Ambrotox and Limping Dick Part 23

"Well, daddy dear," she replied, "I admit that your friend has a s.h.i.+ny streak running through his horridness. And I like him for wors.h.i.+pping you with his dog's eyes. And I shouldn't wonder if you often find those silver veins in queer places, dad."

She said it like a question but received no response.

"If I've caught on to Pepe's topography," he said, "the road to the right there runs on an easy downward grade for two miles, then dips sharply for another. At the lowest point--they call it Gallowstree Dip--there's another road, to the left, which runs straight to Harthborough Junction--the place we want. But at Gallowstree Dip, says Pepe, we shall find a motor-bike and side-car with two men ready to put our lights out on contact--if there aren't too many witnesses. So when we pa.s.s them we've got to be a larger party than two. So we start by going into the bar here, and you're going to swallow bread and cheese and beer, there's a good daughter."

Amaryllis nodded. "But, d.i.c.k," she said, "if they aren't at Gallowstree Dip?"

"We've got to make our plans as we go, and change 'em when we must. It'd seem incredible, wouldn't it--if it weren't for what you've seen and suffered since last night. England! And you and I as much cut off from Bobbies and Bow Street as if we were in Petrograd or Central New Guinea.

Suppose we _could_ find a village constable in a cottage--they'd kill him as gaily as they would you or me--but it isn't his at-home day, he's at Timsdale-Horton Races. When this gaff's over, the belated soothsayers will tell me: 'you ought to have roused the police and laid your case before them,' in one of the three great towns that I drove through last night. And what yarn was I to pitch? That there might be murder going to be done at a place called 'The Myrtles'? And what time had I to tell it in? And where'd you be now, daughter, if I'd been two minutes later than I was?"

Ever so gently Amaryllis squeezed his arm against her side in grat.i.tude, and then quivered a little, remembering the horror of Dutch Fridji and her knife--and where last she had seen it.

But d.i.c.k went on, as if he had noticed nothing, to tell her of the two letters which had barely yet, he supposed, reached Scotland Yard. He had no certainty, indeed, that the second, given to the landlord of "The Coach and Horses," had even been posted. Before nightfall, at the earliest, therefore, no help could be counted upon from the police.

"Either," said d.i.c.k, "we must break through the bars of Melchard's cage, or keep hidden inside it. The bosses of this mob, you see, won't give a d.a.m.n how many of their people get strafed as long as they suppress us, and get back what I've got in my pocket."

They were now not fifty yards from the horse-trough in front of "The Goat in Boots."

A little way from the entrance, drawn up opposite to the stable-yard, stood a long, clumsy wagonette-brake with coats and green-carpet cricket-bags lying about its seats. Two horses were at the pole, seriously bowed over their nose-bags. A swingle-tree hung at the pole's end, and a second pair of reins was fast to the driver's seat, the four cheek-buckles lying crossed over the wheeler's backs.

"Fower-in-hand, and leaders in staable! Sick, likely, or more gradely stuff," said d.i.c.k, musing aloud.

Amaryllis, whose eyes were on the signboard, started as if a stranger had spoken at her side. She looked quickly in his face, and found it so altered in expression that she knew the words had come from his lips.

"Oh, d.i.c.k!" she whispered. "You're wonderful. But whatever shall I do?

If I open my mouth, I shall give us away."

"Howd tha mouth shut, then, 'Minta, la.s.s," he said. Then, lowering his tone, he added in his own language: "I'll account for you. Don't forget your name's Araminta. You've been ill, and the doctor's ordered open-air treatment."

As they reached the threshold, the roar of Millsborough dialect came to them through the windows of the bar-parlour.

d.i.c.k pointed to the bench by the door.

"Set there, la.s.s, and Ah'll fetch t' grub," he said aloud. "'Tis bad air for 'ee in tap-room."

As if the world were his, he swung into the bar, where he found two yokels listening to the half-drunken lamentations of a middle-aged, plum-cheeked fellow in a shabby blue livery coatee with shabbier gilt b.u.t.tons; and even while he was giving his order for a gla.s.s of mild, and a bit of bread and cheese on plate for daughter--who'd been main sick, and would likely throw her stomach if she sat in tap-room, for doctor said for her open-air treatment was best medicine--he was listening patiently to the man he guessed to be the driver of the cricketers'

brake.

He took the gla.s.s and plate and a pat on the shoulder to 'Minta.

"You just make un go doan, lovey," he said. "More eaten, more stomick next time. Eat slow and steady, says Dr. Pape."

Back in the bar, he buried his nose in his tankard.

For the tenth time Plum-face summed up his woes.

"Boy and man, nineteen year Ah've tooled St. Asaph's Eleven to Ecclesthorpe June Fixture. Four-in-'and's historical, like goose to Michaelmas. But to-day, Old Grudgers--ye know Grudger's Bait, far end o'

Mill Street? To-day, old Grudge, 'e says, 'You hitch Fancy Blood near-lead,' and I says 'im back, 'If 'ee puts 'er 'long o' Tod Sloan, Fancy'll go dead lame afore "T'Goat in Boots."' And dead lame she stands in staable here, first time six month. Not offerin' lame, mind you, with a peck an' a limp when she keeps 'er mind on 'er wicked meanin', but sore up to the off fore pastern, and the hoof that hot it'd light a lucifer. Fancy's a female, she is, same as your wife or mine; and Tod, 'e just sours 'er blood, and there ye are. Ah tell 'ee, boys, Ned Blossom's shamed, 'e is, if he comes slatherin' into Ecclesthorpe-on-the-Moor wi' two sweatin' wheelers in twentieth year o'

the match."

By this time d.i.c.k had received from the tapster his second order, a tankard of old ale, laced with a surrept.i.tious noggin of unsweetened gin.

"And what-like nature o' a nag may this Tod be?" he asked, speaking with so easy a familiarity, and holding the pewter so invitingly that Ned Blossom responded as to an old friend.

"Gradely bit o' stuff sure-ly," he replied. "And do love to fill his collar; but sulky-like he's been on t' road this day, wi' Fancy doin'

nowt to share."

"Then leave Fancy in staable," said d.i.c.k, "and drive owd Tod unicorn into Ecclesthorpe wi' style."

Ned Blossom chuckled foolishly, and took the tankard d.i.c.k was offering, handle free, to his fingers.

"Like t' owd flea-bitten mare used to stand bottom o' Church Hill out o'

Water Street, waitin' for t' bus comin'. They'd take the bar offen 'er back, hitch it to pole, an' away she'd go, scratchin' and scramblin' up to moor, like cat on roof-tiles. Ha! ha!" laughed Ned, and took a pull from the pewter. "But, say, who be you, standin' drinks like an owd friend?"

"Forgotten Doncaster races, nineteen five, hast tha, Ned? Well, Ah'm pained in my choicest feelin's. Here Ah finds 'ee in misfortune, order the stuff tha needs, pay for it, give 'ee good counsel and call 'ee Ned, and 'tis not till ale's drownin' t' sadness of 'ee where it bides, that 'ee call to mind you've forgotten Sam Bunce."

"Sam'l--ay, Sam'l Ah remembers. 'Twas t' Bunce as came 'ard like. But nineteen five? Challacombe's Leger, that was. Ay, Bunce fits into it.

This ale clears the wits wunnerful."

d.i.c.k was at the bar, money pa.s.sing to the tapster.

"There's another, owd c.o.c.k, where that came from," he said, turning to Blossom. "Mebbe the next pint'll make 'ee call to mind how Challacombe's win cleaned me out--and me bound to get south away to Coventry?"

"Ay," said Ned again, politely remembering all that he was told. "See'd 'ee off by t' train, I did."

"Good old Blossom you be," said d.i.c.k, laughing kindly, "sayin' nowt o'

the two jimmies you lent to get me home--an' us both that full we forgot all about where I was to send the blunt! But it's not Sam Bunce'll forget what he owes a man, and Ah knew as Ah'd meet 'ee again."

And he pushed three one-pound notes into the fuddled Ned's hand, who saw no reason in denying a friend of this kind.

"'Most gone out o' my head, the money," he muttered. "But Ah knew 'ee meant paying."

Then, as he awkwardly separated the notes, puzzling over the third, "Bit of interest for the waitin'," said d.i.c.k. "Put 'em away, while I go and get that Tod Sloan hitched single to lead your pair."

"I'll never drive 'im," objected Ned mournfully. "Ah've been turned all ends up, wi' this 'ere 'appening. Tod, 'e'll turn an' laugh at me."

"'Tis easy, owd man, if you keep 'im canterin' from start."

"Tried 'im tandem once, they did--oh, Gawd!"

"What you needs, owd Ned, is a kip, e'en if 'ee can't sleep. Who's Captain of o' this St. Asaph's cricketin' lot?"

"Rev'runt Mallaby--Dixon Mallaby. Gradely chap. Champion bat 'e be, n.o.bbut 'e's a parson."

"Then I'll drive 'em," said d.i.c.k, "and you get a lift o'er to Ecclesthorpe later, an' tool 'em home. 'Long about that time you'll be rested, an' Tod'll be after his oats."

Blossom nodded, lifting his tankard and waving it on the way to his mouth, in feeble farewell.