"Well, there was nothing for me to do but look for help, and at last I got a farmer chap to hire me two horses to drag the old rattle-trap back to Southend. That was cheerful, wasn't it? At Southend I found a motor-repairing shop, the only one in the town, and the mechanic who did the repairing out with a car that wouldn't be back till midnight. So I paid for the horses and sent them off, and got a bed for the night.
"Well, to cut it short, I was up at six this morning,got the car mended in less than a quarter of an hour, and back I went to London full speed. But the repairs and the horse hire and the bed had taken all my money, and I had only sixpence in my pocket; and I hadn't eaten for I don't know how long. I stopped at a village on the way and had a drink of water at a pump.
"'Never mind,' I said to myself, 'when I get to the Albany I can borrow something from Robert'—he's my servant, you know. But when I got to the Albany Robert wasn't there, and my rooms were locked up. You see, he thought I wasn't coming back for some time, and I always send him a wire the day before I come. It was just eight o'clock, and I was as hungry as anything, but I was in such a tearing rage that I never thought of borrowing money from anyone, as I might have done. Sixpence is no use for food in the West End, so I sent you a wire with it, got some more petrol at Simpson's, and came down here full speed."
French got up and took Mr. Dashwood's hand and shook it.
"If I live to be five hundred," said the emotional French, "I'll never forget this to you."
"Rubbish!" said Bobby. "It was nothing. I—I enjoyed it—at least, part of it. Anyhow, I'd do it over again to-morrow for the excitement of the thing."
"I think," said Miss Grimshaw, speaking as though she were criticising some work of art, "that the finest part of the whole thing was your determination to run into the cart at full speed and smash it up. I suppose it was wicked, but it was fine!"
"See here," said Mr. Dashwood, anxious to turnaway praise from himself, "what we have to think of now is Giveen. What's to-day? The 10th, isn't it? Well, he'll see that man Lewis to-day, as sure as nuts."
"If he does," said French, "Lewis will have a bailiff here to-morrow, and I'll be done for."
"I'm not so sure of that," said Mr. Dashwood.
"How do you mean?"
"I've been thinking the thing out on the way down. If he puts a bailiff in, let's corrupt the bailiff."
"Sure, I've got nothing to corrupt him with," said French. "Money's the only thing to corrupt a man with, and I haven't any."
"We might offer him a percentage of the profits if he'll just shut his eyes and let us take the horse to Epsom," said Mr. Dashwood. "We don't want to run away with the horse. We only want a loan of him for the race."
"That's not a bad idea," said Miss Grimshaw.
"If the man has any sporting instincts," said Mr. Dashwood, "it ought to be easy enough. Give him a few glasses of whisky and get him jolly, and the thing's done."
"Faith, and it's not a bad idea, after all," said French. "I was thinking myself of getting hold of the chap and making a prisoner of him in one of the loose-boxes, same as Moriarty suggested for me to do with Giveen; but I've thought it over, and there's no use in it. It would only mean that they'd stick me in prison and Heaven knows what. It would ruin me entirely. But if we can get the chap to consent, that's a different matter."
"Oh, yes, it would never do to make him a prisoner," said the girl. "That would be a common, brutal sort of thing to do. But if you can persuade him just to let the horse run the race, it won't hurt the horse and it may make your fortune. Even that, I'm afraid, is scarcely right. It's tampering with his conscience."
"But none of these chaps have consciences," said Bobby. "At least, none to speak of."
"Then, of course," said Miss Grimshaw, "you can't tamper with them."
When Bobby had sufficiently rested himself, he took the car to the inn at Crowsnest and put it up, and then came back to The Martens, where a bed was made up for him, and where he slept the sleep of the just for ten hours, reappearing at half-past nine that night for some supper and a pipe. Then he retired to rest, and put another ten hours of slumber behind him, awakening in the morning a new man.
Nothing important came by the post, only a few circulars and a postcard effusively thanking Miss Grimshaw for some flowers which she had sent to a female friend. As the day wore on, and as nothing appeared in the form of a bailiff, the hopes of the party rose steadily. Mr. Dashwood had suggested that the horse should be taken right away to Epsom, but French was too old a practitioner to make such a false move as that. For, if a bailiff arrived and found the horse gone, it would be the easiest thing in the world to track him. You cannot entrain a racehorse without the fact being known. Even if he were ridden up to London, a telegram would have to be sent on to get a horse-box for the journey to Epsom. There was nothing to be done but wait and trust in luck.
The morning of the 12th broke fair and unclouded, with no threat—at all events, in the weather—ofbailiffs. French had made all his arrangements for moving the horse on the morrow. A horse-box was to be attached to the 10:15 train from Crowsnest; also to the London train for Epsom that started at 1:55. In less than twenty-four hours now the horse would be out of Crowsnest, and the day-after-the-day-after-to-morrow was the race.
Garryowen was not even mentioned in the betting lists. White Moth was favourite, Vodki was second favourite; after Vodki you might have read such names as your fancy wills, but not the name of Garryowen. Only in the lists of the big English and Continental betting agents did this name obscurely appear. French had been getting his money steadily on the horse at 65 and 70 to 1. He reckoned that when the flag fell he would stand to win seventy-five thousand pounds, and the thought of this, when it came on him now and then, put him into such a fever that he could not sit still.
They were all sitting at luncheon to-day and merry enough for the moment, when a knock came to the door, and Norah entered.
"Plaze, sorr," said Norah, "there's a man wants to see you."
French half rose from the table.
"A man?"
"Yes, sorr. He came round be the kitchen way and 'What are yiz doin' in me yard?' says Mrs. Driscoll. 'Is your masther in?' says he. 'If he is, tell him a person wants to see him.'"
French, without a word, rose and left the room.
"He's come!" said Bobby, putting down his knife and fork.
"It sounds like it," said the girl. "But it may be only a tradesman."
"Shall I go out and listen at the kitchen door?" asked Effie, half slipping from her chair.
"No," said Miss Grimshaw, "sit still. You are too fond of listening at doors, and only for you, you naughty child——"
She checked herself. Only for Effie and her mischievous letter they might have been in security now, and not threatened like this.
"Only for me, what?" asked Effie.
Miss Grimshaw had no time to reply, for at that moment Mr. French re-entered the room. His face was flushed; he shut the door; and then, "May the divil fly away with Dick Giveen!" he said. "He's got me at last, confound him! It's the bailiff."
"Oh, heavens!" said Bobby.
"What's he like?" asked Miss Grimshaw the practical.
"Like!" cried French. "He's like a chap you see in a nightmare—white as tallow and no legs to him, and he's going out now to inspect the horses. Mark you, that chap's no use to us; he's one of the Methodist-parson type, and he's not got the heart in him to help us."
"What is his name?" asked the girl.
"Piper," replied French, pouring himself out some whisky.
"Well," she said, "wait here, both of you; one never knows what one can do till one tries."
She left the room hurriedly, and sought the stableyard, where she found Moriarty.
"Moriarty," she said, "the bailiff has come, and he's just going to look at the horses. Be sure that, whatever you do, you be civil to him."
"Yes, miss," replied Moriarty.
"Tell Andy the same."
"Yes, miss."
"I'm going round to the kitchen now to bring him."
"Yes, miss."
She left the stableyard and sought the kitchen. Seated in the kitchen, hat in hand, was an individual of uncertain age. French's description hit him off to a "T." Pale-faced, scanty-haired, with a trace of side-whiskers, he had about him a suggestion of aggressiveness and a suggestion of weakness very disheartening to his new beholder, who, however, smiled upon him as she entered.
"Mr. Piper, I believe?" said Violet, speaking in a hurried and offhand and friendly manner. "I have come round to take you to see the horses. But have you had any luncheon?"
"Yes, thank you," said Mr. Piper, rising to his feet.
"May I not get you a glass of wine, or something after your journey?"
"No, thank you. I never touch liquor," said Mr. Piper.
"Oh, well, then, will you follow me?"
She led the way to the stables round by the kitchen entrance. All this was French's duty, if any one's, but the girl would not trust him; she determined to show Mr. Piper that the horses were safe, treat him as civilly as possible, and try to gauge his corruptibility in the process.
"You know, I suppose, that this is a hired house," said she, as she led the way, "and that there is nothing here belonging to Mr. French but the horses?"
"Yes," said Mr. Piper. "I asked at the station about that, although my instructions mainly concerned the horses. House and furniture belong to Mr. Emmanuel Ibbetson. Still," concluded he, "I must attend to it that nothing is moved from here, neither stick nor stone, till further orders."
"If Mr. Ibbetson wanted to take his furniture away," said Miss Grimshaw, almost losing command of her temper, "I don't think you could stop him."
"That's not the question at isha," replied Mr. Piper. "I'm thinking of French."
"You mean, I presume, Mr. French?"
"Precisely."
"Moriarty," said Miss Grimshaw, "show this—man the horses."
Moriarty opened the upper door of a loose-box, and The Cat thrust her evil head out. The Cat by Isonomy II. out of Express, would have won her owner much money, only for her temper. She had a fleering eye. The Cat's under lip and the cock of her ears were the two points you noticed at close quarters, till shenobbled you, and took a piece out of your arm, or let fly, and, to use the language of Moriarty, "kicked you to flinders."
"Look out!" yelled Moriarty. He wasn't a moment too soon, for in another second The Cat would have had the bailiff.
Piper stepped back and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. To be snapped at by a horse is not a pleasant experience.
"It's only her play," said Moriarty, "but don't you ever open the door of the box be yourself, for, begad, if she once got a hoult of you, it's into the box she'll have you, over the dure top, and after that, begorra, it id be all over but the funeral. Here's the other horse."
He opened Garryowen's box.
Garryowen projected his lovely head and expanded his nostrils at the stranger. Miss Grimshaw looked from the horse to the bailiff, and from the bailiff to the horse, contrasting the two animals in her mind.
"Are these carriage horses?" asked Mr. Piper, as Miss Grimshaw retired to the house, leaving him in charge of Moriarty.
"Carriage what?"
"Horses."
"Sure, where were you born that you never saw a racehorse?"
"If you arsk me where I was born, I was born in Peckham," said Mr. Piper, "and if you arsk me if I have ever seen a racehorse, I am proud to say I have not, nor a race-meeting; and if you arsk me what I'd dowith jockeys and publicans and all those who corrupt the people and take honest men's wages out of their pocket—I say, if you arsk me what I'd do with them, I'd answer you that I'd put them in a sack and the sack in the Thames."
"Faith," said Moriarty, contemplating his vis-a-vis, "if I hadn't fallen into conversation wid you I'd never have guessed there was so much 'arsk' about you; but, faith, you're right. It's the whisky and the horses that plays the divil and all wid men. Now, I'd lay, from your face, you'd never been dhrunk in your life."
"I've never even tasted alcohol," said Piper. "Neither alcohol nor tobacco has ever sullied my mouth, nor shall it ever sully a child of mine."
"Have you any children?"
"No, I have not."
"That's a pity," said Moriarty, "for with such a father they couldn't help turnin' out fine men. May I ax, are you a Liberal or a Conservative?"
"I'm a Socialist."
"The masther has tould me about thim," said Moriarty, closing the door of Garryowen's box and taking his seat on a bucket. "You're wan of thim that b'laves every man is born equal, and we should all share alike. D'you mane to tell me that, now?"
Mr. Piper, led on to his favourite topic, expanded, taking his seat on the edge of an old bin by the stable door.
"So," said Moriarty, "thim's your opinions? A big puddin', and every man wid a plate and spoon. Andwho, may I ax, is to make the puddin', and who's to wash the plates?"
Mr. Piper explained that every man would help to make the pudding, and every man would wash his own plate.
"And s'pose," said Moriarty, "one chap takes a double helpin' before his turn, or cracks his plate over another chap's head?"
Mr. Piper explained that every man would be equally ungreedy and equally well disposed to his neighbour.
"And where are you going to get thim men?" asked the tireless Moriarty. "And, see here, they're not going to be all men, unless you smother the women. And, droppin' the puddin', for the sake of argument, and comin' to the question of bunnets, d'you think one woman is going to be content wid as good a bunnet as her next-door neighbour, and the same price? D'you think Mrs. Moriarty won't be sayin' to her husband, 'Mick, you blackguard, why don't you stir your stumps and make more money to buy me a hat and feather that'll squash Mrs. Mooney's?' And Mick, he'll say, 'Sure, Norah, how'm I to make more money when these Social chaps won't let me earn more'n five pound a week?' And what'll she say but 'Be hanged to Socialism, I want a blazin' big hat wid a feather twice as big as Mrs. Mooney's, and I'm goin' to get it.'"
"That's not the point at isha."
"Isha or not, you see here. You may plot and plan and collar your masther's money and pay it out all round to the likes of yourself, but it's the wimmen'll quare your pitch, for begob, a man may get rid of amasther, but he'll never get rid of a misthress as long as the world rowls, and wather runs. Tell me," said Moriarty, with his eyes examining Mr. Piper's legs critically and not complimentarily, "tell me now, are you wan of them chaps the masther spakes of who're always boo-hooin' about the souldiers and ba-haain' about the sailors and wishin' to live in pace and contintment, sittin' on your starns under fig-trees wid the figs droppin' into your open gobs?"
Mr. Piper explained that he was a peace party man.
"I thought you was," said Moriarty, still with his eyes fixed on his examinee's legs, "and faith, I'm almost converted meself to the cause whin I look at you. We had a man wanst, and he might ha' been your twin brother, and he came down to Cloyne, lecturin' on all thim things, and settin' up to contist the seat in Parli'mint wid ould Mr. Barrin'ton, of Inchkillin Haal. Ould Mr. Barrin'ton stud six-fut-four. He'd never missed a meet of the houn's for sixty years, 'cept whin he was lad up wid broken limbs or sittin' in Parli'mint. This chap called ould Mr. Barrin'ton his 'ponent, said he was wastin' the money of the people keepin' houn's and horses, and went on till wan day the bhoys got hold of him—and d'ye know what they did to him?"
"No."
"Faith, they headed him up in a barr'l, and rowled him into the river."
Moriarty, without another word, got up, left Mr. Piper to his meditations, and strode towards the kitchen.
"Where's the masther?" asked Moriarty of Norah.
"In the sittin'-room," replied Norah.
He passed through the kitchen, crossed the little hall, and knocked at the sitting-room door.
"Come in," said French's voice, and he entered.
French, Miss Grimshaw, and Bobby Dashwood were seated about the room. The men were smoking and in arm-chairs, Miss Grimshaw was at the table, sitting erect, with her elbows upon it. Her lips were pursed, for they had been discussing Mr. Piper.
"If you plaze, sorr," said Moriarty when French bade him speak, "I've been takin' the size of that chap in the yard."
"And what do you think of him, Moriarty?"
"Faith, sorr, I'm thinkin' he was one of the leftovers whin they was makin' parr'ts, and the divil thried to make a monkey of him, and spiled it in the bakin'. He's no use at all, sorr, to be talked over or talked under."
"We couldn't bribe the man, do you think?" asked Mr. French.
"No, sorr," replied Moriarty, "he's not the man to take a bribe to do a decent turn. He's wan of those chaps that hates his betthers—soci—what d'you call 'em, sorr?"
"Socialists?"
"That's thim."
"Oh, Lord!" said Bobby.
"I thought he looked like it," said Miss Grimshaw.
"Hang him!" said French. "I thought there was something wrong with the beast besides white liver and Board school——"
"If you plaze, sorr," said Moriarty, with a grin,"I've had a long talk wid him, and he's convarted me."
"Hullo!" said French, staring at his henchman, "what's this you're saying?"
"I've come to b'lave, sorr, in sharin' and sharin' alike. If you plaze, sorr, have you everythin' ready for gettin' the horse away in the mornin'?"
"Getting the horse away!" burst out French, forgetting Moriarty's conversion and everything else in an outburst of rage. "How the dickens do you think I'm to get him away with that beast stuck here?"
"All the same, sorr," replied Moriarty, "if you'll lave things to me, you won't find any thrubble in the mornin', and not for some days afther, I'm thinkin."
"What do you propose to do?"
"If you plaze, sorr, I'd rather just keep me tongue shut in me head. It's not that I aren't wishful to tell you, sorr, but it's the divil to spake whin you're fishin'. Do you remimber, sorr, young Mr. James and his wife, whin they came to Drumgool, and went out fishin' the black water? Him and she wid a luncheon-basket and tame minnows presarved in bottles of glycerin' and the hoight of fine rods and patent hucks, and landin' nets, and groun' bate, and the Lord knows all; and you could hear thim chatterin' to wan another half a mile away, and the wather thick wid fish. And the divil a thing they caught in three days but a craw-been."
"Moriarty is right," said Miss Grimshaw, who had a profound belief in the capacity of Moriarty fordoing the right thing just in the right way, when the thing was a matter of diplomacy.
"Look here, Moriarty," said French, "are you thinking of making a prisoner of this chap? For that won't do."
"No, sorr," said Moriarty. "I'm not."
"He doesn't drink?"
"No, sorr."
"You're not going to bribe him?"
"No, sorr."
"Well, all I can say is, if you can find some other means of putting him out of action you're a cleverer man than I am."
"If you'll just lave it to me, sorr, you may rest contint."
French poured out a glass of whisky, which Moriarty swallowed neat. Then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and saluting the company assembled, he left the room.
"He'll do it," burst out Mr. Dashwood, who seemed suddenly and for the first time to fully comprehend the possibilities and impossibilities of Moriarty.
"Faith," said French, "I believe he will. I've never known Moriarty fail yet. Upon my word, I haven't. Looking back now, I never remember him not getting the better of any man he crossed the foils with. Do you remember that blackguard who came to hamstring Garryowen? And the best of the matter is he always does things in such a way the laughis on his side, and the law, begad! Do you remember that bailiff he drove to the old castle? Well, the law couldn't have touched him for that. The man wanted to be driven to my house, and that was my house, though I didn't live there."
"It's a man like Moriarty that comes over to the States with a bundle under his arm," said Miss Grimshaw, "one moment a poor exile from Erin, standing on a shore that is lonely and chill, and the next day, to quote one of our poets, he's 'Alderman Mike inthrodjucin a Bill.' I wonder why the Moriartys are so much nicer in their own country."
Moriarty, when he left his master, betook him to the stables and his duties. Mr. Piper had vacated the stableyard, and was making a tour of the premises, admiring the view from all points, and quite on the alert for strategical moves.
He was by no manner of means a fool in his profession; watchful as a stoat, unobtrusive, when his mouth was closed, fitting into corners, and unremarkable, he made an excellent bailiff.
He had always been a careful and saving man, and his character had never been developed by vice. What lay in the subliminal depths of Mr. Piper, Mr. Piper himself could not say. That unrest lay there was evidenced by his Socialistic tendencies.
He inhabited rooms at Balham or Brixton, I forget which. He never swore, he never drank, he never smoked, or looked at the female population of the British Islands with a view to matrimony or the reverse. The man was without a visible vice, and he had several visible virtues. It was this fact that made the problem of him so interesting and made the attentive student of him pause to ask, "What makes him so beastly?"
You know the man.
Moriarty, having watered the horses and seen tothem with the scrupulous attention of a nurse, called Andy to him.
"Andy," said Moriarty, "did you see the chap that's come to collar the horses?"
"Seen him?" said Andy, for once loquacious. "Faith, I was near pitchforkin' him as he was standin' there, afther you'd left him. Sure, wasn't I listenin' to him——"
"Shut your head," said Moriarty, "and listen to your betthers. Go fetch me a big truss of straw."
Andy, obedient as a dog, went off for the straw, and returned with it on his back.
Moriarty opened the door of the loose-box next to The Cat's.
"Stick it here in the corner," said Moriarty, indicating the corner in question.
Andy flung the truss of straw in the corner.
"That's right," said Moriarty.
He took a five-shilling-piece from his pocket, and, leading Andy to the side of the bungalow, gave him the coin, gave him some instructions, and pointed in the direction of the village.
Andy, with a grin on his face, started.
At half-past eight that evening Mr. Piper, seated in the kitchen finishing his supper, heard Andy's voice. He was colloguing in the scullery with Mrs. Driscoll, and what he said was distinctly audible in the kitchen.
Said Andy, "Is the bailiff chap still at his supper?"
"Faith, and he is," replied Mrs. Driscoll.
"Then kape him there for another half-hour, for Moriarty's goin' to play him a trick and get the horses away unbeknownst to him."
Mr. Piper fell into the trap.
He rose from the table, used the back of his hand as a serviette, strolled to the kitchen door, and contemplated the evening. The sky was cloudless, and a full moon was rising over the hills. From the stables came occasionally the stamping of horse-hoofs. He strolled around to the yard, where he met Moriarty, who was lighting a stable lantern.
"Fine evening," said Mr. Piper.
"Fine which?"
"Evening."
"Oh, faith, it's fine enough. Andy, where were your blitherin' skylights when you stuck this wick in the stable lanthern?"
He got it alight and closed it. Then he swung off with it, followed by Andy, and the pair disappeared.
"Done 'em that time," said the bailiff to himself. "I doubt but it will be a question of me setting up all night and sleeping in the day."
He made a tour of the premises. He left them, and took a walk on the road down below, enjoying the beauty of the evening. An hour and a half later found him again in the stableyard.
It had just gone ten, and Mr. Piper had scarcely entered the yard than Moriarty, with the lantern in his hand, appeared.
"Why, I thought you were abed," said Moriarty."Are you frightened the horses will fly away wid themselves, or what is it that ails you?"
"My duty is my duty, and yours is yours," replied the bailiff. "We'll keep 'em apart, if you please, and so be better friends."
"Friends," said Moriarty with a horrible leer on his face. "Sure, that's what I'm wishin' to be, only you're so cowld. Come here wid me now," said Moriarty, taking the other's arm and leading him towards the loose-box next The Cat's, "and I'll show you me intintions. Maybe it's the likin' I've taken for you, or maybe it's just the stringth of your arguments, but you've convarted me to the sociality bizness, and I'm goin' to share and share alike wid you."
He opened the loose-box door, and there in the darkness stood Andy, like a horrible gnome.
"Why, what are you doin' here, Andy?" asked Moriarty, with an undercurrent of jocularity in his tone that struck Mr. Piper as being out of place and allied to the sinister.
"I?" said Andy. "Nothin'."
"I've brought a friend wid me," said Moriarty, speaking as though Piper were an absolute stranger to Andy. "He's comin' into the loose-box wid us to help me dhrink his health."
"Thank you," said Piper, "I never drink."
He took a step backwards, but Moriarty's hand fell on his arm.
"Just for wanst, now," said Moriarty, in the tone of sweet persuasion that a boon companion uses to a boon companion. "Just for wanst."
"Thank you, I never drink," said Piper, with a rising inflexion that did not improve his voice. "And I'd thank you to release my arm."
"Come on, Andy," said Moriarty, "and help me to persuade Misther Piper to jine us. Now, then; come quiet. That's it. Sure, I knew you'd listen to raison."
Miss Grimshaw, who had retired early, was just in the act of undressing when voices from the stableyard outside her window made her raise the slats of her blind and peep out.
By the full moonlight she saw Moriarty and Andy at the loose-box door. Piper was between them, Moriarty was gently persuading him from behind, applying the vis a tergo; the vis a fronte was supplied by Andy, who had fast hold of the bailiff's left arm. She could not help remembering the sheep which she had seen one night, not so very long ago, haled into the same loose-box, Moriarty pushing it behind, Andy assisting its movements from in front.
The loose-box door closed on Moriarty and his victim, just as it had closed on the sheep. Miss Grimshaw, half horrified, half amused, filled half with curiosity, half with alarm, waited for sounds to tell of what was going forward; but no sound came, and nothing spoke of tragedy save the gleam from the lantern, a topaz pencil of light that shone through the latch hole of the door and dissolved in the moonlight of the yard.
"Put your fut agin the door, Andy," said Moriarty, when Piper, knowing himself in a trap, and knowingthe uselessness of calling out or resisting, was safely inside the loose-box.
He hung the lantern on a hook, and then, pointing to three buckets that stood upside down close to the heap of straw in the corner, "Take a sate," said Moriarty.
Piper took a seat on the end bucket near the door.
"Not that wan," said Moriarty. "The middle wan. Then Andy and I'll be able to sit on either side of you, and the bottle'll pass more convanient."
He produced a bottle, a jug, and a glass. It was a bottle of Teach's "Old Highland Mountain Dew." Andy had fetched it from the inn at Crowsnest. This old Highland mountain dew was a fine, old-fashioned, fusil-oil-tinctured fighting spirit. In any properly constituted community the man who distilled and sold it would be executed, instead of raised to the peerage as Teach was the other day. It is this stuff that makes murders down at the docks, wrecks little homes in Hackney, casts men on the streets, and ships on the rocks, and souls on perdition.
"Look here," said Mr. Piper, when he saw these preparations for conviviality, "I don't know what gime you're up to, but I give you warning——"
"Sit down wid you," said Moriarty, pressing him down on the middle bucket and taking his seat on the bucket to the right, while Andy took his seat on the bucket to the left. "Sit down wid you, and listen to raison. Here's a glass of good whisky and wather, and here's a toast I'm goin' to give you, and that's 'Good luck to Garryowen!'" He swallowed thecontents of the glass, wiped his mouth, refilled the glass, and passed it to Andy.
"Good luck to Garryowen!" said Andy, drinking it off, and handing the empty glass back to Moriarty, who refilled it and held it towards Piper.
"No, thank you," said that gentleman.
"Dhrink it off," commanded Moriarty, "and wish good luck to Garryowen. Sure, it's a glass of good whisky never did man or woman harm yet. Off wid it," continued Moriarty, in the tone of a person inciting a child to take a dose of medicine. "And it's a different man it will make of you."
"I tell you, I don't drink," replied the unconvivial one. "If you choose to make beasts of yourselves, do so. I don't."
"Listen to him, Andy," cried Moriarty, digging Piper in the ribs till he knocked against the jockey.
"Who're you jogglin' aginst?" cried Andy, returning the dig till Piper was nearly in the arms of Moriarty.
Mr. Piper tried to rise, but his legs were twitched from under him by Moriarty, and down he sat on the bucket again with a bang.
"You'll be breakin' the buckets next," said Moriarty. "Why can't you sit aisy?"
"I see your gime," cried the bailiff.
"Faith, then, you can feel it, too," cried Moriarty, and next moment Mr. Piper was on his back on the truss of already prepared straw and Moriarty kneeling on his arms.
"Now thin, Andy," said the master of the ceremonies,"fetch me the funnel and the bottle and the glass, and I'll drinch him."
Andy fetched a small funnel which he had procured from Mrs. Driscoll, and Piper, who had tried to shout, kept silent by reason of fear of Moriarty's thumb, which was applied to his thyroid cartilage.
"Mix a glass of grog, and not too strong," commanded Moriarty. "That's right. Now, thin, open your teeth, you omadhaun, and if you let a sound out of you I'll scrag you. It's not for me own pleasure I'm wastin' good dhrink on you, but to save the masther. Stand between him and his fortune, would you? You owl of the divil, wid your sociality and your jaw about aiquil rights! It's aiquil rights I'm givin' you in me bottle of whisky. Down wid it, and if you let a sound out of you, I'll throttle you."
While Moriarty held the funnel between the patient's teeth and induced him to swallow, Andy gently poured.
With the skill of an expert chloroformist, Moriarty held his head. He knew his patient's constitution, and he knew the strength of the medicine. Helpless intoxication was not his object; his game was deeper than that.
In the middle of the third glass the victim began to show signs of merriment—real merriment. All his anger had vanished. Strange to say, he still resisted, tossing his head from side to side, as much as he was able, but all the time he was laughing as though he were being tickled.
"He's comin' up to the scratch," said Moriarty. "Aisy does it. Let him be for a minit, for we have toreckon on the cowld night air, and I want him to keep his pins. Well, Mr. Piper, and how are you feelin' now?"
"Whatsh your name?" cried Piper, sudden anger seizing him. "I'll give you shomething. Come on!"
He struck out with his foot, and sent Andy flying, bottle, glass, and all. Next second, his legs now released, he landed Moriarty a kick in the face that would have stunned an ordinary man.
"Come on!" cried Piper wildly laughing, still on his back and striking out with his feet. "Come on! One down, t'other on!"
"He's proper and fit now," said Moriarty, his face streaming with gore, but seemingly utterly oblivious of the fact. "Come on, and we'll run him down to the p'leece office before the fight's out of him."
He rushed in on the resisting one, got another kick—this time in the stomach—and, seizing the maniac by the collar of his coat, got him on his legs, using him as gently as though he were dealing with a refractory child. Another man, had he received the kicks that Moriarty had received, would have paid them back in ill-treatment, but Moriarty never lost his temper, and it was a rule of honour with him that a drunken man should be treated with all possible tenderness and consideration. He would just as soon have struck a priest, a woman, or a child as a man in liquor.
Once on his legs, all fight seemed to die out of Mr. Piper. Wild hilarity and attempts at song took the place of bellicosity. Bad language also came to the surface, and found expression.
"He'll do," said Moriarty. "He'll do. Andy, clip howld of his other arm. Now, then, open the door, and down to the village with him. The thing that's thrubblin' me is he's gone undher so quick that maybe he's only shamming."
"Faith," said Andy, "I know why he's gone undher so quick. It's be raison of me givin' him the second glass nate. I forgot to put the wather in it."
Miss Grimshaw, who had been unable to tear herself away from the window, had increased her powers of observation by opening the sash. She heard Moriarty's voice, and the voices of the others. What they could be doing to the bailiff was quite beyond her power of imagination to discover.
Then, as time passed on, she heard laughter. Piper was laughing. She knew the voices of the two others too well to make a mistake. Such long-continued laughter she had never heard before. Then the laughter ceased, and she heard the bailiff's voice crying to the others to come on. After this came more laughter and snatches of song.
Greatly wondering, she waited and watched till, the door of the loose-box bursting open, Andy and Moriarty emerged, supporting a drunken man between them.
Then she understood in part.
Fortunately for her curiosity, she had not undressed, and, catching up a shawl, she wrapped her head in it, left her room, and crossed the hall to the sitting-room, where Mr. French and Mr. Dashwood, who had not yet gone to bed, were sitting smoking.
"I've found out Moriarty's plan," said Miss Grimshaw. "Come out on the verandah and I'll show you something. But don't make a noise."
She opened the window on to the verandah, and the others followed her.
The bailiff and his supporters were now on the downhill path to the road, they and their shadows very visible in the moonlight.
"Look!" said the girl. "He's the middle one."
"Why, he's drunk!" said Mr. Dashwood.
"Mad drunk," said French. "This is Moriarty's work. And he a teetotaler! How on earth did Moriarty do it?"
"I heard them in the yard," said the girl. "They dragged him into the loose-box next to the one The Cat's in, and shut the door. After a while, I heard him laughing and singing—and now, look at him!"
"After them," said Mr. Dashwood, "and let's see what they'll do with him."
He led the way down the hill. When they reached the road, the others were a couple of hundred yards ahead. The wind blowing from them brought the songs and shouting of the convivial one, on whom, now, the extra stimulus of the cold night air was acting.
"I've seen a good many drunken men," said French, "but, begad! this fellow takes the cake. Look, he's trying to fight now! Now they've got him between them again. Come on and let's see what Moriarty is going to do with him."
They followed up hill to the village street. Here in the moonlight, before the highly respectable cottagebearing the tin sign inscribed "County Police," the trio stopped, Moriarty clinging to his charge while Andy rang the bell.
Mr. Boiler, the Crowsnest constable, had not yet started on his night rounds. He was drinking a cup of coffee in the bedroom upstairs when the summons came. Opening the window, he put his head out.
"Who's there?" asked the constable.
"Dhrunken man," said Moriarty from the road. "I've got him here. He called at The Martens, dead dhrunk, and 'saulted me. Look at me face. Come down wid you and gaol him, or he'll tear the village to pieces, bad luck to him!"
"One minute," said Mr. Boiler, "and I'll attend to his business for him."
Next moment he was in the street, where Moriarty, with a deft touch on the adductor tendons, had deposited Mr. Piper on his back.
"Now then, now then! What's all this?" asked the constable, approaching the disciple of La Savate.
The kick on the knee-cap which the constable received made him assume the attitude of a meditative stork for some seconds. Then he closed with his prey.
* * * * * * *
"If you ax me what's best to be done, sorr," said Moriarty later in the night, as he stood in the sitting-room after being complimented on his work, "I'd have Mr. Dashwood go over to Hollborough in the morning, where this chap will be had before the magistrates, and pay the fine. It'll be a matther of two pounds, sure, Boiler tould me, and fetch Piper back here, and tell himto sit aisy, and the horse will be back afther the race. You see, sorr, we've got the weather gauge on the chap now. If the men that employed him knew he'd been dhrunk and gaoled, he'd lose his job. We'll keep it dark for him if he'll keep it dark about the horse.
"It's not a plisint job for Mr. Dashwood to go payin' the fines for dhrunken men, but, sure, it's all in the game. And if you plaze, sorr, I'm thinkin' it wouldn't be a bad thing if you was to sit down now and write a letther to Mr. Lewis, tellin' him the bailiff was here in possession, and that the money would be paid in a day or two. That would keep him aisy, and it would make it more natural like if you was to let a little abuse into it and say you'd been very hardly thrated.
"No, sorr, I won't go to bed to-night. I'll just sit up wid the horse. Everything's ready now for getting him in the thrain to-morrow mornin'. Thank you, sorr, just half a glass. And here's good luck to Garryowen!"
Mr. Giveen, on his enlargement, had returned hot-foot to London. The chicken-higgler's cart that had given him a lift on the road had deposited him at Blankmoor Station, where he had managed to get the last train up to town.
Too confused and shaken up with his adventures to do anything that night he had repaired to Swan's Temperance Hotel in the Strand, where his luggage was, told his tale to the landlady, received her commiserations, and gone to bed.
Next morning, at ten o'clock, he appeared at the office of Mr. Lewis in Craven Street.
"Is Mr. Lewis in?" asked Giveen.
"What name, please?" asked the clerk.
"Just tell him a gentleman from Ireland wants to see him," replied Giveen. "Tell him it's on important business about Mr. French. He'll know."
A moment later he found himself in the inner office, before a desk table, at which an elderly gentleman with grey whiskers was opening his morning letters.
"Mr. Lewis?" said Mr. Giveen.
Lewis bowed.
"I've come to you about a matter of importance," said Giveen. "You sent a man over to Ireland to seize the goods of a relation of mine—Michael French, of Drumgool House."
"I did not," said Lewis. "My agent in Dublin moved in the matter."
"Well, sure, it's all one and the same thing. French has skedaddled. He's taken his horses away, and you don't know his address. Come, now, isn't that the truth?"
"Yes, it is. By any chance, do you know his address?"
"I do."
"Then," said Mr. Lewis, "I must ask you for it."
"Oh, must you, faith? And how are you to make me tell you? See here, now—a bargain is a bargain, and I'll sell you it for a fiver."
Half an hour later he left the office of Mr. Lewis with the promise of a five-pound note should his information prove correct and the satisfaction of having revenged himself on his kinsman.
He turned into O'Shee's in the Strand. Though he only drank gingerbeer and soda-water he frequented O'Shee's, finding there compatriots whom he could bore with his conversation.
He had arranged to return to Ireland on the 16th, and on the 14th, the night before the City and Suburban, wandering into O'Shee's, he fell into conversation with an affable gentleman adorned with rings, whose name, given in the first few moments of conversation, was Paddy Welsh.
"So you're off to the Ould Counthry on Thursday," said Mr. Walsh. "And what are you doin' to-morrow?"
"Nothing," said Mr. Giveen.
"Well, then," said Mr. Welsh, "you're just the bhoy afther me own heart, and I'll give you a thrate you'll remimber to your dyin' day."
"And what's that?" asked the other.
"I'll take you down to the City and Suburban wid me, and give you a dinner and do you fine. Whisht, now, and don't be tellin' any one! Do you know what me thrade is? Well, I'm a bookmaker. You'll see me make, maybe, two hundred pounds to-morrow. I'm not wan of the big bookies; I just dale wid the ordinary men; ha'ff-crowns and five shillin's is what I mostly take. Whisht, now, and listen to me, and I'll tell you what you can do. Faith, it's an idea that has just struck me. Would you like to earn a ten-pound note?"
"Faith, wouldn't I?"
"Well, you can come down and act as me friend. Now, listen to me. We'll take our stand, meself on a tub and you beside me. I'll take the bets, and you'll see the five shillin's and ha'ff-crowns pourin' in; then, when the race is begun, I'll lave you to mind the tub while I run round to see the clerk of the course."
"And what will you want to see him for?"
"Whisht, now," said Mr. Walsh, "and I'll tell you. But you must swear never to split."
"Oh, you may be easy on that."
"Well, he and me is hand in glove. He lets me into all the saycrits, and I give him ha'ff profits on the winnin's. I'll tell him how me bets lie, d'you see? And afther the race, when the jockeys come to be weighed in, he'll kibosh the weights so that the horse that wins will be disqualified, if it suits me book. You tould meyou knew nothin' of racin's, so I can't 'xplain the inthricacies of the thing to you, but that's how it lies. Then I'll come back to the tub to find you, and you and me will go and have a good dinner, and there'll be a ten-pound note for you."
"There's nothing against the law in all that, is there?" asked the cautious Mr. Giveen.
"Law! Of course, there's not, for you and me. If the clerk of the course chooses to earn an honest penny by doin' what he chooses, it's his lookout; no one can touch him either but the Jockey Club, and they daren't say a word, for they're all in it. Why, man alive, what's the Jockey Club for but to jockey the public out of their money? Afther every big race they hold a meetin' and divide the profits; as much as a hundred thousand sometimes is split up between them, the blackguyards! Where did you say you was stayin'? Shepherd's Temp'rance Hotel? Well, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll call for you in the mornin' and take you with me. I'll pay the thrain, for you needn't bother a bit about money when you are along with me."
"Right," said Mr. Giveen.
The City and Suburban morning broke fine; one of those April mornings fresh and sweet as spring herself. Mr. French, staying with Major Lawson at Badminton House, just outside Epsom, had awakened from a night of dreams, feeling pretty much as a man may be supposed to feel who expects the hangman as an after-breakfast visitor.
He awoke from sleep with the dead certainty of failure upon him. Months and months of anxiety had passed, obstacle after obstacle had been overcome. The last obstacle was now before him—the race. That, he felt, was insurmountable, and for no special reason. Garryowen had arrived safe at Lawson's stables; the horse was in the pink of condition; Andy was fit and well; the favourite had been scratched two days before; several good horses had been scratched; the betting list had altered considerably since we referred to it last, and Wheel of Fortune was now favourite, White Moth second. These new conditions were not unfavourable to the Irish horse; all the same, the sense of coming disaster weighed on French.
Before breakfast he visited the stables with Lawson who had nothing running in the race, and who was therefore free to admire with an unjaundiced eye the excellencies of Garryowen. Andy had been taken over the course the day before, and had studied itspeculiarities, receiving sage advice from Lawson and his master, all of which he listened to with an appearance of respect, but which was scarcely of much profit to him, as his keen eye and judgment could give him, unaided, the ins and outs of any racing track better than the oldest user and frequenter of it.
After breakfast Mr. French went out to smoke a cigar and think things over; Lawson seeing the nervousness and agitation of his friend had promised to look after everything and act as second in this duel with Fortune.
The Downs even now showed an animated appearance. A few hours more and the great race-trains would pour their thousands upon thousands to swell the throng. Gipsies and tramps, pickpockets, all sorts of undesirables had camped on the Downs or tramped from London. Cocoanut-shies were going up, costers' barrows arriving, and gingerbeer stalls materialising themselves. Just outside the house Mr. French met Moriarty.
"The horse is all right, Moriarty?" asked French.
"Yes, sorr, right as rain and fresh as paint. You needn't be unaisy, sorr. Barrin' the visitation of Heaven, he'll win."
"If Garryowen wins," said French, "I'll win sixty-five thousand pounds, and if he doesn't, begad, I'm beggared."
"He's nothin' to fear, sorr, but Wheel of Fortune," said Moriarty. "I've been lookin' and listenin' and talkin' ever since I came down, and it's my opinion there's nothin' here to give its heels to Garryowen, andif you'll let me give you a bit of advice, sorr, it's this: Go for a walk, and don't bother your head about the matther. Major Lawson is lookin' afther everythin', and me and Andy will pull everythin' through."
"I know, I know," said French. "You'll do everything you can. Well, there's no use worrying. I'll do what you say."
He took Moriarty's horny hand and shook it. Then turning, he walked off over the Downs.
* * * * * * *
It was twenty minutes or so before the race. A hundred thousand people lined the course and filled the air with the hum of a British crowd on a race day, which is different from the sound emitted by any other crowd on earth.
Mr. French, whose nervous agitation had utterly vanished, was entering the paddock when someone touched his arm. It was Bobby Dashwood.
"Hullo!" said French. "Good! When did you arrive?"
"Last train," said Mr. Dashwood. "I say it's all right. I paid that chap's fine, and lugged him back to The Martens, and he's there now, as peaceable as pie, waiting for the horse to come back."
"Heavens, Dashwood," said French, "inside this hour, I'll be either a rich man or broke to the world, and I feel just as cool as if I hadn't a penny on the race. Funny, that, isn't it?"
"Not a bit," said Bobby. "I always feel that way myself when it comes to the scratch. By Jove, there's Garryowen, and isn't he looking fit!"
"Don't let us go near him," said French. "We've got him here, but I feel if I go near him my bad luck may stick on him. Come into the ring."
He led the way to the ring, followed by Dashwood. Lawson was just leaving the ring. "It's twenty-five to one against Garryowen now," said he. "They've sniffed him, and, begad, I wouldn't wonder if he started ten to one. You can't grumble, French; you're having a run for your money. Sixty-five to one you told me you got on at. I've just put seven hundred on at twenty-five, so that's my opinion of Garryowen. Now stick here and don't bother. I'm going to have a word with your trainer. Leave everything to me and him, and stick here; but don't put any more on, you mustn't pull down your average."
"Right," said French, and Lawson left him.
"I haven't any average to pull down," said Mr. Dashwood. "Haven't a penny on; but I captured twenty pounds yesterday, and here goes."
He approached Sam Collins, a bookmaker beknown to him, and, lo and behold! Garryowen's price was now fifteen to one, and at that he put his twenty pounds on.
"Three hundred will be useful," said Mr. Dashwood. "Gad, I wish I'd been here sooner, and I might have got on at twenty-five to one. However, there's no use in grumbling. Look! there's the numbers going up!"
French watched the numbers going up.
"Sixteen runners," said Dashwood.
"Ay, ay," replied French. "Sixteen, it is."
"Garryowen is Number 7," said Dashwood.
"Look!" said French.
The horses were leaving the paddock. Wheel of Fortune was first out—a bad omen, according to racing men; after Wheel of Fortune came White Moth, Royal George, Satiety, and Garryowen. They were a beautiful picture in the bright April sunlight.
"It's Wheel of Fortune or Garryowen," said Dashwood, who was half-mad with excitement. "French, I'd put my last penny on Garryowen, but the Wheel's a wonder. Ain't they beauties, the pair of them! Make the rest look like dowagers!"
French contemplated his horse as it galloped up the course following Wheel of Fortune. He could not but admire the favourite, but at the moment Garryowen dominated his every thought, and the extraordinary thing was he had almost forgotten money in connection with the race; a mad longing to win for the sake of winning possessed his whole soul. It pleased him Garryowen was so well matched. To beat Wheel of Fortune would be a triumph.
And now that adjustment of prices which always takes place just before starting was evidenced in the price of Garryowen. "Listen!" cried Dashwood. "The price has gone to ten to one. Listen!" The roar of the ring flared up, the horses were now at the starting-post, caracoling and curveting.
French saw Andy's black-and-yellow jacket and the purple-and-white of Lofts on Wheel of Fortune. Would the flag never fall? A false start, another false start, and they were off! The purple jacket of White Moth was to the fore three full lengths; after White Moth came Satiety and Garryowen. Garryowen was goingas a cloud shadow goes, sweeping and without effort; with him, and drawing slightly ahead, went Wheel of Fortune.
They were racing along the rise now. Satiety had drawn well to the fore, and now, of a sudden, with kaleidoscopic swiftness and effect, the field had changed, and Satiety was no longer to the fore. White Moth had fallen away, the field was fanning out, Wheel of Fortune and Garryowen were leading, Dragon Fly, a rank outsider, had drawn up to Garryowen, and the whole moving cloud of horses were making for Tattenham Corner, the Cape Horn of Luck, where so many a fortune has been wrecked.
Wheel of Fortune was going superbly, and as they drew on the corner a roar like the roar of a sea surged up and down the course. As they swept round the bend, Garryowen was close on the rails, Dragon Fly had drawn wide and was losing ground, Satiety was moving up as though pushed by some unseen finger, and as they swept down the hill only some six horses were left with a chance.
Down the hill the pace was tremendous, heart-catching, sublime, if speed can have sublimity. Wheel of Fortune, halfway down, shot forward, and again the roar, like the roar of a tormented sea, burst out, and rushed up the course, a wave of sound, and died away and rose again.
"Look! look!" cried Dashwood, with his eyes glued to his glasses. The horses had reached the bottom of the hill and beyond, Satiety had fallen back. The struggle was now between Garryowen and Wheel ofFortune. Wheel of Fortune was a length ahead, and the distance was shortening—shortening—shortening.
"They're running neck and neck," yelled Dashwood. "Look! they're nearly on the judges' box. Look! He'll win! Garryowen for ever!"
"You can't tell," cried French. "You can't tell from here. It's a deceiving course. But I believe he will. Garryowen for ever!"
On the hill, away down the course, from Tattersall's ring—itself a little hell of sound—now rose an outburst, one long, never-ceasing roar. A snow of waving handkerchiefs made the stands look as if beset by a million white butterflies.
"Wheel of Fortune wins! Wheel of Fortune wins!"
Flash! They are past the winning-post, and the race is ended.
"Look! Look!" cried Dashwood.
It was impossible to tell the winner from the ring. Till the number went up the two men stood eyes fixed on the man at the board.
"Seven!" cried French as the number went up, and in the voice of a person who sees what he cannot believe.
"Hurroo!" cried Dashwood. "I told you he would! Garryowen for ever!"
* * * * *
Mr. Giveen and his new-found friend, Mr. Welsh, arrived at Epsom by an early train and took up a position near the ring. Giveen was quite unconscious that his kinsman French had entered Garryowen for the City and Suburban. He knew that the horse hadbeen destined to run in some race, but he knew as little about race-meetings as bazaars, and he never even glanced at the race-card which Mr. Welsh gave him. He was entirely taken up by the crowd, and half addled by the noise around him.
Mr. Welsh had been joined at the station by a very evil and flashy-looking individual who frankly called himself Lazarus, perhaps because it would have been a waste of time and energy to have called himself anything else; and Mr. Welsh, having introduced Mr. Lazarus to Mr. Giveen, the trio proceeded to the course.
Here Mr. Welsh, who was dressed for the occasion in the most amazing check suit that ever left Petticoat-lane, took his stand on a tub provided by Mr. Lazarus, and proceeded to address the crowd in a language that was Greek to Mr. Giveen. But the effect of Mr. Welsh's words was quite understandable to him. Individuals came forward, one after another, talked more Greek to Paddy Welsh, received coloured tickets from Mr. Lazarus, and handed him money, which he deposited in a bag by his side.
As time wore on, and the moment of starting drew near, Mr. Welsh on the tub became less a man than a volcano emitting sound instead of lava, and the more Mr. Welsh shouted, the more individuals were sucked towards him, and the more money poured into the bag of the perspiring Lazarus.
All at once the crowd surged away. A shout filled the air, "They're off!" and Mr. Welsh jumped from his perch.
"Now," said Mr. Welsh, "I'm off wid me friend Lazarus to see the clerk of the course. Here's the bagful of money for you to keep; and, mind, we thrust you. We'll be back in two minits. You stick here, and wait for us."
Next moment, he and the Israelite had vanished, leaving the luckless Giveen, bag in hand, standing by the tub.
"They're off!" These words often include in their meaning bipeds as well as quadrupeds on City and Suburban day.
Giveen, with the bag in his hand, was torn by conflicting emotions. Suppose Paddy Welsh and Mr. Lazarus could not find him again because of the crowd? Then what would he do with the money in the bag? Faith, what else but take it back to London, and as he was off to Ireland next day, what else could he do but take the bag with him?
His mind played with Cupidity and Theft as a puppy plays with its mates. He would not steal the money, but he would stick to it if the others, by any chance, missed him. And he determined to give them every chance of so doing. He would wait a decent time—say, two or three minutes—after the race was over, and then wander back to the station. Besides, there was ten pounds due to him. Paddy had promised him ten pounds anyway.
Engaged in these thoughts, he scarcely heard the shouting around him as the horses were sweeping round Tattenham Corner.
The desire to look at the money in the bag nowcame on him irresistibly, and, opening the clasp, he peeped in.
Pebbles and pieces of brick met his gaze and confounded him.
What on earth did it mean? Then he guessed. He had been done!
Paddy and Mr. Lazarus had levanted with the money. They must have had two bags, and substituted this one. Withered leaves and desolation! He would never get his ten pounds now. That was why they had bolted. Instead of flinging the accursed bag away and bolting himself, the unfortunate man, who knew nothing of welshers and his own abominable position, slung the bag over his shoulder by its long strap, and, to complete the business, mounted on the tub. From this position he scanned the crowd eagerly, looking for the defaulters.
He did not see them. He saw a wide expanse of ape-like and fatuous faces; every face was adorned by a wide-open mouth, and every mouth was yelling.
"Wheel of Fortune! Wheel of Fortune!"
Ten thousand voices made the sky ring with the shout. Garryowen, leading by a neck, was passing the winning-post, but the crowd, deceived by the course and their own desire, fancied still the favourite was the winner.
Then the numbers went up, and the shouts were not so triumphant.
"Here you are. Ten shillings. I backed Wheel of Fortune for a place two to one!"
"What are you saying?" said Mr. Giveen, tearing his eyes from the course and looking down at a youth with a weak mouth, a bowler hat, and a screaming check suit, who was holding a pink card in his hand, and addressing him.
"I want my money."
"I haven't got your money. I'm lookin' for a big man with a red face and a——"
"Here you are. Fifteen bob. Satiety for a place."
"Here you are. Forty-five half-crowns for Garryowen."
"Go to blazes with you!" shouted Mr. Giveen to the ring of individuals surrounding his tub and demanding their money. "Who are you taking me for?"
"He's got the bag," shouted one voice.
"He was with the other chaps," shouted another.
"Welsher!" cried a third, and at the last cry Mr. Giveen was off his tub and being hustled. The bag was plucked from him and opened.
Then the real business began, and where the police came from it would be impossible to say, but they were only in time to save Mr. Giveen's shirt and trousers. His coat and waistcoat and hat had vanished utterly and like smoke when four stalwart constables surrounded him and began to fight for his life. Several other welshers in the neighbourhood had done their business and got clean away; the crowdwas in a nasty temper, for they had lost over the favourite, and the gods, with a certain poetic justice, had offered up Giveen as a dripping roast to the fury of the people.
"Pull him in pieces!"
"Duck him!" (There was not a pond within miles.)
"Jump on him!"
"Down with the police!"
"Welsher!"
"Look!" cried Dashwood.
French, half delirious with delight, French, the winner of a big fortune, to say nothing of the stakes and the glory, was being led from the ring by Mr. Dashwood when they came across a maelstrom of howling humanity, amid which, like rocks, stood forth the helmets of the constables.
"It's a welsher, poor devil!" cried French. "The police have him. Hi! I say—by heavens! it's Giveen!"
He had caught a glimpse for a moment of the face of his cousin. The next he was in amid the throng, helping the police.
"Michael!" yelled the half-naked one. "Lend us a hand, or I'll be torn in bits. Musha! listen to the devils! Help!"
Next moment French was knocked aside. Fourteen constables had charged the crowd like a wedge, and Giveen was surrounded and safe, and being marched off to the lock-up.