modesty. It's an ordeal, you know, Crawshay;
and when they see your rig, and that purple tie of yours, they'll be
abashed."
"What'll they say to the women, then?" returned Mr. Crawshay. "Upon my
soul, Pratt, I think you are right to come in your old clothes; they'll
feel more at home. It never occurred to me."
"Oh, well, you're lord of the manor; I dare say you're right to look the
part. But here they come, in a bunch. Mrs. Rogers is, perhaps, a shade
ahead."
Mr. Crawshay turned and called through the open door. His daughter, in
a dainty confection of muslin and lace, and a straw hat trimmed with
pink silk, came running out, followed by her mother, an impressive
figure in blue, and our three campers, in flannels and blazers.
Armstrong also had an arm in a sling.
Grouped in front of the porch they awaited the coming of the party that
had just entered the drive. Mrs. Rogers, in stiff black silk, and a
wonderful bonnet, marched along a little in advance of her husband,
hardly recognisable in his Sunday suit of blue serge and a bowler hat
sitting uneasily on the back of his head. Samuel Blevins, the general
dealer, had affected a long frock coat and a tall hat. Henery Drew,
magnificent in a brown bowler and a suit of large-checked tweed, walked
beside Hardstone, the constable, disguised in habiliments that might
have become a prosperous plumber. The rest of the company, whose names
we do not know, were alike in one respect; all had donned their "Sunday
best." Every face, without exception, wore an air of deep solemnity.
Mr. Crawshay took a step forward.
"Glad to see you, neighbours," he said, genially. "We are lucky in a
fine afternoon."
He shook hands with them individually, a greeting that inflicted on them
various degrees of embarrassment, deepened by the smiling welcome of his
wife and daughter. Mr. Pratt contented himself with a general
salutation; it was not until the boys began to crack jokes with them
that the prevailing gloom lightened.
"You didn't bring your sister, Rogers?" said Mr. Crawshay to the
innkeeper.
"True, sir; she bain't come along."
"She couldn't face 'ee, sir," added Mrs. Rogers. "I always did say as
she was making a rod for her back, though never did I think Rod was such
a downright wicked feller. And Henery Drew, as would have made her a
good husband as far as husbands do go, and now he can't marry her
without committing bigamy."
"Well, well! We must hope for the best," said Mr. Crawshay. "Now, my
friends, we're all here. Take your seats, and we'll have tea."
The company seated themselves. Maids brought from the house trays
filled with good things. Mrs. Crawshay poured out tea, and Lilian and
the boys carried round the eatables. Under the influence of good cheer
the villagers' stiffness wore off, and they began to descant upon the
moving events of the past days. For the first time in its history the
village had become a place of importance. Visitors had flocked to it
from all parts; journalists with cameras had interviewed the actors in
the drama, and expressed themselves very freely on Mr. Pratt's refusal
to admit them to his grounds, and to pose for his photograph. His
modesty in this respect was a standing puzzle to his humble neighbours.
Mrs. Rogers, for instance, was extremely proud of the portrait of her
husband that had appeared in the previous day's picture paper.
"The scar shows beautiful," she said, complacently.
"Dear me," said Mrs. Crawshay, with a discreet glance at Rogers's broad
face, "I wasn't aware----"
"Take off your hat, Joe, and show the lady."
Removing his hat, Rogers displayed a red furrow that ran across his
shiny pate.
"What a narrow escape!" exclaimed Mrs. Crawshay.
"Ay sure, ma'am, 'twas so," said Mrs. Rogers. "And I'm certain a widow's
cap wouldn't have suited me."
"Well, Mrs. Rogers, you won't be so particular about Joe's wig after
this," said Percy Pratt. "You see, if he'd worn his wig, his scalp
wouldn't have been touched; think what millions of people have had the
pleasure of admiring your husband, talking about his bravery, discussing
the track of the bullet across his skull. No one wanted to take my
photograph."
"They took 'ee unbeknownst, then, becos there you be, next to Joe, with
'Pepper and Salt' printed underneath; very clever, I call it, Joe being
once a sailor."
"Oh, I say," exclaimed Pratt, "did they get the others too?"
"No, sir. Not as I think it a very good likeness. You've got your two
eyes half shut, and your mouth is a very queer shape, like as if you was
expecting of somebody to pop something in it--a drop of physic, maybe."
The villagers looked merely interested, the others frankly amused.
Pratt blushed.
"He must have caught you when you were singing a particularly
sentimental song, old chap," said Warrender, smiling.
"That reminds me," said Mrs. Crawshay. "Do bring out your banjo, Mr.
Pratt, and sing us something."
"Wait a minute," said Mr. Crawshay. "Before we begin
the--entertainment, shall I call it?--I want to say a word or two."
"Hear, hear!" exclaimed Blevins. "'Tis what I call an event."
"No heroics, for goodness' sake, Crawshay," murmured Mr. Pratt.
Mr. Crawshay assumed the look of one determined not to be interfered
with.
"I just want to say, neighbours," he proceeded, "how glad I am to see
you all here this afternoon, in celebration of what Mr. Blevins rightly
calls an event in the simple history of our little parish. You all had a
part in the frustration of the most nefarious criminal conspiracy that
has ever come within my long experience as a county magistrate. Thanks
to the ingenuity and perseverance of my dear young friends, their
refusal to be intimidated, their sleepless vigils and untiring
watchfulness, the secrets of that criminal conspiracy were laid bare, my
old friend and neighbour was rescued from a most distressing situation,
and you, anticipating the slow operation of the law, but sanctioned by
the presence among you of an officer of the law, were able to secure the
apprehension of the whole band of criminals, who are now awaiting in the
darkness of the county gaol the due reward of their deeds. Our village
is to be congratulated on the visit of three young men, typical products
of our renowned public school system, and on the public spirit of its
own inhabitants, who, when the call for action came, forgetting all
class distinctions, regardless of personal risk, braved the murderous
weapons of unscrupulous villains, and nobly carried out the first duty
of the patriotic citizen. I am speaking the mind of you all," the
worthy magistrate went on, warming to his subject, "when I say that we
shall long treasure the memory of our young friends, their high spirits,
their unfailing cheerfulness under persecution, their courage and
ingenuity; and it is a matter of regret that, yielding to paramount
claims, the claims of parental affection, they are leaving us to-day.
But it will please you all to hear that, in response to my invitation--I
may say to my insistence--they have agreed to visit us again next year;
and I understand from my old friend and neighbour, Mr. Pratt, that he
intends to acquire No Man's Island, so long derelict, and restore the
cottage as a holiday hostel for boys of our public schools."
Here there were general cheers.
"Dear old Father!" whispered Lilian to the boys. "He gets so few
chances of making a speech, and he does love it so."
"I won't detain you longer," Mr. Crawshay went on. "No doubt Mr. Pratt
would like to say a few words."
"Hate it!" exclaimed Mr. Pratt. "One thing only. I've had a bad time.
I deserved it. I was over-hasty. My old servants are scattered; if any
of you know where they are, tell them to come to me. I'll reinstate
them--if we can agree about wages."
Under cover of the villagers' applause, Percy seized the opportunity of
unbosoming himself to a select audience, his companions and Lilian
Crawshay.
"Are we blushing, Miss Crawshay?" he asked. "I don't think we are,
because, you see, we are supremely conscious of each other's merits. We
really are benefactors, you know--public and private. Who would ever
believe that the two old gentlemen were not long ago calling each other
luna----"
"Now, Mr. Pratt," the girl interrupted.
"Well, X and Y then," rejoined Pratt. "It's undeniable, isn't it, that
they're reconciled through us? And as for my uncle and me, we're quite
pally; the old feud is healed, and before long I expect my father and
Uncle Ambrose will kiss again with tears. Tennyson, you know. Anyway,
it's been a ripping holiday, and----"
"Now, Mr. Pratt, we are all waiting," said Mrs. Crawshay, amiably.
Pratt obediently went into the house, brought out his banjo, and trolled
out ditties of the most sentimental order. Presently Warrender
announced that it was time to go if they meant to reach Southampton
before dark. The whole company trooped down to the bank with them, and
watched them board the motor-boat, already loaded with their camp
equipment. Last good-byes were said; Warrender opened the throttle; and
as the boat panted down stream there came to the ears of the silent
spectators the gentle strumming of the banjo, and Pratt's melodious
tenor--
"Our hearts were once divided,
But now they beat as one;
The clouds roll by across the sky,
And yonder shines the sun."
THE END