"My dear Tommy," I said, "no one appreciates your powers of
acquisition more than I do, but how the devil did you manage it?"
Tommy lit a cigar with some contentment.
"It was a reward for a kind action," he explained. "The place
belongs to an old boy called Quinn--Sir Cuthbert Quinn. I ran across
him last week in a country lane near Bedford, trying to find out what
was the matter with his car. He'd been trying for some time. Well,
I hopped out and put things straight--it was only a choked jet, but
he was so grateful that he insisted on my coming back to lunch with
him. While we were lunching, we got on the subject of salmon
fishing. I happened to say how keen I was, and then he trotted out
the fact that he owned an island with a bungalow on it and two miles
of the best fishing above Symonds Yat. 'Would you like a week-end
there?' he said. 'I should,' said I, 'very much.' Well, to cut a
long yarn short, he handed me over the key, and told me I could come
up for a couple of days and bring another rod with me. I couldn't
think of any one else at the time, so I wired for Mortimer."
"Thanks," said Mortimer drily.
"Well, as you've got Mortimer," I observed, "you can't take me."
"Oh, that's all right," put in Mortimer; "I don't fish. I've only
come for the charm of Tommy's conversation."
"I haven't got a rod," I objected.
"That doesn't matter," said Tommy, "neither have I. But there are
two up there which old Quinn said we could use."
"How are we going to manage about grub?" I asked.
Mortimer laughed.
"The car's stuffed with it," he said, "especially drink."
That decided me.
"I'll come," I said, "but you'll have to call for my traps. I'm
staying up in Clifton, so it's all on the way."
"Good!" cried Tommy. "You buck up and finish your lunch, while we go
round to the garage and get the car."
The car, when it arrived, proved to be a 12-14 De Dion which had
apparently been a stranger to the sunny land of France for many
strenuous years. In colour it had once been green.
"Not much to look at," said Tommy apologetically; "but she goes--eh,
Mortimer?"
"She would if I had her," admitted Mortimer, "for what she'd fetch."
Knowing, however, of Tommy's amazing genius for coaxing motion out of
discarded scrap-iron, I got in behind without a qualm. With a
fanfare on the horn, we slid out of the garage, and then, clanking
like an ironmonger's shop in an earthquake, pounded bravely up Park
Street at a surprising velocity.
It only took me about five minutes to cast my week-end trappings into
a Gladstone bag and square accounts with the worthy lady at whose
house I had been staying. Then off we thundered again through the
peaceful respectabilities of Clifton and Redland, out on to the
far-flung road that wanders northwards up the Severn Valley.
If the Zeitgeist had any particular purpose when it tossed Tommy's
atoms together, it must have been the production of a
super-chauffeur. Amazingly erratic as he is in other things, his
driving and handling of a car more nearly approaches perfection than
any human effort I know. In other hands the hired wreckage that bore
our fortunes would, I feel sure, have collapsed hopelessly long
before we reached Gloucester. But Tommy, who, according to Mortimer,
had pored lovingly over it with a spanner for several hours that
morning, lifted it triumphantly, if complainingly, through all
demands. At half-past six, dusty and incredibly vociferous, it
clattered into Ross, and, practically speaking, our journey was
accomplished.
We had a cup of tea at the hotel there, and then in the cool of the
evening clanked on cheerfully through the thickly wooded lanes that
led to Sir Cuthbert Quinn's bungalow. The distance must have been
about six miles, and it was while we were covering this that we got
on to the question of how great a strain a salmon rod would stand.
Tommy had been telling us some yarn about how a man he knew had
jerked a fifteen-pound salmon clean out of the water, and I had
ventured to cast a little mild doubt on the accuracy of the tale.
Tommy had been quite indignant.
"Why, of course it's possible," he had declared. "A salmon rod will
stand almost any strain. The best swimmer in the world would be
quite helpless if you hooked him by a belt round his middle."
"Get out, Tommy," I said derisively; "he'd break you every time."
"I bet you he wouldn't," said Tommy. "Look here, you get a good
swimmer--any one you like, I don't care who he is--and I'll bet you
five pounds I'll land him in under half an hour."
"Done with you," I replied. "And what's more, I'll bet you another
fiver he breaks your line inside of five minutes."
Mortimer chuckled.
"There's money in this," he observed. "We'd better advertise it in
the _Sportsman_ and charge for seats. We might make quite a decent
thing out of it."
As he spoke we rattled round the corner of a deeply embedded lane,
and, of a sudden, the Wye lay before us, gleaming like silver in its
cool green valley.
"That's the bungalow," said Tommy, pointing to a low, red-tiled
building which one could just catch a glimpse of through the trees.
"The boathouse must be just below us."
We trundled delicately down the hill, for the road rather resembled
the traditional highway to Zion, and pulled up outside a
solid-looking building on the banks of the river.
Tommy stopped the engine, and we all clambered out. The island lay
exactly opposite, its neatly painted landing-stage facing us across
the water.
"Why, there's the boat!" exclaimed Mortimer suddenly. "Over there by
the steps--look!"
He pointed towards the island, and following his gesture, we all saw
a small dinghy apparently tied up to one of the willows that fringed
the bank.
We stared at it in amazement.
"Well, that's funny," I said. "How did it get there? There must be
someone on the island."
"Oh, no," said Tommy. "Why, I had a card from old stick-in-the-mud
only yesterday saying that it was all clear. There's probably
another boat of some kind in the shed."
He took the key out of his pocket, and thrusting it into the lock,
flung open the door. The place was as empty as a barn.
Mortimer laughed.
"Your aged friend seems to be a bit of a humorist, Tommy."
"There must be someone there," I said. "Most likely it's the
gardener. Let's go outside and give him a hail."
We stepped out on to the bank, where Tommy let off a vigorous yell,
while I played an impressive voluntary on the horn.
"That ought to bring him out of his shell," observed Mortimer with
approval.
As a matter of fact, it did nothing of the kind. The island remained
as blissfully untroubled as the garden of Proserpine.
"Try again," suggested Mortimer encouragingly and we repeated our
efforts with the same result.
"I'm getting fed up with this," broke out Tommy. "There's only one
thing to do, and that's to swim across and fetch the boat."
"What a pity we haven't got a salmon rod," I remarked. "We might
kill two birds with one stone."
"Don't you worry," retorted Tommy. "We'll try that later."
He stripped off his clothes, and going to the edge of the bank,
inspected the water.
"Seems clear enough," he observed; "here goes."
There was a mighty splash, and he disappeared from view, emerging a
few moments later well out in the river. Mortimer and I gave him an
encouraging cheer, and then watched him with some anxiety as he
ploughed his way across the strongly running current. It seemed at
first as though he would be swept past the island, but, with a big
effort, he just managed to get clear of the stream in time and clutch
an overhanging bough some way below the landing-stage. Then he drew
himself out, and answering our hail with a triumphant wave of the
hand, picked his way gingerly along the bank to where the boat was
tethered.
Unhitching the rope, he climbed in, and with a few strong pulls,
sculled back across the river.
"Bravo, Leander!" sung out Mortimer, as the boat bumped up against
the bank. "How are you feeling after your great effort?"
"Deuced sore," returned Tommy, shipping his oars and stepping out on
to the grass. "That seat's as hard as a millstone."
"Never mind," I said consolingly. "You'll be too busy cooking the
dinner to want to sit down. What shall we do with the car?"
"Oh, run her into the boat-house," said Tommy. "There's plenty of
room there. And then you might shove the grub into the boat."
Mortimer and I carried out his instructions. With the expenditure of
considerable energy and language, we trundled that decayed scrap-iron
into the shed, and then began to transfer its contents to the bottom
of the dinghy.
By this Tommy had resumed his clothes and come to our assistance.
"I can't make it out, all the same," said Mortimer reflectively. "If
there's no one on the island, how the devil did the boat get there?
Old Quinn must have got off somehow last time he left."
"Perhaps he's a Christian Scientist, and just wished himself ashore,"
suggested Tommy. "Anyhow, it's no good worrying about miracles.
Catch on to this, and that's the lot."
He pushed over a bulky case of soda-water, which Mortimer, still
frowning thoughtfully to himself, tucked under one arm, and carrying
the remaining stores between us, we made our way down to the dinghy.
"I'll take the oars," I said; "it's just my distance."
"Don't overtire yourself," put in Tommy kindly. "Remember there's a
stiff stream running."
"If you find it too much for you," added Mortimer, "we can always get
out and walk."
Disregarding such ragged efforts at humour, I pushed off from the
bank; and then, setting a course well up against the current, slowly
tugged my precious freight over to the island. With the true
instinct of a waterman, I hit the landing-stage exactly, in fact, I
hit it so hard that Tommy, who was injudiciously standing up, was as
nearly as possible precipitated into the water.
"He thinks it's a bumping race," said Mortimer. "That's the worst of
these 'Varsity men. Here, catch hold."
He flung the rope to Tommy, who had jumped out on to the step, and in
half a minute the boat was hitched up tight to a convenient post.
Mortimer and I handed out the goods, which Tommy received and piled
up on the shore. When we were finally unloaded we also disembarked,
and picking up as much as we could carry, mounted the wooden steps
that led to the front door of the bungalow. Tommy inserted the key,
and flung it open.
"Here we are," he said. "Not such a dusty sort of shanty, is it?"
The eulogy was by no means excessive. Whatever else Mr. Quinn may
have lacked, he certainly had a nice eye for his surroundings. The
large, low-ceilinged apartment, with its white walls, old-fashioned
furniture, and big, green-tiled hearth, combined in the happiest
degree the claims of comfort and good taste. From the main room a
door on the left led into the kitchen, while at the back an arched
space gave access to a passage from which the three bedrooms opened
off.
"What's the programme now?" asked Mortimer.
"I don't know what you chaps feel like," said Tommy, "but I'm
uncommon hungry. I vote we start by having some grub right away."
Mortimer held up his hand.
"Carried unanimously," I said.
"Right-ho!" responded Tommy. "There's a cold chicken somewhere in
the baggage. You chaps might unpack while I forage about the kitchen
and get things ready."
He disappeared through the door, taking off his coat, and Mortimer
and I set to work upon the various packages which we had brought with
us. We unearthed an appetising-looking fowl, a ham, two or three
nice crusty loaves, a jar of butter, and numerous other aids to
successful salmon fishing, including enough beer and whisky to stock
a modest hotel.
We were contemplating the latter in a kind of pleased reverie, when
Tommy came back with a tablecloth under his arm, and a trayload of
accessories.
"I say," he began, "it's deuced funny, but I can't find any forks and
spoons. Plenty of glasses and plates and knives, but not another
bally thing in the place."
Mortimer burst out laughing.
"I expect your aged friend eats with his fingers," he said.
"Or else someone's been in and cleared the lot," I suggested.
"Oh, they can't have done that," said Tommy; "or else the boat
wouldn't be here."
"Well, we shall have to do what we can without," remarked Mortimer.
"You fellows can tear off a leg each, and I'll have the pickings."
We pulled out a table into the centre of the room, and while I helped
Mortimer arrange the feast, Tommy went into the kitchen to have
another look for the missing silver.
His efforts proved as barren as before, and finally abandoning the
attempt, we settled ourselves down to do as well as we could with
knives and fingers.
"Here's to our week-end," said Tommy, holding up a glass of Bass.
"And death to the salmon."
"Death to the salmon," I repeated hopefully, raising my glass in turn.
We were just drinking the toast, when Mortimer suddenly sat bolt
upright in his chair and glanced quickly round behind him.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"'Sh!" he whispered. "Go on talking loudly. Don't stop whatever you
do."
We followed his instructions, watching him with amazement as he
jumped up noiselessly from his chair, and crept like a cat across the
room as far as the archway. Here he stopped, bending down and
listening intently, with his hand to his ear.
When he turned, his face was alight with excitement. He came swiftly
back, signalling to us to keep up the conversation.
"There's someone getting out of one of the bedroom windows," he
whispered across the table. "Don't stop talking, but get to the
door, and make a sudden rush for it. We're bound to catch him."
A smile of holy joy irradiated Tommy's countenance. Next to
wrestling with a motor-car, a physical difference of opinion with a
fellow-creature appeals to him more than anything else in the world.
He leapt up, and instantly assumed command.
"You and Mortimer take the left; I'll go the other way. Buck up, or
the blighter will have scooted."
Before he had finished speaking he had reached the door, clearing the
steps with a single jump and bursting his way through the shrubs like
a rather reckless rhinoceros.
Further strategy being apparently out of place, Mortimer and I
followed as rapidly as we could. Darting up the path that ran round
the other side of the house, we emerged into the clearing behind,
just in time to see an unknown gentleman hurl himself frantically
into the fringe of undergrowth that lined the opposite bank.
In a moment Tommy, who was hard on his heels, had plunged in after
him. There was a shout, and then the dull thud of two heavily
falling bodies.
"Come on," roared Tommy. "I've got him."
As he spoke, Mortimer tripped over the root of a tree and went
sprawling full length on the grass. I did not wait, but leaping over
a tangle of blackberry bush that barred the path, pressed on
gallantly to Tommy's assistance.
I found him tied up in an amazing network of agitated arms and legs.
As far as I could see, the stranger was underneath, and from the
somewhat unpleasant sounds which were rising into the air, I gathered
that he was finding some difficulty in breathing.
"Sit on his head," hissed Tommy's voice. "Take care he doesn't bite
you. He's as strong as a horse."
I was attempting to carry out his instructions when, with a mighty
effort, our visitor jerked himself clear enough to speak.
"All right, guv'nor," he gasped. "I gives in."
He ceased to struggle, and, panting but triumphant, we released our
respective grips.
At that moment Mortimer arrived on the scene. He looked down on us
with a smile.
"Well, you seem to have got him all right," he said. "Who is it?"
Tommy mopped his forehead with the back of his hand.
"I think it's Sandow," he replied. "Get up, my friend, and let's
have a squint at you."
The stranger rose rather stiffly into a sitting posture. "You've
'alf choked me, guv'nor," he said reproachfully, putting his hand to
his neck. "You 'adn't no call to 'andle me like that."
We all three burst our laughing.
"I'm sorry," said Tommy gravely. "I was under the impression that
you were trying to kick me in the stomach."
The stranger grinned, and somewhat painfully clambered to his feet.
He was a massively built man of about forty, swarthy and
black-bearded, and clothed in the conventional rags of a
case-hardened tramp.
"Suppose we adjourn to the bungalow," I suggested. "I'm sure we all
want a drink after this little romp."
Tommy took the stranger's arm and tucked it affectionately under his
in that unbreakable clasp invented by the Japanese. Then dishevelled
and slightly out of breath, we retraced our steps to the house.
"Where will Mr. Sandow sit?" I inquired, as soon as we were all
assembled in the front room.
"I would suggest somewhere not too near the door," said Mortimer.
"I'm getting too old for these sudden bursts of speed."
"This will do," said Tommy, pulling up a rush-seated wooden chair
with his foot. "Take a pew, my friend."
He dumped the stranger down into the seat, and as he did so there
came from the latter's pocket the muffled but quite distinct chink of
silver.
"There is music in the air," observed Mortimer thoughtfully.
"By gad," cried Tommy, "those must be our spoons. Trot 'em out, my
son; the game's up, you know."
Somewhat reluctantly, the stranger inserted his hand into the gaping
orifice which served him as a pocket, and drew out a large number of
spoons wrapped up in a duster. He laid them on the table.
"Thank you," said Tommy; "and now if we may trouble you for the
forks--ah, much obliged."
The forks followed, similarly protected, the stranger all the time
throwing little furtive glances round the room, first at one of us
and then at the other.
While this interesting operation was in progress I had been occupying
myself mixing drinks. I offered one to Tommy, but he waved it aside.
"A guest," he said, "especially an uninvited one, should always be
served first."
I handed the tumbler to the stranger, who accepted it with a grin and
a nod.
"And now," said Tommy, when we were all three similarly equipped, "I
think it would be more friendly if we knew something about each
other." He turned to the stranger. "Wouldn't you like to tell us
your name, old sport?"
Our visitor looked at him cunningly.
"Me, guv'nor?" he said. "I'm the Dock o' Wellington."
"Ah!" replied Tommy politely. "I was sure I'd seen your face
somewhere. If you won't think me inquisitive, may I ask what brought
you to the island?"
The duke took a long drink. Then he jerked his thumb towards the
steps.
"That there ruddy boat, guv'nor," he replied casually.
"I said so," cried Mortimer. "Now perhaps you'll apologize, Tommy."
"What I want to know," I interrupted, "is why you didn't clear out
when you heard us on the bank."
The duke eyed me contemptuously.
"And 'ave you raisin' the 'ole bloomin' country on me. I don't
think!"
"No, no," broke in Mortimer; "his grace is a sound tactician. If he
could have cut off with the boat and left us here, he'd have been in
clover."
"As it is," I observed, "he's in the soup."
"Still, it wasn't much good your making for the other side of the
island," went on Mortimer, addressing our guest. "You couldn't get
off that way."
"Ho, couldn't I?" remarked the duke, with some scorn. "If I'd 'a'
got to the bank fust you'd 'ave know'd all about that. It'd take six
o' your sort to ketch me in the water."
Tommy brought his hand down on the table with a sudden bang that made
us all jump.
"By Jove," he cried, "here's the very man we want! Listen here,
Whiskers. Suppose we find a way of settling this little business
without handing you over to the police, eh?"
The duke blinked at him without any visible sign of emotion.
"Wotjer gettin' at?" he inquired imperturbably.
"Well, the fact is," explained Tommy, "I've got a little wager with
the distinguished-looking gentleman in the arm-chair. I've bet him
that I could land the best swimmer in the world with a salmon rod
inside of half an hour."
"'Ave yer, guv'nor?" observed the duke. "Then ye can take it from me
yer on a loser."