“Well, look here, I’m not a rich man; but as far as a sovereign goes—” and he extended the coin.
The man in black drew back a little. “I’d rather you give it ’em yourself, sir,” he said.
“Why?”
“Well, I dunno, sir; p’r’aps there’s more’n one reason. One thing, though; the missis is sometimes a leetle curious about my pockets when I’m asleep; and she don’t always understand explanations. Look here—I tell you what.”
He rapped on the counter and demanded pen, ink, and an envelope. Then, with some labor, he inscribed an address on the envelope. “Put a post-office order in that, sir,” he said, “and post it. And I’m trustin’ your honor about the address.”
The door of the inner bar was thrust open, and a large female face appeared, under a flowery bonnet. It bent a frown on the man in black, jerked backward with commanding significance, and vanished.
“That’s the missis,” said the hangman, reaching for his bag. “I said she was uneasy about this job. She wants to know. She don’t want to move, either. Good-mornin’, sir, and thankee.”
Warren waited a second and then followed him out. He looked up Fleet Street and there saw the receding back view of a small man in seedy black, in the custody of a gigantic woman in a Paisley shawl, with a ragged dog trotting contentedly behind.
“Good Lord!” ejaculated Mr. Warren.
BYLESTONES
First published in The Strand Magazine, August 1912
More than once already I have said that Snorkey Timms was not a person of any constitutional honesty, except in an oblique and cranky way toward such of his intimates as trusted the honour he never claimed to possess. Perhaps his chief personal characteristic was a dislike of the particular form of violence called work; and no argument could change his views.
It ain’t that I’ve never tried work, he said, sucking with much enjoyment at his pipe, just filled from my pouch—his taste in tobacco was almost his only creditable characteristic—you mustn’t suppose that. I’ve tried it right enough, though not often, bein’ only ’uman, as you might say. It may pay some, but I don’t seem to be that sort. Born different, I s’pose. Why, the hardest work I ever did—my word, it was a drive, too!—I lost money over—lost it. An’ after workin’ like two ’orses all night, too! Fair makes me shudder when I remember it.
Somebody had been a-preachin’ about honesty to me I s’pose, like what you do sometimes. So I took on a job as a book-maker’s minder—you know what that is, o’ course. You just ’ang about your bloke’s pitch on the course, an’ if anybody gets makin’ a dispute with him, or claimin’ what your bloke don’t mean to pay, or what not, why you just give ’im a push in the fore. O’ course, you get it back sometimes, but that’s what you’re paid for. Choppy Byles was my bloke—he was a nut, and no mistake. There wasn’t nothing that Choppy Byles wasn’t up to. He was up to such a lot o’ things that he kep’ two minders reg’lar—and he wanted ’em, too, I can tell ye. We could ’a’ done with a few more to ’elp us most times, could me and Jerry Stagg, the other minder. Both of us had either one eye or the other black, permanent, while the flat-racin’ season was on; an’ once we went ’ome from Alexander’s Park with about three-quarters of a weskit between us an’ nothing else on us but bruises. But Choppy Byles, he was all right, and a mile away ’fore the row got into its swing; he ’ad quite a payin’ afternoon.
Chipstead Spring Meeting and Felby races is within a few days of each other, and not more’n twenty mile apart—as o’ course you know, like any other educated feller. About ’alf-way between them two towns is a little place called Nuthatch, and the year I’m a-speakin’ of Mr. Choppy Byles and us two, Jerry Stagg and me, we stayed at Nuthatch over the day or two between the two meetin’s; I dunno why, unless there was somebody in London as Choppy Byles didn’t want to see afore he’d made a bit at Felby.
Me and Jerry Stagg, we thought we was in for a nice little day or two’s holiday in the country. But Mr. Choppy Byles didn’t take no holidays—he was out for business all the time. He’d race two earwigs over a cabbage-leaf and bet pennies on it with the green-grocer’s boy, rather than miss a chance. And as luck would have it, we found the people at Nuthatch quite a sportin’ lot; in fact, we didn’t give ’em full credit till we come away; and then we was ready to swear they ’atched ’arder nuts at Nuthatch than any place forty times its size.
It was a rest-an’-be-thankful sort o’ place to look at, though, and as comfortable and cosy a pub to stay at as ever I see. It ’ud convert any teetotaller to look at it, would the Fox and ’Ounds. We got there in the evenin’ after Chipstead, an’ sat in the parlour a-talkin’ to the Nuthatchers an’ doin’ our best to astonish the natives. And all through the conversation, whatever was said, there was our bloke, Mr. Choppy Byles, feelin’ round and hintin’ to find if he couldn’t get a bet on with somebody about any ol’ thing. At last he got on to runnin’, an’ it turns out the Nuthatchers had got a chap they fancied could run a good mile.
That was enough for Choppy Bytes. He was on it. The runnin’ chap’s name was Dobbin—Jarge Dobbin they called ’im—an’ it didn’t seem to stand to reason that a chap with a name like that could run a fast mile. What was more, Choppy Byles’s memory was wonderful, and, follerin’ the Sheffield ’andicaps reg’lar, he knew the name o’ pretty well everything on two legs that could raise a toddle, and the name o’ Jarge Dobbin wasn’t one of ’em. But he always wanted the best bargain he could make, did Choppy; so he began comin’ the innocent kid.
“’E must be a wonderful runner,” he said, “this here Dobbin. I s’pose ’e could run a mile in four minutes quite easy?”
“Why, no,” says the Nuthatcher as was talkin’ most—chap called Gosling—“nobody could do that. The best as was ever done in the world was nearly thirteen seconds more’n that.”
“Was it?” says Choppy, lettin’ on to be surprised. “Well, o’ course, I dunno nothin’ about them things. I only seemed to ’ave a sort of idea that four minutes would be pretty quick. I s’pose he’d do it all right in four minutes and a ’alf?”
“No,” says Gosling; “that’s championship time, too. Jarge Dobbin ain’t a champion, not yet. But he’d run a mile on the road in five minutes.”
“That seems rather slow for sich a very fine runner,” says Choppy.
“Well, I think he could beat that,” says Gosling; and a whole lot o’ the others there said they was sure he could.
“Ah!” says Choppy. “Sich a man as him ought. You don’t seem to be stickin’ up for your pal half enough. I expect you’d be glad to bet big odds he’d do it in four minutes an’ three-quarters?”
“Why, yes,” says one chap in the crowd, “I would.” An’ some o’ the others says “’Ear, ’ear!” But Gosling, he sat considerin’. He was a fat, jolly-lookin’ feller, but very thoughtful, with sharp little eyes.
“I wouldn’t bet very big odds,” he says, presently. “But I’d give a bit of odds he’d do it—say between the forty-fourth and forty-fifth milestones along the main London road here.”
“What odds?” asks Choppy, snappin’ him up quick. “Two to one?”
“Why, no,” says Gosling, in his slow way; “not sich odds as them. ‘Five to four.”
Choppy ’aggled a bit, but he couldn’t get the odds no longer. So it was settled and put down in writin’ that Jarge Dobbin was to run from the forty-fourth to the forty-fifth milestone, next day, in four minutes forty-five seconds, if he could, the stakes bein’ five quid to four on his doin’ it. An’ as soon as that was fixed Choppy Byles began offerin’ side bets all round.
“Not in my ’ouse,” says the landlord. “I can’t ’ave no bettin’ ’ere. I’ve got my licence to think of. You’ll ’ave to go outside if that’s your game.”
So everybody got up an’ went out. Jist as we came tumblin’ out into the lane Choppy gives me a drive in
the ribs and whispers “’Ere’s your chance to make a bit for yourself. Take the odds, same as me, an’ tell Jerry Stagg.”
What his game was o’ course I didn’t know, but it was pretty clear there was something up his sleeve—it was the sort o’ sleeve there’s allus something up, was Choppy’s. Well, I told you the Nuthatchers were a sportin’ lot, but it would ha’ surprised you to see the little crowd out there under the stars in that peaceful village a-backin’ and a-layin’ that evenin’. Choppy Byles, he took every bet he could get, givin’ evens when there was no more odds to be got, an’ then offerin’ odds against—anything to pile it up. Jerry Stagg an’ me, we got our little bit on soon and stopped; and sooner or later all the others stopped too, and went ’ome. It was the sort o’ place where they go to bed in the middle o’ the evenin’.
The back door o’ the Fox and ’Ounds was left on the latch all night for the potman to come in in the mornin’. Choppy found that out by tellin’ the landlord he’d take a evenin’ stroll, and might be in late. So Choppy gave us the tip and went out for his stroll; and when everybody else was in bed we went out very quiet by the back way, and found Choppy waitin’ for us.
“Come along,” says he. “Don’t make no row, and don’t waste time; there’s a job o’ work for you two.”
“Work?” says we; an’ I could ’ear Jerry Stagg shudderin’ in the dark.
“Yes,” says Choppy, “and you’ll ’ave to do it smart if you want to win them bets you’ve made.”
“’Ow’s that?” says I.
“Why,” says he, “we’re goin’ to shove one o’ them milestones a bit further along the road. We might win with ’em where they are, but it’s always best to make sure.”
Quite a genius, you see, was Choppy Byles—a genius out an’ out. How many ’ud ’a’ thought o’ sich a move as that? Not one in a million.
“But won’t they spot it?” says Jerry, a bit doubtful.
“Not if we do it careful,” says Choppy. “And, besides, what odds if they do? We ain’t takin’ no witnesses, and it’s down plain enough, in black an’ white. Between the forty-fourth and forty-fifth milestones, it says, an’ nothing about ’ow far apart they’re to be. Nobody can’t get over that. What’s more, that chap Gosling, I believe he knows something about them milestones. What for should he pick on them two and no others? And it was him as put it down on the paper; remember—not a mile, but between them stones. It struck me mighty odd at the time. It’s a short mile, that’s what that is an’ he knows it. There’s lots of ’em like that about the country, where they put the motor traps. So we shall only be putting the mistake right, or thereabouts, and doin’ the nation a favour, as well as takin’ it out o’ that dishonest sharp, Gosling. Come along. That won’t be a short mile tomorrow mornin’, whatever else it is.”
The village was mostly scattered about a lane leadin’ out o’ the main road, you understand, so up the lane we goes. It was a windy night and very dark—just as suited us.
When we come out on the main road we looks up an’ down in the dark for two or three minutes ’fore we spotted there was a milestone right opposyte the end o’ the lane. So across the road we went, and began strikin’ matches to read what was on it.
I began, but arter about fifteen matches had blown out before I could see anything more than it was a milestone, Choppy Bytes lost his temper and had a go himself. We stood round, Jerry and me, and spread our coats while Choppy knelt down and struck more matches, talkin’ about ’em that pretty all the while I wonder the milestone didn’t catch fire itself. It was a worn old thing and not easy to make out, but presently Choppy persuaded a match to keep alight a bit, and then he jumped up.
“That’s one of ’em,” he says; “number forty-five. But it’s right opposite the end o’ the lane and everybody’ll remember that. P’r’aps forty-four’s in a easier place. Let’s see—that’ll be this way.” So we starts off walkin’ to the right.
We hadn’t gone much more’n half-way when we came to the church, with the graveyard round it.
“Just the place we want,” says Choppy. “There’s sure to be a shed with spades and things in it. I was rather lookin’ for a farm shed.”
So we went gropin’ about round the church, and, sure enough, we found a shed all right, with no lock on the door and a whole lot o’ shovels and picks and what not in it, and a wheelbarrer—one o’ them wide, flat sort as navvies use. It looked as though Choppy Byles’s usual luck was in.
We shoved a crowbar and a couple o’ shovels and picks on the barrer, and Jerry Stagg had just started wheelin’ it down the path to the gate when we got one o’ the biggest frights I ever had in my life. We very near ran into a man standing in the gateway.
“Ullo!” says the man. “What’s all this?”
“Sh!” Choppy whispers to us. “Not a word!” and he shoved in front.
“Good evenin’!” says he to the chap. “We thought you’d ha’ been in bed, or we’d ha’ come round. We just wanted to borrow—hire, that is—the barrer and shovels for a hour or two, to bury a—a dawg.”
“Well,” says the chap, “you’ve come out a rum time to bury a dawg.”
“Why, yes,” says Choppy, “we ’ave left it a bit late; but we wanted to keep it very private—not ’avin’ a licence for the dawg, you see. Now, what should you think might be a fair charge for us borrowin’ these things for a couple of hours, strictly private, to bury a dawg?”
“Well,” says the chap, “it’ll come a bit dear. That there Christian wheelbarrer an’ things out of a churchyard oughtn’t properly to be used to bury a dawg at all—specially a dawg with no licence. There’s the strain on my conscience to consider,” he says. “Say a quid.”
“Bit ’igh, ain’t it?” Choppy says, with his hand in his pocket. He was always a dreadful ’ard ’un to part, was Choppy.
“I told you it ’ud come a bit ’igh,” says the chap; “specially if it’s got to be kep’ private. A quid.”
So, seein’ there was no help for it, Choppy lugged out the money and ’anded over. “Mind,” he says, “this is strict Q. T.—between ourselves. We’ll be careful to put the things back again.”
“I don’t care whether you do or not,” says the chap, turnin’ out o’ the gate and chucklin’ all over. “They ain’t my things. I only took a look in as I went along!”
I’d almost ’a’ give another quid to see Choppy’s face just then, but I could guess it. We shoved out into the road, and I could hear Choppy’s rage almost bustin’ out through his ears and nose. “If it wasn’t for givin’ away the show,” he said, presently, as we went along the road, “we’d have it back out of him. Never mind—I’ll get it all back tomorrow. Keep your eyes a-goin’ for that milestone.”
It wanted watchin’ for in the dark, for there was a lot o’ big trees along the hedge just thereabout, which made it darker than ever. Pretty soon we spotted it, however, right in against the bank, with long grass and thistles and what not all round it. The trees sheltered us a bit more here, so we didn’t have to waste so many matches, and there was the “44 miles” all right and plain enough. So we set to work.
Me and Jerry did the diggin’ and Choppy Byles did the lookin’ out—just the department he would choose. It was a sight easier than our job, anyhow, for that ground was very near as hard as the milestone itself. We dug pretty hard for a bit, and then Jerry took hold o’ the top o’ the stone and gave it a shove. It stood like a rock. “My wig!” says Jerry. “I wonder ’ow far it goes down?”
We went at it again, and the more we dug the ’arder the ground got. I never had sich work; and I was just slackin’ off a bit for a rest when we had another startler.
A strange voice says, all of a sudden: “Look ’ere—I’m sharin’ in that!”
Jerry Stagg fell over his spade, and I sat down whop. Choppy Byles spun round with a jump, and there in the road was a chap s
tandin’ watchin’ us.
“I’ve bin sittin’ over ’Ome Chips ’arf the night workin’ out that clue,” says the chap, “and now I come along and find you diggin’ on the very spot. I reckon I share in that treasure.”
This was the time when the buried-treasure rage was on, as you’ll remember. All sorts o’ papers buried money all over the shop, and parties was a-diggin’ and pokin’ about everywhere after it. We was relieved the chap wasn’t up to our game, but it was a bit awkward.
“What rot!” says Choppy. “We’re buryin’ a dawg!”
“Dawg be blowed!” says the chap. “Show me your dawg!”
“Certainly not,” Choppy says, very decided. “It’s a private dawg. You’ve done the clue wrong, that’s what it is. Go back and do it again, careful.”
“I have done it careful,” says the chap; “and now I’ll stop here and see if I’m wrong or not.”
“No,” says Choppy Byles, gettin’ nasty, “you won’t stop here, not when you come to think of it you won’t. When we go out buryin’ dawgs, private dawgs, we want to be let alone, see? And there’s three of us, with shovels. No, when you come to think of it, this is what you’ll think,” says Choppy, speakin’ more friendly, and gettin’ nearer to the chap, with his hand in his pocket again; “this is what you’ll think. You’ll think to yourself, ‘’Ere’s three genelmen buryin’ a dawg, a private dawg, what they’re very grieved over. If I was right about that there treasure,’ you’ll think, ‘why, they’re there first anyhow, an’ there’s three of ’em with shovels and other things just as ’ard, and I’d better not make ’em angry,’ you’ll think. ‘I’d better take a friendly quid what they offer me and go away, and write to the editor of ’Ome Chips for a consolation prize.’ That’s what you’ll think if you’re a reasonable chap, as knows what’s best and safest.”
“Well,” says the chap, steppin’ back a bit and speakin’ milder, “I am a-thinkin’ something o’ the sort, since you put it that way. Only I’m a-thinkin’ the friendly quid ought to be two.”
The Arthur Morrison Mystery Page 175