BILLY CROOM
“But the game is not played out yet,” said Mr Fanshawe; “we have
nearly twenty-four hours before us. I’ll hocus the horses, I’ll get
Patsy to take the lynch-pins out of the brougham, I’ll do
something—anything—before letting him win like that. The case is
desperate. It will be two years before you are of age and your own
mistress.”
“Two years, three months and three—no—four days,” said Miss Lestrange.
“He will take you away from here and bottle you up somewhere, or put you
in Chancery or something—I know him! He will keep you so close I will
never be able to see you or speak to you. He will intercept my
letters—we will be able to make no plans. We will be separated two years
certain—I may die, you may die—you may get to care for some one else. I
have a conviction that if we don’t carry out our plan, and go away with
one another day after to-morrow, something will divide us for ever.”
“Dicky!” said the girl.
“Yes?”
“You know what you said about doing something to the horses or the
carriage.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t—leave everything to me.”
“What will you do?”
“Never mind; I have made a plan.”
“Tell me it,” said Dicky. “I may be able to improve on it.”
“I will do as Mr Boxall has done.”
“But you haven’t a glass eye.”
“No, but I can catch influenza.”
“Hurrah!” cried Dicky. “I never thought of that—but can you?”
“What?”
“Do the thing properly. What are the symptoms of influenza?”
“You sneeze,” said Violet.
“Can you?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t; however, we’ll leave that part out. I can say
I’ve sneezed.”
“What are the other symptoms?”
“Pains in the bones and headache—Dicky!”
Miss Lestrange suddenly pinched her companion’s arm.
“What?”
“Look!”
A broad, red face was peeping at them from behind a tree-bole.
“Why, I’m blest if it isn’t the burglar chap!” said Mr Fanshawe.
The body belonging to the face came forth from behind the tree-bole, and
Mr Murphy, greatly tattered, evidently exhausted, but still grinning,
stood before them.
“Faith,” said Mr Murphy, with a tone of happy recognition, “it’s
yourself, sor, and glad I am to see you.”
“Can’t return the compliment,” said Mr Fanshawe.
“I’m bone dry,” said Mr Murphy, drawing the back of his hand across his
mouth. “Near run off me legs. I’ve left me ould hat in the brambles
beyant, and it’s sorry I am to appear before the young lady all rags an’
tatters—whisht!”
Shouts and haloos came from the distance, and the yapping of a dog.
“They’re afther me still!” said Mr Murphy, as though he were speaking to
confederates. “Listen to ’um, Mr Fanshawe, sir, you’re a gintleman, you
won’t be givin’ me away, will you, if they axes have you seen me?”
“Not I,” said Dicky. “But don’t waste time here talking, hook it as hard
as you can; they are coming.”
“Unhappy man!” cried Violet, gazing with dilated eyes at the tattered
figure before her.
“Make haste! Dicky, have you no money to give him to help him?
Listen—they are coming—don’t wait to be taken—fly!”
“It’s into the tree I’ll be flyin’ if you get off me dure-step, miss,”
said the pursued one, buttoning the one button of his coat and preparing
to climb. “It’s me house is this ould tree, an’ I’ve lived in her a
month wid me ear to the ground for the polis. Aisy does it.”
He got on to the moss-grown root, placed his arms round the bole, and,
scrambling like a great tom-cat, in half a moment was gone from sight.
“Come,” said Dicky to the girl, “let us go.”
“Wan minit,” came a voice from the tree.
“Well, what is it?”
“Sure, y’ ain’t goin’ to lave me!” complained the voice. “If they strike
the ould tree they’ll sarch it sure. Misther Fanshawe!”
“Yes?”
“For the love of God, sit down an’ talk aisy to the young lady. There’s
Con Cogan knows I’ve hid here, and wan or two more—the sight of the
young lady will drive thim away as the blessed angels drives the
divils.”
“Well, of all the cheek!” said Mr Fanshawe.
“Dicky, dear!” said Violet, laying her hand on his arm. “He’s running
away.”
“Well, what of that?”
“Think, if _we_ were running away, if we were chased, and if we found a
tree to hide in, think how glad we would be to have some one to—to help
us.”
“Listen to her voice!” came a voice from the tree that seemed communing
with itself. “Sure, it’s like running wather over pebbles to hear her.”
“It would be unlucky for us,” went on she, “not to help a person who——”
“Yes, it would,” said Dicky. “Sit down. All right—we’ll do what we can
for you.”
“God in hivin bless you; may God in hivin rain His blessin’s on you; may
the saints make your bed, and the howly angels smooth your pillas; may
the——”
“Shut up!” said Mr Fanshawe.
“Listen!” said Violet.
Voices were audible in the wood close by.
“Swear be all’s blew you saw me runnin’ towards Castle Knock,” came the
voice, muted and confidential.
“Hold your beastly tongue,” replied Mr Fanshawe, irritated at the way in
which the rascal had made him a tool to assist his flight, and the
familiar tone of his voice.
“Here they are,” said Violet.
A spot of dingy scarlet showed through the trees, and next moment Billy
Croom, followed by Con Cogan, broke into the glade.
“That’s the tree!” cried Con. “Musha! but who’s them?”
When the rabble had run Mr Murphy to earth, or rather into the wood,
they paused. They did not mind pursuing him across the open a hundred
strong. Pursuing him through the wood was quite a different matter, for
pursuit through a wood means breaking up into small parties, and there
was not a man amongst the lot who would have tackled Mr Murphy, even
with the assistance of a couple of others.
“Lave him be!” cried the populace. “Sure, you might as well hunt for a
needle in the siven acres. More’s the pity, with the reward out aginst
him, and all.”
“What’s the reward?” asked Billy Croom.
“A hundred pound.”[3]
Footnote 3:
The reward, as entered in the Police Register, was £10; ten times ten
makes a hundred.
“A hundred pound, and him in the wood!”
“Ay, a hundred pound.”
“Sure, I’d chase a hundred divils through a hundred woods for that,”
said Billy Croom, slipping off his horse. “Here, Bob Mahony, take a
hoult of the reins.”
“He’ll murther you!” cried the populace.
“Will he, begob?” said the whip, his lean, dark, devilish face lighting
up with battle.
“Mr Croom!” came a voice. It was the voice of Con Cogan, who, assured
that the police were absent, had been hanging round the tail of the
proceedings like a carrion crow.
“What is it?” asked Croom.
“I can tell yiz where you’ll find ’um. What will yiz give me?”
“I’ll give you a tin poun’ note out of the hundred,” replied the
huntsman, approaching close to Con.
“Then you can hand it over, for he’s in the ould oak tree widout a top
to it.”
“Where’s that?”
“Sure, where would it be, but in the wood?”
The populace tittered. They thought Con was “having” the whip, otherwise
such base treachery would have condemned Mr Cogan to a speedy and
literal downfall.
“What part of the wood?” demanded the whip.
“Two hundred yards, maybe, to the lift of the drive, before you rache
the turnin’ to the Druids’ Althar.”
“He’s gave Paddy away!” cried the onlookers, who perceived from the
exact directions that there was no joking in the matter. “He’s bethrayed
him—oh, the baste!”
“Lave him to me,” said Croom, as disgusted as the rest, but still
determined to use Mr Cogan.
“Now, then, you holy scarecrow, lay on to the sint, into the wood wid
you before me.”
They were a picture. The lean, dark-faced whip all fight and energy;
Con, with his brigand’s appearance, and his face of an ideal
stage-robber, wilting before the other.
“Lay on!” cried the huntsman.
“Let up!” cried Con. “Lave me be—who are you afther talking to? Help!
Mary! Moses!”
The thong of the whip curled round his legs. Then, whip in one hand and
grasping the collar of Con’s old coat in the other, Croom ran the
villain in amidst the trees, and they were lost to sight.
The populace danced.
“On you go before me,” said Croom, releasing the collar. “Play me
crucked, and I’ll brain yiz with the butt-end of me whip.”
“I’ll go quiet,” replied the other. “But, sure, it’s the fear of Paddy
Murphy that’s before me.”
“Faith, it’s the fear of Billy Croom that’s behind yiz. On you go. Which
way, now?”
“To the lift.”
Con led fair and straight, and in ten minutes they had reached the
little path that led to the Druids’ Altar.
“To the lift again,” said Con. “There’s the ould tree—musha, but who’s
them!”
“Sit quiet,” said Mr Fanshawe to Violet; “we may be able to bluff them
without telling lies.”
Con, seeing Mr Fanshawe and knowing the strength of Croom, began to lose
fear of Paddy Murphy, and did not bolt away as he might otherwise have
done, but waited—for his own undoing—to see the sport.
Croom touched his hat to Mr Fanshawe’s scarlet coat.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said he, “but have you seen a sight of that chap we
was chasin’?”
“I have,” replied Mr Fanshawe. “What do you want with him?”
“Faith,” said Croom, “I want to kitch him.”
“And what do you want to catch him for?” asked Mr Fanshawe.
“You must ax the polis that,” replied the huntsman. “They can bile him,
for all I care, all I wants is to kitch him, and if you axes me why,
it’s because there’s a hundred pounds reward aginst him, and I’ve a wife
and childer.”
“Well, you can go home to your wife and childer, and tell them you’ve
lost a hundred pounds to-day, for you’re not going to catch him.”
A blaze came into the eyes of Billy Croom and was smothered.
“I’m not wishful to be disrespectful, sir,” said Billy, “I’m axing you
have you seen him?”
“I told you before, I have.”
“And where was that?”
“Here.”
“Con Cogan!” said the whip.
“Yes,” replied Con.
“Is this the tree or not.”
“It is.”
“Well, then, sir,” said Billy, “I’m not wishin’ to be disrespectful, but
is the chap in the ould tree behind you, or is he not?”
“He is,” replied Mr Fanshawe.
“That’s all right,” said the whip, buttoning his coat and approaching
the tree. “It’s worse than tacklin’ a badger in a barrel, but I’ll do
it.”
“Stop,” said Mr Fanshawe.
“Who’s goin’ to stop me?” enquired Billy, the blaze lighting up again in
his eyes.
“I am.”
“For sure?” said Billy.
“Yes, for sure, he’s under my protection—do you want him?”
“I’m goin’ to have him.”
“I say, do you want him?” repeated Mr Fanshawe, rising to his feet.
“O’ course I want him.”
“Then, you’ll have to fight me for him.”
“O Dicky!” murmured Violet.
“It’s a question of honour,” said Mr Fanshawe. “I don’t know why I
should fight this scoundrel’s battles, but he has placed himself under
my protection, and I’m not going to give him up.” Then, in a lower
voice: “You wouldn’t have it otherwise?”
“No,” said Violet, shivering; “but tell me before you begin, and I’ll
shut my eyes, and—stop my ears.”
“Misther Fanshawe.”
The voice came from above. Dicky looked up. Mr Murphy had scrambled up,
and was leaning over the tree-top rim.
“Misther Fanshawe, there’s no call for fightin’. I’ll come down and
settle me account peaceful wid Billy Croom. I’ll go wid him quiet, for
I’m sure to be cocht _any_how, and he may as well have the hundred pound
as another. Aisy, now, Mr Fanshawe, and listen to me. I’ll go wid Billy
on one condijion.”
“What’s that?” asked Mr Fanshawe, glad to be done with the business.
“That you take hould of Con Cogan’s arm over there, and hould him till I
ax you to loose him, for I’m powerful anxious to say a word to him
before I goes to prizon.”
“Right!” said Dicky, stepping over to where Con stood and taking hold of
his arm.
“I ax you, sir,” said Mr Murphy, “not to loose him till I say when.”
“Right!” said Mr Fanshawe.
“Now,” said Mr Murphy, whipping a frightful-looking old horse pistol
into view and levelling it at the head of Billy Croom, who stood right
at the bottom of the tree, “now that all’s settled. I’m going to have a
word wid me friend, Billy. Move the hundredth part of an inch, y’
widge-faced houn’, and your brains go on the grass. Misther Fanshawe,
will yiz ax the young lady to go away beyant and shut her eyes and
ears?”
“Go quick!” cried Dicky, and he had not to repeat his words. “Hi, you
scoundrel, stop it! You’re not going to shoot the man.”
“Mr Fanshawe,” went on the man in possession of affairs, “you’ve give
your word—this is betune Billy and me, man to man. Billy Croom, have I
thrumped your ace, or have I not?”
Billy was a very brave man, but he knew the infernal devil in the tree,
and his utter recklessness when moved by whisky or rage.
“You have,” said Billy.
“You came afther me for gowld, and I’m goin’ to give yiz lead,” said Mr
Murphy, “if yiz as much as blinks wan eye before I lays down me
conditions of war. They’ll be hard, Billy Croom, but, begob! they’ll be
better than hell.”
Dicky, holding Con by the sleeve, looked on fascinated. Intuition told
him that Murphy would kill the man under him, if the man under him moved
so much as a finger, for there was that in Murphy’s face which was
beyond the earth.
“What’s you afther?” asked Croom, whose breath was coming hard.
“Strip!” said the other—“all but your britches and brogues; I’ll lave
you those for dacency sake.”
“I’ll be——if I do!” said Croom.
“I’ve said it wanst, I’ll say it twice, and if I say it three times,
I’ll _shut_—strip!”
Croom stripped.
“Shut your eyes,” cried Dicky, and a voice came from the wood:
“They’re shut.”
“Now,” said Mr Murphy to the half-naked figure before him, “I’ll give
yiz a chanst. I’m goin’ to count five; at the fifth sthroke I’ll fire if
there’s a speck of yiz to be seen. Use your legs—Wan—two—three—four——Mr
Fanshawe, sir!”
“Yes?”
“Did yiz happen to see a party be the name of Billy Croom around here
anywhere in the neebourhood to-day?”
“I did,” said Mr Fanshawe, “but he seems to have gone.”
“Faith,” said Mr Murphy, putting his leg over the edge of his fortress
and scrambling down, “he’s left his clothes behint him.” He approached
Mr Fanshawe and the trembling Con. “There’s a lady in the wood, sir, and
maybe you’ll be escorthin’ her home. Good-mornin’, Con Cogan, I have a
word to say with you.”
“Don’t lave me with him, sir,” implored Con, “or it’s me brains he’ll be
blowin’ out.”
“Don’t you be afear’d, sir,” said Paddy; “sure, he hasn’t any brains to
blow. I’m not goin’ to hurt a feather of him.”
“Well, I can’t stay here all day,” said Mr Fanshawe; “you must settle
your differences between you. What are you going to do? The police will
have you, sure. Why don’t you get out of the country?”
“Sure, where could I go?” said Mr Murphy.
“Go to America. Here’s a couple of sovereigns for you; and, see here, if
you’ll make up your mind to cut the country I’ll help. Apply to me at
No. 10A Merrion Square, Dublin, and I’ll pay your passage, and give you
a fiver to start you.”
“Sure, what could I do in Amerika?” said Mr Murphy, pocketing the coins
without a word of thanks.
“Do? Why, go on the stock exchange—no, go into politics, that’s your
true position in life. You waste your time here. Well, I’m
off—good-day.”
“Good-day to yiz,” replied the other. “Sure, it’s you I’d like to have
at me elbow in a row.”
“Oh, I think you’re able to look after yourself;” said Mr Fanshawe, as
he departed.
“I’m not a chicken,” replied the other. “Good-day to yiz. Come, Con,
we’ve words to say to wan another.”
“O Dicky,” said Violet, when—having found each other by hallooing—they
pressed their lips together, “I’m so frightened. Has he shot him?”
“No,” replied Mr Fanshawe, chuckling, “but he’s done nearly as bad. Come
on, and let’s find the road; it’s half-past twelve, and that confounded
luncheon will be kept waiting for us again.”
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