All this time the eyes of Mr. Shrig were roving here, wandering there, now apparently glancing up at the strip of sky between the dingy house tops, now down at the cobbles beneath their feet; also Barnabas noticed that his step, all at once, grew slower and more deliberate, as one who hesitates, uncertain as to whether he shall go on, or turn back. It was after one of those swift, upward glances, that Mr. Shrig stopped all at once, seized Barnabas by the middle and dragged him into an adjacent doorway, as something crashed down and splintered within a yard of them.
"What now—what is it?" cried Barnabas.
"Win-dictiveness!" sighed Mr. Shrig, shaking his head at the missile, "a piece o' coping-stone, thirty pound if a ounce—Lord! Keep flat agin the door sir, same as me, they may try another—I don't think so—still they may, so keep close ag'in the door. A partic'lar narrer shave I calls it!" nodded Mr. Shrig; "shook ye a bit sir?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, wiping his brow.
"Ah well, it shook me—and I'm used to windictiveness. A brick now," he mused, his eyes wandering again, "a brick I could ha' took kinder, bricks an' sich I'm prepared for, but coping-stones—Lord love me!"
"But a brick would have killed you just the same—"
"Killed me? A brick? Oh no, sir!"
"But, if it had hit you on the head—"
"On the 'at sir, the 'at—or as you might say—the castor—this, sir," said Mr. Shrig; and glancing furtively up and down the gloomy alley he took off the broad-brimmed hat; "just run your ogles over this 'ere castor o' mine, an' you'll understand, perhaps."
"It's very heavy," said Barnabas, as he took the hat.
"Ah, it is a bit 'eavyish, sir. Peep inside of it."
"Why," exclaimed Barnabas, "it's lined with—"
"Iron, sir. My own inwention ag'in windictiveness in the shape o' bricks an' bludgeons, an' werry useful an comfortin' I've found it. But if they're going to begin on me vith coping-stones,—v'y Lord!" And Mr. Shrig sighed his gentle sigh, and rubbed his placid brow, and once more covered it with the "inwention."
"And now sir, you've got a pair o' good, long legs—can ye use 'em?"
"Use them,—yes. Why?"
"Because it's about time as we cut our stick an' run for it."
"What are we to run for?"
"Because they're arter me,—nine on 'em,—consequent they're arter you too, d' ye see. There's four on 'em be'ind us, an' five on 'em in front. You can't see 'em because they're layin' low. And they're bad uns all, an' they means business."
"What—a fight?"
"As ever vas, sir. I've 'ad my eye on 'em some time. That 'ere coping-stone vas the signal."
"Ha!" said Barnabas, buttoning up his coat.
"Now, are ye ready, sir?"
"Quite!"
"Then keep close be'ind me—go!" With the word Mr. Shrig began to run, always keeping close beside the wall; indeed he ran so fast and was so very nimble that Barnabas had some ado to keep up with him. They had gone but a little distance when five rough looking fellows started into view further up the alley, completely blocking their advance, and by the clatter of feet behind, Barnabas knew that their retreat was cut off, and instinctively he set his teeth, and gripped his cane more firmly. But on ran Mr. Shrig, keeping close beside the wall, head low, shoulders back, elbows well in, for all the world as if he intended to hurl himself upon his assailants in some desperate hope of breaking through them; but all at once, like a rabbit into his burrow, he turned short off in mid career, and vanished down a dark and very narrow entry or passage, and, as Barnabas followed, he heard, above the vicious thud of footsteps, hoarse cries of anger and disappointment. Half-way down the passage Mr. Shrig halted abruptly and turned, as the first of their pursuers appeared.
"This'll do!" he panted, swinging the nobbly stick in his hand, "can't come on more nor two at vunce. Be ready vith your stick—at their eyes—poke at 'em—no 'itting—" the rest was drowned in the echoing rush of heavy feet and the boom of hoarse voices. But now, seeing their quarry stand on the defensive, the pursuers checked their advance, their cries sank to growling murmurs, till, with a fierce shout, one of their number rushed forward brandishing a heavy stick, whereupon the others followed, and there, in the echoing dimness, the battle was joined, and waxed furious and grim.
Almost at the first onset the slender cane Barnabas wielded broke short off, and he was borne staggering back, the centre of a panting, close-locked, desperate fray. But in that narrow space his assailants were hampered by their very numbers, and here was small room for bludgeon-play,—and Barnabas had his fists.
There came a moment of thudding blows, trampling feet, oaths, cries, —and Barnabas was free, staring dazedly at his broken knuckles. He heard a sudden shout, a vicious roar, and the Bow Street Runner, dropping the nobbly stick, tottered weakly and fell,—strove to rise, was smitten down again, and, in that moment, Barnabas was astride him; felt the shock of stinging blows, and laughing fierce and short, leapt in under the blows, every nerve and muscle braced and quivering; saw a scowling face,—smote it away; caught a bony wrist, wrenched the bludgeon from the griping fingers, struck and parried and struck again with untiring arm, felt the press thin out before him as his assailants gave back, and so, stood panting.
"Run! Run!" whispered Mr. Shrig's voice behind him. "Ve can do it now, —run!"
"No!" panted Barnabas, wiping the blood from his cheek. "Run!" cried Mr. Shrig again, "there's a place I knows on close by—ve can reach it in a jiff—this vay,—run!"
"No!"
"Not run? then v'ot vill ye do?"
"Make them!"
"Are ye mad? Ha!—look out!" Once more the echoing passage roared with the din of conflict, as their assailants rushed again, were checked, smote and were smitten, and fell back howling before the thrust of the nobbly stick and the swing of the heavy bludgeon.
"Now vill ye run?" panted Mr. Shrig, straightening the broad-brimmed hat.
"No!"
"V'y then, I vill!" which Mr. Shrig immediately proceeded to do.
But the scowl of Barnabas grew only the blacker, his lips but curled the fiercer, and his fingers tightened their grip upon the bludgeon as, alone now, he fronted those who remained of the nine.
Now chancing to glance towards a certain spot, he espied something that lay in the angle of the wall, and, instinctively stooping, he picked up Mr. Shrig's little book, slipped it into his pocket, felt a stunning blow, and reeled back, suddenly faint and sick. And now a mist seemed to envelop him, but in the mist were faces above, below, around him, faces to be struck at. But his blows grew weak and ever weaker, the cudgel was torn from his lax grip, he staggered back on stumbling feet knowing he could fight no more, and felt himself caught by a mighty arm, saw a face near by, comely and dimpled of chin, blue-eyed, and with whiskers trimmed into precise little tufts on either cheek. Thereafter he was aware of faint cries and shouts, of a rushing patter like rain among leaves, and of a voice speaking in his ear.
"Right about face,—march! Easy does it! mind me 'ook, sir, the p'int's oncommon sharp like. By your left—wheel! Now two steps up, sir—that's it! Now three steps down, easy does it! and 'ere we are. A cheer, sir, now water and a sponge!"
Here Barnabas, sinking back in the chair, leaned his head against the wall behind him, and the mist grew more dense, obliterating all things.
A small, dim chamber, with many glasses and bottles arrayed very precisely on numerous shelves; a very tall, broad-shouldered man who smiled down from the rafters while he pulled at a very precise whisker with his right hand, for his left had been replaced by a shining steel hook; and Mr. Shrig who shook his placid head as he leaned upon a long musket whose bayonet twinkled wickedly in the dim light; all this Barnabas saw as, sighing, he opened his eyes.
"'E's all right now!" nodded the smiling giant.
"Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, "but vith a lump on 'is 'ead like a negg. 'Run!' I sez. 'No!' sez 'e,—and 'ere's me vith vun eye a-going into mourning, and 'im vith a lump on 'is nob like a noo-laid egg!"
"'E's game though, Jarsper," said the benevolent giant.
"Game! I believe you, Corp!" nodded Mr. Shrig. "Run!' I sez. 'No!'sez 'e. 'Then v'ot vill you do?' sez I. 'Make them!' sez 'e. Game?Lord love me, I should say so!" Here, seeing Barnabas sit upright,Mr. Shrig laid by the musket and came towards him with his hand out.
"Sir," said he, "when them raskels got me down they meant to do for me; ah! they'd ha' given me my quietus for good an' all if you 'adn't stood 'em off. Sir, if it ain't too much, I should like to shake your daddle for that!"
"But you saved my life twice," said Barnabas, clasping the proffered hand.
"V'y the coping-stone I'll not go for to deny, sir," said Mr. Shrig, stroking his smooth brow, "but t'other time it were my friend and pal the Corp 'ere,—Corporal Richard Roe, late Grenadiers. 'E's only got an 'ook for an 'and, but vith that 'ook 'e's oncommonly 'andy, and as a veapon it ain't by no means to be sneezed at. No, 'e ain't none the worse for that 'ook, though they thought so in the army, and it vere 'im as brought you off v'ile I vos a-chasing of the enemy vith 'is gun, yonder."
"Why, then I should like to thank Corporal Richard Roe," said Barnabas,—(here the Corporal tugged at his precise and carefully trimmed whisker again), "and to shake his hand as well." Here the giant blushed and extended a huge fist.
"Honored, sir," said he, clicking his heels together.
"And now," said Mr. Shrig, "ve're all a-going to drink—at my expense."
"No, at mine," said Barnabas.
"Sir," said Mr. Shrig, round and placid of eye, "ven I says a thing I means it. Consequent you are now a-going to sluice your ivory vith a glass of the Vun an' Only, at my expense,—you must and you shall."
"Yes," said Barnabas, feeling in his pockets. "I must, my purse is gone."
"Purse!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, his innocent eyes rounder than ever, "gone, sir?"
"Stolen," nodded Barnabas.
"Think o' that now!" sighed Mr. Shrig, "but I ain't surprised, no, I ain't surprised, and—by Goles!"
"What now?"
"Your cravat-sparkler!—that's wanished too!" Barnabas felt his rumpled cravat, and nodded. "And your vatch, now—don't tell me as they 've took—"
"Yes, my watch also," sighed Barnabas.
"A great pity!" said Mr. Shrig, "though it ain't to be vondered at,—not a bit."
"I valued the watch greatly, because it was given me by a very good friend," said Barnabas, sighing again.
"Walleyed it, hey?" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, "walleyed it, sir?—v'y then, 'ere it be!" and from a capacious side-pocket he produced Natty Bell's great watch, seals and all.
"Why—!" exclaimed Barnabas, staring.
"Also your purse, sir,—not forgetting the sparkler." Mr. Shrig continued, producing each article in turn.
"But—how in the world—?" began Barnabas.
"I took 'em from you v'ile you vos a-lookin' at my castor. Lord love me, a babe could ha' done it,—let alone a old 'and, like me!"
"Do you mean—?" began Barnabas, and hesitated.
"In my young days, sir," explained Mr. Shrig with his placid smile, "I vere a champion buzman, ah! and a prime rook at queering the gulls, too, but I ewentually turned honest all along of a flash, morning-sneak covess as got 'erself conwerted."
"What do you mean by a morning-sneak covess?"
"I means a area-sneak, sir, as vorks werry early in the morning. A fine 'andsome gal she vere, and vith nothing of the flash mollisher about 'er, either, though born on the streets, as ye might say, same as me. Vell, she gets con-werted, and she's alvays napping 'er bib over me,—as you'd say, piping 'er eye, d'ye see? vanting me to turn honest and be con-werted too. 'Turn honest,' says she, 'and ve'll be married ter-morrow,' says she."
"So you turned honest and married her?" said Barnabas, as Mr. Shrig paused.
"No, sir, I turned honest and she married a coal-v'ipper, v'ich, though it did come a bit 'ard on me at first, vos all for the best in the end, for she deweloped a chaffer,—as you might say, a tongue, d' ye see, sir, and I'm vun as is fond of a quiet life, v'en I can get it. Howsomever, I turned honest, and come werry near starving for the first year, but I kept honest, and I ain't never repented it—so fur. So, as for the prigs, and scamps, and buzmen, and flash leary coves, I'm up to all their dodges, 'aving been one of them, d'ye see. And now," said Mr. Shrig, as the big Corporal having selected divers bottles from his precise array, took himself off to concoct a jorum of the One and Only—"now sir, what do you think o' my pal Corporal Dick?"
"A splendid fellow!" said Barnabas.
"'E is that, sir,—so 'e is,—a giant, eh sir?"
"A giant, yes, and handsome too!" said Barnabas.
"V'y you're a sizable cove yourself, sir," nodded Mr. Shrig, "but you ain't much alongside my pal the Corp, are you? I'm nat'rally proud of 'im, d'ye see, for 't were me as saved 'im."
"Saved him from what? How?"
"Me being only a smallish chap myself, I've allus 'ad a 'ankering arter sizable coves. But I never seen a finer figger of a man than Corporal Dick—height, six foot six and a quarter, chest, fifty-eight and a narf, and sir—'e were a-going to drownd it all in the River, all along o' losing his 'and and being drove out o' the army, v'ich vould ha' been a great vaste of good material, as ye might say, seeing as there's so much of 'im. It vas a dark night, the night I found 'im, vith vind and rain, and there vos me and 'im a-grappling on the edge of a vharf—leastvays I vere a-holding onto 'is leg, d'ye see—ah, and a mortal 'ard struggle it vere too, and in the end I didn't save 'im arter all."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean as it vere 'im as saved me, for v'ot vith the vind, and the rain, and the dark, ve lost our footing and over ve vent into the River together—down and down till I thought as ve should never come up again, but ve did, o' course, and then, jest as 'ard as 'e'd struggled to throw 'imself in, 'e fought to get me out, so it vere 'im as really saved me, d'ye see?"
"No," said Barnabas, "it was you who really saved him."
"V'y, I'm as glad as you think so, sir, only d'ye see, I can't svim, and it vos 'im as pulled me out. And it all come along of 'im losing 'is 'and—come nigh to breaking 'is 'eart to be discharged, it did."
"Poor fellow!" said Barnabas, "and how did he lose his hand?"
"V'y, I could tell you, or you could read of it in the Gazette—jest three or four lines o' printing—and they've spelt 'is name wrong at that, curse 'em! But Corporal Dick can tell you best. Let 'im. 'Ere 'e comes, vith a steaming brew o' the Vun and Only."
And indeed, at this moment the Corporal re-entered, bearing a jug that gave forth a most enticing and delicious aroma, and upon which Mr. Shrig cast amorous glances, what time he reached three glasses from the marshalled array on the shelves.
And now, sitting at the small table that stood in a snug corner beside the chimney, Mr. Shrig, having filled the three glasses with all due care, tendered one to Barnabas with the words:
"Jest give that a snuff with your sneezer, sir,—there's perfume, there's fray-grance for ye! There ain't a man in London as can brew a glass o' rum-punch like the Corp,—though 'e 'as only got vun 'and. And now, Corporal Dick, afore ve begin, three steamers."
"Ay, for sure, Jarsper!" said the Corporal; and opening a small corner cupboard he took thence three new pipes and a paper of tobacco.
"Will you smoke, sir?" he inquired diffidently of Barnabas.
"Thank you, yes, Corporal," said Barnabas, and taking the proffered pipe he filled and lighted it.
Now when the pipes were in full blast, when the One and Only had been tasted, and pronounced by Mr. Shrig to be "up to the mark," he nodded to Corporal Dick with the words:
"Tell our young gent 'ow you lost your 'and, Corp."
But hereupon the Corporal frowned, shuffled his feet, stroked his trim whiskers with his hook, and finally addressed Barnabas.
"I aren't much of a talker, sir,—and it aren't much of a story, but if you so wish—"
"I do so wish," said Barnabas heartily.
"Why, very good, sir!" Saying which the Corporal sat up, squared his mighty shoulders, coughed, and began:
"It was when they Cuirassiers broke our square at Quatre-bras, sir,—fine fellows those Cuirassiers! They rode into us, through us, over us,—the square was tottering, and it was 'the colors—rally!' Ah, sir! the colors means the life or death of a square at such times. And just then, when horses was a-trampling us and the air full o' the flash o' French steel, just then I see our colors dip and sway, and down they went. But still it's 'the colors—rally!' and there's no colors to rally to; and all the time the square is being cut to pieces. But I, being nearest, caught up the colors in this here left hand," here the Corporal raised his gleaming hook, "but a Cuirassier, 'e caught them too, and there's him at one end o' the staff and me at t'other, pulling and hauling, and then—all at once he'd got 'em. And because why? Because I hadn't got no left 'and to 'old with. But I'd got my right, and in my right was 'Brown Bess' there," and the Corporal pointed to the long musket in the corner. "My bayonet was gone, and there weren't no time to reload, so—I used the butt. Then I picked up the colors again and 'eld 'em high over my head, for the smoke were pretty thick, and, 'To the colors,' I shouted,' Rally, lads, rally!' And oh, by the Lord, sir,—to hear our lads cheer! And so the square formed up again—what was left of it—formed up close and true round me and the colors, and the last thing I mind was the cheering. Ah! they was fine fellows, they Cuirassiers!"
"So that vere the end o' the Corp's soldiering!" nodded Mr. Shrig.
"Yes," sighed the Corporal, "a one-handed soldier ain't much good, ye see, sir."
"So they—throwed 'im out!" snarled Mr. Shrig.
"Now Jarsper," smiled the giant, shaking his head. "Why so 'ard on the sarvice? They give me m' stripe."
"And your dis-charge!" added Mr. Shrig.
"And a—pension," said the soldier.
"Pension," sniffed Mr. Shrig, "a fine, large vord, Dick, as means werry little to you!"
"And they mentioned me in the Gazette, Jarsper," said the Corporal looking very sheepish, and stroking his whisker again with his hook.
"And a lot o' good that done you, didn't it? Your 'eart vos broke the night I found you—down by the River."
"Why, I did feel as I weren't much good, Jarsper, I'll admit. You see, I 'adn't my hook then, sir. But I think I'd ha' give my other 'and—ah! that I would—to ha' been allowed to march on wi' the rest o' the lads to Waterloo."
"So you vos a-going to throw yerself into the River!"
"I were, Jarsper, should ha' done it but for you, comrade."
"But you didn't do it, so later on ve took this 'ere place."
"You did, Jarsper—"
"Ve took it together, Dick. And werry vell you're a-doing vith it, for both of us."
"I do my best, Jarsper."
"V'ich couldn't be bettered, Dick. Then look how you 'elp me vith my cases."
"Do I, Jarsper?" said the Corporal, his blue eyes shining.
"That you do, Dick. And now I've got another case as I'm a-vaiting for,—a extra-special Capital case it is too!"
"Another murder, Jarsper?"
"Ah, a murder, Dick,—a murder as ain't been committed yet, a murder as I'm expecting to come off in—say a month, from information received this 'ere werry arternoon. A murder, Dick, as is going to be done by a capital cove as I spotted over a month ago. Now v'ot I 'm going to tell you is betwixt us—private and confidential and—" But here Barnabas pushed back his chair.
"Then perhaps I had better be going?" said he.
"Going, sir? and for v'y?"
"That you may be more private, and talk more freely."
"Sir," said Mr. Shrig. "I knows v'en to speak and v'en not. My eyes tells me who I can trust and who not. And, sir, I've took to you, and so's the Corp,—ain't you, Dick?"
"Yes, sir," said the giant diffidently.
"Sir," pursued Mr. Shrig, "you're a Nob, I know, a Corinthian by your looks, a Buck, sir, a Dash, a 'eavy Toddler, but also, I takes the liberty o' telling you as you're only a man, arter all, like the rest on us, and it's that man as I'm a-talking to. Now v'en a man 'as stood up for me, shed 'is good blood for me, I makes that man my pal, and my pal I allus trusts."
"And you shall find me worthy of your confidence," said Barnabas, "and there's my hand on it, though, indeed, you hardly know me—really."
"More than you think, sir. Besides, it ain't v'ot a cove tells me about 'imself as matters, nor v'ot other coves tell me about a cove, as matters, it's v'ot a cove carries in 'is face as I goes by,—the cock of 'is eye, an' all the rest of it. And then, I knows as your name's Barnabas Barty—"
"Barty!—you know that?" exclaimed Barnabas, starting,—"how—how in the world did you find out?"
"Took the liberty to look at your vatch, sir."
"Watch!" said Barnabas, drawing it from his fob, "what do you mean?"
"Give it 'ere, and I'll show ye, sir." So saying, Mr. Shrig took the great timepiece and, opening the back, handed it to Barnabas. And there, in the cavity between the two cases was a very small folded paper, and upon this paper, in Natty Bell's handwriting, these words:
"To my dear lad Barnabas Barty, hoping that he may proveas fine a gentleman as he is—a man."
Having read this, Barnabas folded the paper very gently, and putting it back, closed the watch, and slipped it into his fob.
"And now," said Mr. Shrig, exhaling a vast cloud of smoke, "afore I go on to tell you about this 'ere murder as I'm a-vaiting for, I must show ye my little reader." Here Mr. Shrig thrust a hand into his pocket,—then his pipe shivered to fragments on the stone floor and he started up, mouth agape and eyes staring.
"Lord, Jarsper!" cried the Corporal, "what is it, comrade?"
"It's gone, Dick!" he gasped, "my little reader's been stole."
But now, even as he turned towards the door, Barnabas laid a detaining hand upon his arm.
"Not stolen—lost!" said he, "and indeed, I'm not at all surprised!"Here Barnabas smiled his quick, bright smile.
"Sir—sir?" stammered Mr. Shrig, "oh, Pal, d'ye mean—?"
"That I found it, yes," said Barnabas, "and here it is."
Mr. Shrig took his little book, opened it, closed it, thrust it into his pocket, and took it out again.
"Sir," said he, catching Barnabas by the hand, "this here little book is more to me nor gold or rubies. Sir, you are my pal,—and consequent the Corp's also, and this 'ere chaffing-crib is allus open to you. And if ever you want a man at your back—I'm your man, and v'en not me—there's my pal Dick, ain't there, Di—"
Mr. Shrig stopped suddenly and stood with his head to one side as one that listens. And thus, upon the stillness came the sound of one who strode along the narrow passage-way outside, whistling as he went.
"'Sally in our Alley,' I think?" said Mr. Shrig.
"Yes," said Barnabas, wondering.
"V'ich means as I'm vanted, ah!—and vanted precious qvick too," saying which, Mr. Shrig caught up his "castor," seized the nobbly stick, crossed to the door, and came back again.
"Dick," said he, "I'll get you to look after my little reader for me,—I ain't a-going to risk losing it again."
"Right you are, Jarsper," nodded the Corporal.
"And sir," continued Mr. Shrig, turning towards Barnabas with the book in his hand, "you said, I think, as you'd like to see what I'd got inside o' this 'ere.—If so be you're in the same mind about it, why—'ere it is." And Mr. Shrig laid the little book on the table before Barnabas. "And v'ot's more, any time as you're passing, drop in to the 'Gun,' and drink a glass o' the Vun and Only vith Dick and me." So Mr. Shrig nodded, unlocked the door, shut it very gently behind him, and his footsteps died away along the echoing passage.
Then, while the Corporal puffed at his long pipe, Barnabas opened the little book, and turning the pages haphazard presently came to one where, painfully written in a neat, round hand, he read this:
EXTRA-SPECIALS ___________________________________________________________________ |Name. |When |Date of |Sentence. |Date of | | |spotted. |Murder. | |Execution.| | ______________________| _________|________| __________|__________| |James Aston (Porter) |Feb. 2 |March 30|Hanged |April 5 | |Digbeth Andover (Gent) |March 3 |April 28|Transported|May 5 | |John Barnes (Sailor) |March 10 |Waiting |Waiting |Waiting | |Sir Richard Brock(Bart)|April 5 |May 3 |Hanged |May 30 | |Thomas Beal (Tinker) |March 23 |April 15|Hanged |May 30 | |_______________________|__________|________|___________|__________|
There were many such names all carefully set down in alphabetical order, and Barnabas read them through with perfunctory interest. But—half-way down the list of B's his glance was suddenly arrested, his hands clenched themselves, and he grew rigid in his chair—staring wide-eyed at a certain name. In a while he closed the little book, yet sat there very still, gazing at nothing in particular, until the voice of the Corporal roused him somewhat.
"A wonderful man, my comrade Jarsper, sir?"
"Yes," said Barnabas absently.
"Though he wouldn't ha' passed as a Grenadier,—not being tall enough, you see."
"No," said Barnabas, his gaze still fixed.
"But as a trap, sir,—as a limb o' the law, he ain't to be ekalled—nowheres nor nohow."
"No," said Barnabas, rising.
"What? are you off, sir—must you march?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, taking up his hat, "yes, I must go."
"'Olborn way, sir?"
"Yes."
"Why then—foller me, sir,—front door takes you into Gray's Inn Lane—by your left turn and 'Olborn lays straight afore you,—this way, sir." But, being come to the front door of the "Gun," Barnabas paused upon the threshold, lost in abstraction again, and staring at nothing in particular while the big Corporal watched him with a growing uneasiness.
"Is it your 'ead, sir?" he inquired suddenly.
"Head?" repeated Barnabas.
"Not troubling you, is it, sir?"
"No,—oh no, thank you," answered Barnabas, and stretched out his hand. "Good-by, Corporal, I'm glad to have met you, and the One and Only was excellent."
"Thankee, sir. I hope as you'll do me and my comrade the honor to try it again—frequent. Good-by, sir." But standing to watch Barnabas as he went, the Corporal shook his head and muttered to himself, for Barnabas walked with a dragging step, and his chin upon his breast.
Holborn was still full of the stir and bustle, the rush and roar of thronging humanity, but now Barnabas was blind and deaf to it all, for wherever he looked he seemed to see the page of Mr. Shrig's little book with its list of carefully written names,—those names beginning with B.—thus:
_________________________________________________________ |Name. |When |Date |Sentence.|Date of | | |spotted.|of Murder. | |Execution.| |_____________|________|___________|_________|__________| |Sir Richard | | | | | |Brock (Bart.)|April 5 | May 3 | Hanged | May 30 | |_____________|________|___________|_________|__________| |Thomas Beal | | | | | |(Tinker) |March 23| April 15 | Hanged | May 30 | |_____________|________|___________|_________|__________| |Ronald | | | | | |Barrymaine | May 12 | Waiting | Waiting | Waiting | |_____________|________|___________|_________|__________|
It was about two o'clock in the afternoon that Barnabas knocked at the door of the Viscount's chambers in Half-moon Street and was duly admitted by a dignified, albeit somewhat mournful gentleman in blue and silver, who, after a moment of sighing hesitancy, ushered him into a small reception room where sat a bullet-headed man with one eye and a remarkably bristly chin, a sinister looking person who stared very hard with his one eye, and sucked very hard, with much apparent relish and gusto, at the knob of the stick he carried. At sight of this man the mournful gentleman averted his head, and vented a sound which, despite his impressive dignity, greatly resembled a sniff, and, bowing to Barnabas, betook himself upstairs to announce the visitor. Hereupon the one-eyed man having surveyed Barnabas from head to foot with his solitary orb, drew the knob of his stick from his mouth, dried it upon his sleeve, looked at it, gave it a final rub, and spoke.
"Sir," said he in a jovial voice that belied his sinister aspect, "did you 'ear that rainbow sniff?"
"Rainbow?" said Barnabas.
"Well,—wallet, then,—footman—the ornamental cove as jest popped you in 'ere. Makes one 'undred and eleven of 'em!"
"One hundred and eleven what?"
"Sniffs, sir,—s-n-i-double-f-s! I've took the trouble to count 'em, —nothing else to do. I ain't got a word out of 'im yet, an' I've been sittin' 'ere ever since eight o'clock s'mornin'. I'm a conwivial cock, I am,—a sociable cove, yes, sir, a s-o-s-h-able cove as ever wore a pair o' boots. Wot I sez is,—though a bum, why not a sociable bum, and try to make things nice and pleasant, and I does my best, give you my word! But Lord! all my efforts is wasted on that 'ere rainbow—nothing but sniffs!"
"Why then—who—what are you?"
"I'm Perks and Condy, wines and sperrits,—eighty-five pound, eighteen, three—that's me, sir."
"Do you mean that you are—in possession—here?"
"Just that, sir,—ever since eight o'clock s'morning—and nothing but sniffs—so fur." Here the bullet-headed man nodded and eyed the knob of his stick hungrily. But at this moment the door opened, and the dignified (though mournful) gentleman appeared, and informed Barnabas (with a sigh) that "his Lordship begged Mr. Beverley would walk upstairs."
Upstairs accordingly Barnabas stepped, and guided by a merry whistling, pushed open a certain door, and so found the Viscount busily engaged in the manufacture of a paper dart, composed of a sheet of the Gazette, in the midst of which occupation he paused to grip Barnabas by the hand.
"Delighted to see you, Bev," said he heartily, "pray sit down, my dear fellow—sit anywhere—no, not there—that's the toast, deuce take it! Oh, never mind a chair, bed'll do, eh? Yes, I'm rather late this morning, Bev,—but then I was so late last night that I was devilish early, and I'm making up for it,—must have steady nerves for the fifteenth, you know. Ah, and that reminds me!" Here the Viscount took up his unfinished dart and sighed over it. "I'm suffering from a rather sharp attack of Romanism, my dear fellow, my Honored Parent has been at it again, Bev, and then, I dropped two hundred pounds in Jermyn Street last night."
"Dropped it! Do you mean you lost it, or were you robbed?" inquired Barnabas the Simple. Now when he said this, the Viscount stared at him incredulously, but, meeting the clear gaze of the candid gray eyes, he smiled all at once and shook his head.
"Gad!" he exclaimed, "what a strange fellow you are, Bev. And yet I wouldn't have you altered, no, damme! you're too refreshing. You ask me 'did I lose it, or was I robbed?' I answer you,—both, my dear fellow. It was a case of sharps and flats, and—I was the flat."
"Ah,—you mean gambling, Dick?"
"Gambling, Bev,—at a hell in Jermyn Street."
"Two hundred pounds is a great deal of money to lose at cards," saidBarnabas, shaking his head gravely.
"Humph!" murmured the Viscount, busied upon his paper dart again, "you should congratulate me, I think, that it was no more,—might just as easily have been two thousand, you see, indeed I wonder it wasn't. Egad! the more I think of it, the more fortunate I consider myself. Yes, I certainly think you should congratulate me. Now—watch me hit Sling!" and the Viscount poised his completed dart.
"Captain Slingsby—here?" exclaimed Barnabas, glancing about.
"Under the settee, yonder," nodded the Viscount, "wrapped up in the table-cloth."
"Table-cloth!" repeated Barnabas.
"By way of military cloak," explained the Viscount. "You see—Sling was rather—mellow, last night, and—at such times he always imagines he's campaigning again—insists upon sleeping on the floor."
Now, looking where the Viscount pointed, Barnabas espied the touzled head of Captain Slingsby of the Guards protruding from beneath the settee, and reposing upon a cushion. The Captain's features were serene, and his breathing soft and regular, albeit deepening, ever and anon, into a gentle snore.
"Poor old Sling!" said the Viscount, leaning forward the better to aim his missile, "in two hours' time he must go and face the Ogre, —poor old Sling! Now watch me hit him!" So saying Viscount Devenham launched his paper dart which, gliding gracefully through the air, buried its point in the Captain's whisker, whereupon that warrior, murmuring plaintively, turned over and fell once more gently a-snoring.
"Talking about the Ogre—" began the Viscount.
"You mean—Jasper Gaunt?" Barnabas inquired.
"Precisely, dear fellow, and, talking of him, did you happen to notice a—fellow, hanging about downstairs,—a bristly being with one eye, Bev?"
"Yes, Dick."
"Ha!" said the Viscount nodding, "and talking of him, brings me back to my Honored Roman—thus, Bev. Chancing to find myself in—ha—hum—a little difficulty, a—let us say—financial tightness, Bev. I immediately thought of my father, which,—under the circumstances was, I think, very natural—and filial, my dear fellow. I said to myself, here is a man, the author of my being, who, though confoundedly Roman, is still my father, and, as such, owes certain duties to his son, sacred duties, Bev, not to be lightly esteemed, blinked, or set aside,—eh, Bev?"
"Undoubtedly!" said Barnabas.
"I, therefore, ventured to send him a letter, post-haste, gently reminding him of those same duties, and acquainting him with my—ah—needy situation,—which was also very natural, I think."
"Certainly!" said Barnabas, smiling.
"But—would you believe it, my dear fellow, he wrote, or rather, indited me an epistle, or, I should say, indictment, in his most Roman manner which—but egad! I'll read it to you, I have it here somewhere." And the Viscount began to rummage among the bedclothes, to feel and fumble under pillow and bolster, and eventually dragged forth a woefully crumpled document which he smoothed out upon his knees, and from which he began to read as follows:
"As soon as I saw that' t—i—o,' Bev, I knew it was no go. Had it been merely a—c—e I should have nourished hopes, but the 't—i—o' slew 'em—killed 'em stone dead and prepared me for a screed in my Honored Roman's best style, bristling with the Divine Right of Fathers, and, Bev—I got it. Listen:"
Upon reading your long and very eloquent letter, I was surprised to learn, firstly, that you required money, and secondly to observe that you committed only four solecisms in spelling,
("Gives me one at the very beginning, you'll notice,Bev.")
As regards the money, you will, I am sure, be amazed, nay astounded, to learn that you have already exceeded your allowance by some five hundred pounds—
("So I was, Bev, begad—I thought it was eight.")
As regards your spelling—
("Ah! here he leads again with his left, and gets one in,—low,Bev, low!")
As regards your spelling, as you know, I admire originality in all things; but it has, hitherto, been universally conceded that the word "eliminate" shall not and cannot begin with the letters i-l-l! "Vanquish" does not need a k. "Apathy" is spelled with but one p— while never before have I beheld "anguish" with a w.
("Now, Bev, that's what I call coming it a bit too strong!" sighed the Viscount, shaking his head; "'anguish' is anguish however you spell it! And, as for the others, let me tell you when a fellow has a one-eyed being with bristles hanging about his place, he isn't likely to be over particular as to his p's and q's, no, damme! Let's see, where were we? ah! here it is,—'anguish' with a 'w'!")
I quite agree with your remarks, viz. that a father's duties tohis son are sacred and holy—
("This is where I counter, Bev, very neatly,—listen! He quite agrees that,—")
—a father's duties to his son are sacred and holy, and not to be lightly esteemed, blinked, or set aside—
("Aha! had him there, Bev,—inside his guard, eh?")
I also appreciate, and heartily endorse your statement that it is to his father that a son should naturally turn for help—
("Had him again—a leveller that time, egad!")
naturally turn for help, but, when the son is constantly turning, then, surely, the father may occasionally turn too, like the worm. The simile, though unpleasant, is yet strikingly apt.
("Hum! there he counters me and gets one back, I suppose, Bev? Oh, I'll admit the old boy is as neat and quick with his pen as he used to be with his hands. He ends like this:")
I rejoice to hear that you are well in health, and pray that, despite the forthcoming steeplechase, dangerous as I hear it is, you may so continue. Upon this head I am naturally somewhat anxious, since I possess only one son. And I further pray that, wilfully reckless though he is, he may yet be spared to be worthy of the name that will be his when I shall have risen beyond it.
The Viscount sighed, and folded up his father's letter rather carefully.
"He's a deuced old Roman, of course," said he, "and yet—!" Here the Viscount turned, and slipped the letter back under his pillow with a hand grown suddenly gentle. "But there you are, Bev! Not a word about money,—so downstairs Bristles must continue to sit until—"
"If," said Barnabas diffidently, "if you would allow me to lend—"
"No, no, Bev—though I swear it's uncommon good of you. But really I couldn't allow it. Besides, Jerningham owes me something, I believe, at least, if he doesn't he did, and it's all one anyway. I sent the Imp over to him an hour ago; he'll let me have it, I know. Though I thank you none the less, my dear fellow, on my soul I do! But—oh deuce take me—you've nothing to drink! what will you take—?"
"Nothing, thanks, Dick. As a matter of fact, I came to ask you a favor—"
"Granted, my dear fellow!"
"I want you to ask Captain Slingsby to introduce me to Jasper Gaunt."
"Ah?" said the Viscount, coming to his elbow, "you mean on behalf of that—"
"Of Barrymaine, yes."
"It's—it's utterly preposterous!" fumed the Viscount.
"So you said before, Dick."
"You mean to—go on with it?"
"Of course!"
"You are still determined to befriend a—"
"More than ever, Dick."
"For—Her sake?"
"For Her sake. Yes, Dick," said Barnabas, beginning to frown a little. "I mean to free him from Gaunt, and rescue him from Chichester—if I can."
"But Chichester is about the only friend he has left, Bev."
"On the contrary, I think Chichester is his worst enemy."
"But—my dear fellow! Chichester is the only one who has stood by him in his disgrace, though why, I can't imagine."
"I think I can tell you the reason, and in one word," said Barnabas, his face growing blacker.
"Well, Bev,—what is it?"
"Cleone!" The Viscount started.
"What,—you think—? Oh, impossible! The fellow would never have a chance, she despises him, I know."
"And fears him too, Dick."
"Fears him? Gad! what do you mean, Bev?"
"I mean that, unworthy though he may be, she idolizes her brother."
"Half-brother, Bev."
"And for his sake, would sacrifice her fortune,—ah! and herself!"
"Well?"
"Well, Dick, Chichester knows this, and is laying his plans accordingly."
"How?"
"He's teaching Barrymaine to drink, for one thing—"
"He didn't need much teaching, Bev."
"Then, he has got him in his power,—somehow or other, anyhow, Barrymaine fears him, I know. When the time comes, Chichester means to reach the sister through her love for her brother, and—before he shall do that, Dick—" Barnabas threw up his head and clenched his fists.
"Well, Bev?"
"I'll—kill him, Dick."
"You mean—fight him, of course?"
"It would be all one," said Barnabas grimly.
"And how do you propose to—go about the matter—to save Barrymaine?"
"I shall pay off his debts, first of all."
"And then?"
"Take him away with me."
"When?"
"To-morrow, if possible—the sooner the better."
"And give up the race, Bev?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, sighing, "even that if need be."
Here the Viscount lay back among his pillows and stared up at the tester of the bed, and his gaze was still directed thitherwards when he spoke:
"And you would do all this—"
"For—Her sake," said Barnabas softly, "besides, I promised, Dick."
"And you have seen her—only once, Bev!"
"Twice, Dick."
Again there was silence while the Viscount stared up at the tester and Barnabas frowned down at the clenched fist on his knee.
"Gad!" said the Viscount suddenly, "Gad, Beverley, what a deuced determined fellow you are!"
"You see—I love her, Dick."
"And by the Lord, Bev, shall I tell you what I begin to think?"
"Yes, Dick."
"Well, I begin to think that in spite of—er—me, and hum—all the rest of 'em, in spite of everything—herself included, if need be, —you'll win her yet."
"And shall I tell you what I begin to think, Dick?"
"Yes."
"I begin to think that you have never—loved her at all."
"Eh?" cried the Viscount, starting up very suddenly, "what?—never lov—oh, Gad, Beverley! what the deuce should make you think that?"
"Clemency!" said Barnabas.
The Viscount stared, opened his mouth, shut it, ran his fingers through his hair, and fell flat upon his pillows again.
"So now," said Barnabas the persistent, "now you know why I am so anxious to meet Jasper Gaunt."
"Gaunt!" said the Viscount dreamily, "Gaunt!"
"Captain Slingsby has to see him this afternoon,—at least so you said, and I was wondering—"
"Slingsby! Oh, egad I forgot! so he has,—curricle's ordered for half-past three. Will you oblige me by prodding him with your cane, Bev? Don't be afraid,—poke away, my dear fellow, Sling takes a devil of a lot of waking."
Thus admonished, Barnabas presently succeeded in arousing the somnolent Slingsby, who, lifting a drowsy head, blinked sleepily, and demanded in an injured tone:
"Wha' the dooce it was all about, b'gad?" Then having yawned prodigiously and come somewhat to himself, he proceeded to crawl from under the settee, when, catching sight of Barnabas, he sprang lightly to his feet and greeted him cordially.
"Ah, Beverley!" he cried,—"how goes it? Glad you woke me—was having a devil of a dream. Thought the 'Rascal' had strained his 'off' fore-leg, and was out of the race! What damnable things dreams are, b'gad!"
"My dear Sling," said the Viscount, "it is exactly a quarter past three."
"Oh, is it, b'gad! Well?"
"And at four o'clock I believe you have an appointment with Gaunt."
"Gaunt!" repeated the Captain, starting, and Barnabas saw all the light and animation die out of his face, "Gaunt,—yes, I—b'gad!—I 'd forgotten, Devenham."
"You ordered your curricle for half-past three, didn't you?"
"Yes, and I've no time to bathe—ought to shave, though, and oh, damme,—look at my cravat!"
"You'll find everything you need in my dressing-room, Sling."
The Captain nodded his thanks, and forthwith vanished into the adjacent chamber, whence he was to be heard at his ablutions, puffing and blowing, grampus-like. To whom thus the Viscount, raising his voice: "Oh, by the way, Sling, Beverley wants to go with you." Here the Captain stopped, as it seemed in the very middle of a puff, and when he spoke it was in a tone of hoarse incredulity:
"Eh,—b'gad, what's that?"
"He wants you to introduce him to Jasper Gaunt."
Here a sudden explosive exclamation, and, thereafter, the Captain appeared as in the act of drying himself, his red face glowing from between the folds of the towel while he stared from the Viscount to Barnabas with round eyes.
"What!" he exclaimed at last, "you, too, Beverley! Poor devil, have you come to it—and so soon?"
"No," said Barnabas, shaking his head, "I wish to see him on behalf of another—"
"Eh? Another? Oh—!"
"On behalf of Mr. Ronald Barrymaine."
"Of Barrym—" Here the Captain suddenly fell to towelling himself violently, stopped to stare at Barnabas again, gave himself another futile rub or two, and, finally, dropped the towel altogether. "On behalf of—oh b'gad!" he exclaimed, and incontinent vanished into the dressing-room. But, almost immediately he was back again, this time wielding a shaving brush. "Wish to see—Gaunt, do you?" he inquired.
"Yes," said Barnabas.
"And," said the Captain, staring very hard at the shaving brush, "not—on your own account?"
"No," answered Barnabas.
"But on behalf—I think you said—of—"
"Of Ronald Barrymaine," said Barnabas.
"Oh!" murmured the Captain, and vanished again. But now Barnabas followed him.
"Have you any objection to my going with you?" he inquired.
"Not in the least," answered the Captain, making hideous faces at himself in the mirror as he shaved, "oh, no—delighted, 'pon my soul, b'gad—only—"
"Well?"
"Only, if it's time you're going to ask for—it's no go, my boy—hard-fisted old rasper, you know the saying,—(Bible, I think), figs, b'gad, and thistles, bread from stones, but no mercy from Jasper Gaunt."
"I don't seek his mercy," said Barnabas.
"Why, then, my dear Beverley—ha! there's Jenk come up to say the curricle's at the door."
Sure enough, at the moment, the Viscount's gentleman presented himself to announce the fact, albeit mournfully and with a sigh. He was about to bow himself out again when the Viscount stayed him with an upraised finger.
"Jenkins," said he, "my very good Jenk!"
"Yes, m'lud?" said Jenkins.
"Is the person with the—ah—bristles—still downstairs?"
"He is, m'lud," said Jenkins, with another sigh.
"Then tell him to possess his soul in patience, Jenk,—for I fear he will remain there a long, long time."
"You don't mind if we—drive about a bit, do you, Beverley?"
"Not in the least."
"I—er—I generally go the longest way round when I have to call on—"
"On Gaunt?"
"Yes."
Now as they went, Barnabas noticed that a change had come over his companion, his voice had lost much of its jovial ring, his eye its sparkle, while his ruddy cheeks were paler than their wont; moreover he was very silent, and sat with bent head and with his square shoulders slouched dejectedly. Therefore Barnabas must needs cast about for some means of rousing him from this depression.
"You drive a very handsome turnout," said he at last.
"It is neat, isn't it?" nodded Slingsby, his eye brightening.
"Very!" said Barnabas, "and the horses—"
"Horses!" cried the Captain, almost himself again, "ha, b'gad—there's action for you—and blood too! I was a year matching 'em. Cost me eight hundred guineas—and cheap at the money—but—"
"Well?"
"After all, Beverley, they—aren't mine, you see."
"Not yours?"
"No. They're—his!"
"You mean—Gaunt's?"
The Captain nodded gloomily.
"Yes," said he, "my horses are his, my curricle's his, my clothes are his—everything's his. So am I, b'gad! Oh, you needn't look so infernal incredulous—fact, I assure you. And, when you come to think of it—it's all cursed humorous, isn't it?" and here the Captain contrived to laugh, though it rang very hollow, to be sure.
"You owe—a great deal then?" said Barnabas.
"Owe?" said the Captain, turning to look at him, "I'm in up to my neck, and getting deeper. Owe! B'gad, Beverley—I believe you!" But now, at sight of gravefaced Barnabas, he laughed again, and this time it sounded less ghoul-like. "Debt is a habit," he continued sententiously, "that grows on one most damnably, and creditors are the most annoying people in the world—so confoundedly unreasonable! Of course I pay 'em—now and then—deserving cases, y' know. Fellow called on me t' other day,—seemed to know his face. 'Who are you?' says I. 'I'm the man who makes your whips, sir,' says he. 'And devilish good whips too!' says I, 'how much do I owe you?' 'Fifteen pounds, sir,' says he, 'I wouldn't bother you only'—well, it seemed his wife was sick—fellow actually blubbered! So of course I rang for my rascal Danby, Danby's my valet, y' know. 'Have you any money, Danby?' says I. 'No sir,' says he; queer thing, but Danby never has, although I pay him regularly—devilish improvident fellow, Danby! So I went out and unearthed Jerningham—and paid the fellow on the spot—only right, y' know."
"But why not pay your debts with your own money?" Barnabas inquired.
"For the very good reason that it all went,—ages ago!"
"Why, then," said Barnabas, "earn more."
"Eh?" said the Captain, staring, "earn it? My dear Beverley, I never earned anything in my life, except my beggarly pay, and that isn't enough even for my cravats."
"Well, why not begin?"
"Begin? To earn money? How?"
"You might work," suggested Barnabas.
"Work?" repeated the Captain, starting, "eh, what? Oh, I see, you're joking, of course,—deuced quaint, b'gad!"
"No, I'm very serious," said Barnabas thoughtfully.
"Are you though! But what the deuce kind of work d'you suppose I'm fit for?"
"All men can work!" said Barnabas, more thoughtfully than before.
"Well,—I can ride, and shoot, and drive a coach with any one."
"Anything more?"
"No,—not that I can think of."
"Have you never tried to work, then,—hard work, I mean?"
"Oh Lord, no! Besides, I've always been too busy, y'know. I've never had to work. Y' see, as luck would have it, I was born a gentleman, Beverley."
"Yes," nodded Barnabas, more thoughtful than ever, "but—what is a gentleman?"
"A gentleman? Why—let me think!" said the Captain, manoeuvring his horses skilfully as they swung into the Strand.
And when he had thought as far as the Savoy he spoke:
"A gentleman," said he, "is a fellow who goes to a university, but doesn't have to learn anything; who goes out into the world, but doesn't have to—work at anything; and who has never been blackballed at any of the clubs. I've done a good many things in my time, but I've never had to work."
"That is a great pity!" sighed Barnabas.
"Oh! is it, b'gad! And why?"
"Because hard work ennobles a man," said Barnabas.
"Always heard it was a deuce of a bore!" murmured the Captain.
"Exertion," Barnabas continued, growing a little didactic perhaps, "exertion is—life. By idleness come degeneration and death."
"Sounds cursed unpleasant, b'gad!" said the Captain.
"The work a man does lives on after him," Barnabas continued, "it is his monument when he is no more, far better than your high-sounding epitaphs and stately tombs, yes, even though it be only the furrow he has ploughed, or the earth his spade has turned."
"But,—my dear fellow, you surely wouldn't suggest that I should take up—digging?"
"You might do worse," said Barnabas, "but—"
"Ha!" said the Captain, "well now, supposing I was a—deuced good digger,—a regular rasper, b'gad! I don't know what a digger earns, but let's be moderate and say five or six pounds a week. Well, what the deuce good d'you suppose that would be to me? Why, I still owe Gaunt, as far as I can figure it up, about eighty thousand pounds, which is a deuced lot more than it sounds. I should have been rotting in the Fleet, or the Marshalsea, years ago if it hadn't been for my uncle's gout, b'gad!"
"His gout?"
"Precisely! Every twinge he has—up goes my credit. I'm his only heir, y'know, and he's seventy-one. At present he's as sound as a bell, —actually rode to hounds last week, b'gad! Consequently my credit's—nowhere. Jolly old boy, though—deuced fond of him—ha! there's Haynes! Over yonder! Fellow driving the phaeton with the black-a-moor in the rumble."
"You mean the man in the bright green coat?"
"Yes. Call him 'Pea-green Haynes'—one of your second-rate, ultra dandies. Twig his vasty whiskers, will you! Takes his fellow hours to curl 'em. And then his cravat, b'gad!"
"How does he turn his head?" inquired Barnabas.
"Never does,—can't! I lost a devilish lot to him at hazard a few years ago—crippled me, y' know. But talking of my uncle—devilish fond of him—always was."
"But mark you, Beverley, a man has no right—no business to go on living after he's seventy, at least, it shows deuced bad taste, I think—so thoughtless, y'know. Hallo! why there's Ball Hughes—driving the chocolate-colored coach, and got up like a regular jarvey. Devilish rich, y'know—call him 'The Golden Ball'—deuce of a fellow! Pitch and toss, or whist at five pound points, damme! Won small fortune from Petersham at battledore and shuttlecock,—played all night too."
"And have you lost to him also?"
"Of course?"
"Do you ever win?"
"Oh, well—now and then, y'know, though I'm generally unlucky. Must have been under—Aldeboran, is it?—anyhow, some cursed star or other. Been dogged by ill-luck from my cradle, b'gad! On the turf, in the clubs and bells, even in the Peninsular!"
"So you fought in the Peninsular?"
"Oh, yes."
"And did you gamble there too?"
"Naturally—whenever I could."
"And did you lose?"
"Generally. Everything's been against me, y'know—even my size."
"How so?"
"Well, there was a fellow in the Eighty-eighth, name of Crichton. I'd lost to him pretty heavily while we were before Ciudad Rodrigo. The night before the storming—we both happened to have volunteered, y'know—'Crichton,' says I, 'I'll go you double or quits I'm into the town to-morrow before you are.' 'Done!' says he. Well, we advanced to the attack about dawn, about four hundred of us. The breach was wide enough to drive a battery through, but the enemy had thrown up a breast-work and fortified it during the night. But up we went at the 'double,' Crichton and I in front, you may be sure. As soon as the Frenchies opened fire, I began to run,—so did Crichton, but being longer in the leg, I was at the breach first, and began to scramble over the débris. Crichton was a little fellow, y' know, but game all through, and active as a cat, and b'gad, presently above the roar and din, I could hear him panting close behind me. Up we went, nearer and nearer, with our fellows about a hundred yards in our rear, clambering after us and cheering as they came. I was close upon the confounded breastwork when I took a musket-ball through my leg, and over I went like a shot rabbit, b'gad! Just then Crichton panted up. 'Hurt?' says he. 'Only my leg,' says I, 'go on, and good luck to you.' 'Devilish rough on you, Sling!' says he, and on he went. But he'd only gone about a couple of yards when he threw up his arms and pitched over on his face. 'Poor Crichton's done for!' says I to myself, and made shift to crawl over to him. But b'gad! he saw me coming, and began to crawl too. So there we were, on our hands and knees, crawling up towards the Frenchies as hard as we could go. My leg was deuced—uncomfortable, y' know, but I put on a spurt, and managed to draw level with him. 'Hallo, Sling!' says he, 'here's where you win, for I'm done!' and over he goes again. 'So am I, for that matter,' says I—which was only the truth, Beverley. So b'gad, there we lay, side by side, till up came our fellows, yelling like fiends, past us and over us, and charged the breastwork with the bayonet,—and carried it too! Presently, up came two stragglers,—a corporal of the Eighty-eighth and a sergeant of 'Ours.' 'Hi, Corporal,' yells Crichton, 'ten pounds if you can get me over the breastwork—quick's the word!' 'Sergeant,' says I, 'twenty pounds if you get me over first.' Well, down went the Corporal's musket and the Sergeant's pike, and on to their backs we scrambled—a deuced painful business for both of us, I give you my word, Beverley. So we began our race again—mounted this time. But it was devilish bad going, and though the Sergeant did his best, I came in a very bad second. You see, I'm no light weight, and Crichton was."
"You lost, then?"
"Oh, of course, even my size is against me, you see." Hereupon, once more, and very suddenly, the Captain relapsed into his gloomy mood, nor could Barnabas dispel it; his efforts were rewarded only by monosyllables until, swinging round into a short and rather narrow street, he brought his horses to a walk.
"Here we are, Beverley!"
"Where?" Barnabas inquired.
"Kirby Street,—his street. And there's the house,—his house," and Captain Slingsby pointed his whip at a high, flat-fronted house. It was a repellent-looking place with an iron railing before it, and beyond this railing a deep and narrow area, where a flight of damp steps led down to a gloomy door. The street was seemingly a quiet one, and, at this hour, deserted save for themselves and a solitary man who stood with his back to them upon the opposite side of the way, apparently lost in profound thought. A very tall man he was, and very upright, despite the long white hair that showed beneath his hat, which, like his clothes, was old and shabby, and Barnabas noticed that his feet were bare. This man Captain Slingsby incontinent hailed in his characteristic fashion.