THE DEFEAT OF DAN HEELEY.
AT Big Timber Professor Thunder's Museum of Marvels had run for several
consecutive hours to satisfactory business, and was now well on its way
to The Mills, where a great day was expected in view of some local
festivity that meant a general holiday for the mill hands, and a bush
carousal.
The caravan was drawn up for tea in the moonlit bush by Howlet's jinker
track. A camp-fire blazed in the end of a butt under a wide-branching
gum. The Professor lay at a distance--for the night was warm--smoking on
the crisp grass. The Living Skeleton crouched near, embracing his lean
knees, staring into the fire, thinking fondly of his absent wife and
family, a furtive tear lurking in the hollow of his cheek, for Matty
Cann's absurd sentimentality made him a failure as a vagabond. Nickie
fussed about gallantly, assisting Madame Marve and little Miss Thunder,
who were busy spreading papers for the evening meal.
Professor Thunder had in Madame Marve a perfect wife for a showman. In
addition to her value as the Egyptian Mystic, a wonder-worker, and teller
of for tunes, she was chief cook and housekeeper for the whole caravan,
but she had a flirtatious disposition, and the attentions Nicholas Crips
offered in his unprofessional moments were received in a spirit of
frivolous appreciation that disturbed the boss showman's complacency at
times.
"Less of it. Less of it, my boy!" was his deep throated exhortation on
such occasions.
All the members of the company had to take a hand in the hard graft and
menial tasks incidental to the upkeep, management and movement of the
show, and neither professional etiquette nor artistic pride could rescue
Nicholas Crips from the vulgar task of preparing comestibles for the
monkeys. But Madame was certainly the most useful artist on Professor
Thunder's salary list, a document preserved with much pride, to be
exhibited in bars and such public places for purposes of advertisement,
and which represented the Egyptian Mystic as receiving £30 per week. On
the salary list Bonypart, the Living Skeleton, was rated at £15 per week.
He actually received twenty-shillings and his keep.
"Professional usage, my boy--professional usage!" explained the
celebrated entrepreneur when Matty Cann drew attention to the
discrepancy. "It's always done in the theatrical business. Bless you, you
don't think we pay our Sarah Bernhardts, and our Cinquevallis, and our
Paderewskis and our Peggy Prydes those enormous salaries that get into
the papers. No; no, we couldn't do it, but we are content to let it be
thought we do. It impresses our public, Bonypart--it impresses our
public, my boy."
Madame Marve produced bread, butter, pannikins, and the familiar
necessities, brought forward the usual boiled leg of mutton on a lordly
dish, large, fat and steaming like a laundry.
"Encore, encore!" cried the Professor.
"Hear, hear!" applauded Nickie, clapping vigorously. Matty Cann even
ventured an expression of appreciation.
Madame Marve placed the mutton for the carver, and bowed low to the right
and left, picked up an imaginary bouquet, and threw three kisses to
hypothetical "gods."
"Come, come, Bony," she said, patting the Living Skeleton on the back,
"buck up, man. If my old man couldn't think of me for ten minutes without
snivelling, I'd have a divorce."
Matty Cann smiled wanly. He had no great cause to "buck up," his share of
the boiled leg would be very small indeed and entirely knuckle, the
Professor holding that the knuckle end was not fat-producing.
"It's Jane's birthday this day week, an' little Mat'll be two year old
the day after. I was wonderin' if I could get a day off t' visit me
fam'ly?" said Matty.
"And fat up over-eating yourself," said Thunder. "Not much, my boy!"
Matty groaned. "I give you me word I'd eat nothin' but ship's biscuit,"
he pleaded.
"Poor old Bony," said the Egyptian Mystic. "It's a pity your missus ain't
a bit of a freak, so as we could have her along. Now, if she could eat
fire we might find a place for her. Fire-eaters are very popular. I
suppose she couldn't learn to eat fire, Bony?"
The Living Skeleton shook his head gloomily over his poor meal. "I'm
afraid she couldn't," he said. "Jane ain't got any gifts."
The meal was finished, and the utensils were washed and restored to the
caravan cupboard, a zinc-lined packing case. Professor Thunder was down
on his back on the crisp grass again, smoking. He was feeling good, and
opened his heart.
"We'll top off with a touch of old Jamaica, Nickie, my boy," he said.
"There's a bottle in the box-seat. You might lead her out."
Nickie needed no second invitation. He sprang up with unaccustomed
alacrity, and passed out of the circle of light into the bush darkness.
He found the bottle in the locker under the driving seat, and stepping
down from the vehicle turned again towards the fire. The extraordinary
change in the peaceful scene he had just left flashed upon him with the
vividness of a tableau in melodrama The gifted members of Professor
Thunder's world company were no longer lounging carelessly on the grass,
they stood erect, grouped together, their faces, tense with fear and
amazement, showing whitey-yellow in the firelight, their hands thrown
above their heads. Facing them on the other side of the fire, with his
profile to Nicholas Crips, was a short, stoutly-built man, in a coarse
blue shirt and corduroy riding pants, with a white handkerchief tied
loosely about his neck. A fine chestnut horse stood behind him. The rein
was looped over his arm. In his right hand this man held a long,
business-like Colt's revolver pointed at the group before him.
It was a fine picture, intensely dramatic, it amazed Nickie, and brought
him up short with a gasp, but it did not appeal to him as an artist
particularly. He stepped sharply into cover of a gum butt. His hand went
instinctively to his breast where, in a small chamois bag next his skin,
he carried a certain treasure the care of which was the one real concern
of his present life.
"See here," said the gentleman with the long revolver, "the first of you,
man, woman or child, that stirs a finger or utters a yelp gets lead
poisonin'. Understand?" He looked round. "This is the whole band?" he
said.
Professor Thunder nodded his head.
"Yes," said the intruder, "I was at your show at Big Timber, Professor,
an' I took trouble t' size up the strength of the crowd. I guessed it
would be an easy thing, and it is."
"Who are you?" asked the celebrated entrepreneur, much distressed to find
himself in a theatrical situation that was painfully real.
"Don't ask questions of yer betters, Professor, an' you won't get hurt.
Howsomever, yer bound t' hear at The Mills all about Dan Heeley, so I
don't mind admittin' I'm little Danny."
"Heeley!" gasped Madame Marve, "the man that shot Hollander, the man
that's been sticking up the banks?"
Heeley's brow darkened.
"Precisely, missus," he said; "the man the Gov' mint offers £250 quid
for, cash on delivery." He turned again to Professor Thunder. "I noticed
you was doin' pretty good at Big Timber, mate," he said, "and I thought
I'd follow on and pick up a little loose change. Fact is, I want your
cash box, Perfessor, and any little articles of value you don't happen to
be needin' for the moment."
"I--I've got next to nothing," faltered Thunder. "Most of my takings went
in expenses."
Mat Heeley's revolver hand became rigid, his grim mouth, tightened, his
chin set itself in prognathous ugliness.
"You'll send your little girl for that cash box, Professor," he said
coldly, "and you'll tell her to gather up any bits and pieces of
jewellery and such like as would please me, and if the collection isn't a
good one I'll maybe blow an arm off you, jist as a mark of my
displeasure. As for the rest, if you ain't good I'll riddle the brain-pan
of one of yeh jist to convince the others that I mean business."
Professor Thunder was quite convinced; he had not the slightest doubt but
that Daniel meant business. He gave Letitia his keys, and a few words of
instruction, and the girl went to the caravan, and presently returned
with the Professor's zinc cash box and a chamois-leather bag containing a
few rings and chains belonging to himself and Madame.
Dan Heeley placed his revolver to his hand on the stump by his side, and
took up the cash box, but the next instant he snatched at his revolver
again, and turned it upon a large, ungainly figure, that loped out of the
bush, and stood grinning and chattering where the firelight faded into
gloom. It was Mahdi the Missing Link, in full dress.
"What's that?" demanded Heeley, fiercely.
The figure leaped about in a foolish way, and rolled on the grass in
unwield play. Heeley burst into laughter. "It's that blanky monkey," he
said. "D'yeh mean t' say you leave four thousan' quids' worth o' monkey
run round loose in the bush like this?"
Mr. Heeley grinned amiably, replaced the revolver on the stump, and
turned his attention to the cash box once more. That cash box was
decidedly heavy, but the Professor, whose heart had been in his boots at
the prospect of a big loss, was now tremulous with hope, and watched the
Missing Link anxiously. Mahdi scraped and picked at the grass with a
diverting show of monkey antics, sniffed at the boiler in which the leg
of mutton had been cooked, and backed away nearer Heeley, with a yowl of
consternation as his nose encountered the scalding water. Dan Heeley was
diverted, he laughed aloud, but he had a cautious eye on his victims the
while, for all he held them cheaply.
Mahdi, the man-monkey, sniffed about the stump, and capered foolishly. He
looked with ape-like curiosity at Heeley's horse, then made an impish
jump at the animal, grinning and growling savagely. The horse threw up
his head, snorted in terror, and pulled back, dragging Heeley with him,
broke free, and bolted into the night. Cursing wildly, Heeley ran for his
revolver. He ran with his nose on to the barrel of it.
One was there before him--the Missing Link. The revolver was held in
Mahdi's shaggy paw, pointed straight at Heeley's head, and the animal
gibbered in guttural fury, snarling and showing ugly white fangs. It was
a sight to deter the boldest; it shocked Dan Heeley, the Bold Dan Heeley,
who had never trembled at the sight of a living thing--when he had the
drop on it--and he drew up sharply and recoiled a step.
Then he swore a big black oath, and his right hand went to his hip. It
was an unwise action; the Missing Link anticipated the evil intention and
fired. A second revolver fell from Mr. Heeley's right hand. Dan's
shooting arm was broken.
The Missing Link advanced with movements and howls significant of
horrible ferocity. Dan Heeley backed before it, white to the lips. At
this point the Professor plucked up courage and advanced upon Heeley.
Dan offered no resistance, his arm was broken, and he was completely
paralysed by the insistence of the monster attacking him. Five minutes
later Dan, Heeley, the Bold Birragua Boy, was securely tied to a tree,
with about three fathoms of inch manila, and the Professor's cash box,
with its proper contents increased by certain sums that were illegally
Heeley's, was safely bestowed in its locker again.
"What was the price you said the Government had put on your head, Dan, my
boy?" asked Professor Thunder. "Two hundred and fifty of the best? It's
mine, Daniel."
Heeley made no reply; his frightened eyes were fixed on the man-monkey
cowering in the shade, with the revolver tight in its right hand.
"The Missing Link will watch over you to-night, Dan," continued the
Professor, jauntily. "He's as strong as ten men, so don't try tricks with
him."
But the Professor did not get that £250. At day-break, to Heeley's great
amazement, the huge monkey cut him free, and made no attempt to resist
his flight. Nicholas Crips had very satisfactory reasons for not being
mixed up in a long, legal ceremonial such as the handing of Heeley over
to the police would have entailed. Nicholas remembered a certain strange
adventure in Bigg's Buildings, and his desire was to give the police of
Victoria as wide a berth as the most exclusive officer could possibly
long for.