Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

“Quite right, quite right! I like a man who can keep his tongue in its kennel!” cried the bank manager, rubbing his hands. “But wait while I tell ye: ye’d need to work for your rations an any station I ever heard tell of, and I keep the accounts of enough to know. Now, with me, ye’d get two pound a week till your share o’ the reward was wiped off; and if we had no luck for a year you’d be no worse off, but could go and try your squatters then. That’s a promise, and I’ll keep it as sure as my name’s Andr’ Macbean!”

  “But how do you propose to catch this fellow, Mr. Macbean?”

  The bank manager looked on all sides, likewise behind the tree, before replying under his breath: “By setting a wee trap for him! A bank’s a bank, and Stingaree hasna stuck one up since he took to his trade. But I’ll tell ye no more till ye give me your answer. Yes or no?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t even write an office hand; and as for figures — —”

  Mr. Macbean laughed outright.

  “Did I say I was going to take ye into the bank, mun?” cried he. “There’s three of us already to do the writin’ an’ the cipherin,’ an’ three’s enough. Can you ride?”

  “I have ridden.”

  “And ye’ll do any rough job I set ye to?”

  “The rougher the better.”

  “That’s all I ask. There’s a buggy and a pair for ye to mind, and mebbe drive, though it’s horseback errands you’ll do most of. I’m an old widower, living alone with an aged housekeeper. The cashier and the clerk dig in the township, and I need to have a man of some sort about the place; in fact, I have one, but I’ll soon get rid of him if you’ll come instead. Understand, you live in the house with me, just like the jackeroos on the stations; and like the jackeroos, you do all the odd jobs and dirty work that no one else’ll look at; but, unlike them, you get two pounds a week from the first for doing it.”

  Mr. Andrew Macbean had chanced upon a magic word. It was the position of “jackeroo,” or utility parlor-man, on one or other of the stations to which he carried introductions, that his young countryman had set before him as his goal. True, a bank in a bush township was not a station in the bush itself. On the other hand, his would-be friend was not the first to warn Fergus against the futility of expecting more than a nominal salary as a babe and suckling in Colonial experience; and perhaps the prime elements of that experience might be gained as well in the purlieus of a sufficiently remote township as in realms unnamed on any map. It will be seen that the sober stripling was reduced to arguing with himself, and that his main argument was not to be admitted in his own heart. The mysterious eccentricity of his employer, coupled with the adventurous character of his alleged prospects, was what induced the lad to embrace both in defiance of an unimaginative hard-headedness which he aimed at rather than possessed.

  With characteristic prudence he had left his baggage on board the river-steamer, and his own hands carried it piecemeal to the bank. This was a red-brick bungalow with an ample veranda, standing back from the future street that was as yet little better than a country road. The veranda commanded a long perspective of pines, but no further bricks and mortar, and but very few weather board walls. The yard behind the house was shut in by as many outbuildings as clustered about the small homesteads which Fergus had already beheld on the banks of the Murrumbidgee. The man in charge of the yard was palpably in liquor, a chronic condition from his general appearance, and Mr. Macbean discharged him on the spot with a decision which left no loophole for appeal. The woman in charge of the house adorned another plane of civilization; she was very deaf, and very outspoken on her introduction to the young gentleman, whose face she was pleased to approve, with the implied reservation that all faces were liars; but she served up the mutton of the country hot and tender; and Fergus Carrick, leaning back after an excellent repast, marvelled for the twentieth time that he was not to pay for it.

  “A teetotaler, are ye?” said Macbean, mixing a third glass of whiskey, with the skull-cap on the back of his head. “And so was I at your age; but you’re my very man. There are some it sets talking. Wait till the old lady turns in, and then you shall see what you shall see.”

  Fergus waited in increasing excitement. The day’s events were worthier of a dream. To have set foot in Glenranald without knowing a soul in the place, and to find one’s self comfortably housed at a good salary before night! There were moments when he questioned the complete sanity of his eccentric benefactor, who drank whiskey like water, both as to quantity and effect, and who chuckled continuously in his huge gray beard. But such doubts only added to the excitement of the evening, which reached a climax when a lighted candle was thrust in at the door and the pair advised not to make a night of it by the candid crone on her way to bed.

  “We will give her twenty minutes,” said the manager, winking across his glass. “I’ve never let her hear me, and she mustn’t hear you either. She must know nothing at all about it; nobody must, except you and me.”

  The mystification of Fergus was now complete. Unimaginative as he was by practice and profession, he had an explanation a minute until the time was up, when the truth beat them all for wild improbability. Macbean had risen, lifting the lamp; holding it on high he led the way through baize doors into the banking premises. Here was another door, which Macbean not only unlocked, but locked again behind them both. A small inner office led them into a shuttered chamber of fair size, with a broad polished counter, glass swing-doors, and a formidable portal beyond. And one of young Carrick’s theories received apparent confirmation on the spot; for the manager slipped behind his counter by another door, and at once whipped out a great revolver.

  “This they provide us with,” said he. “So far it is our only authorized defence, and it hangs on a hook down here behind the counter. But you march in here prepared, your pistol cocked behind your back, and which of us is likely to shoot first?”

  “The bushranger,” said Fergus, still rather more startled than reassured.

  “The bushranger, of course. Stingaree, let us say. As for me, either my arms go up, or down I go in a heap. But supposing my arms do go up — supposing I still touch something with one foot — and supposing the floor just opens and swallows Mr. Sanguinary Stingaree! Eh? eh? What then?”

  “It would be great,” cried Fergus. “But could it be done?”

  “It can be, it will be, and is being done,” replied the manager, replacing the bank revolver and sliding over the counter like a boy. A square of plain linoleum covered the floor, overlapped by a border of the same material bearing a design. Down went Macbean upon his knees, and his beard swept this border as he began pulling it up, tacks and all.

  The lamp burned brightly on the counter, its rays reflected in the burnished mahogany. All at once Fergus seized it on his own initiative, and set it on the floor before his kneeling elder, going upon his own knees on the other side. And where the plain linoleum ended, but where the overlapping border covered the floor, the planks were sawn through and through down one side of the central and self-colored square.

  “A trap-door!” exclaimed Fergus in a whisper.

  Macbean leant back on his slippered heels, his skull-cap wickedly awry.

  “This border takes a lot o’ lifting,” said he. “Yet we’ve just got to lift it every time, and tack it down again before morning. You might try your hand over yonder on the far side.”

  Fergus complied with so much energy that the whole border was ripped up in a minute; and he was not mistaken. A trap-door it was, of huge dimensions, almost exactly covered by the self-colored square; but at each side a tongue of linoleum had been left loose for lifting it; and the lamp had scarcely been replaced upon the counter when the bulk of the floor leaned upright in one piece against the opposite wall. It had uncovered a pit of corresponding size, but as yet hardly deep enough to afford a hiding-place for the bucket, spade, and pickaxe which lay there on a length of sacking.

  “I see!” exclaimed Carrick, as the full light flooded his brain.

&
nbsp; “Is that a fact?” inquired the manager twinkling.

  “You’re going to make a deep hole of it —— ?”

  “No. I’m going to pay you to make it deep for me — —”

  “And then — —”

  “At dead o’ night; you can take out your sleep by day.”

  “When Stingaree comes — —”

  “If he waits till we’re ready for him — —”

  “You touch some lever — —”

  “And the floor swallows him, as I said, if he waits till we are ready for him. Everything depends on that — and on your silence. We must take time. It isn’t only the digging of the hole. We need to fix up some counterpoise to make it shut after a body like a mouse-trap; we must do the thing thoroughly if we do it at all; and till it’s done, not a word to a soul in the same hemisphere! In the end I suppose I shall have to tell Donkin, my cashier, and Fowler the clerk. Donkin’s a disbeliever who deserves the name o’ Didymus more than ony mon o’ my acquaintance. Fowler would take so kindly to the whole idea that he’d blurt it out within a week. He may find it out when all’s in readiness, but I’ll no tell him even then. See how I trust a brither Scot at sight!”

  “I much appreciate it,” said Fergus, humbly.

  “I wouldna ha’ trustit even you, gin I hadna found the delvin’ ill worrk for auld shoulders,” pursued Macbean, broadening his speech with intentional humor. “Noo, wull ye do’t or wull ye no?”

  The young man’s answer was to strip off his coat and spring into the hole, and to set to work with such energy, yet so quietly, that the bucket was filled in a few almost silent seconds. Macbean carried it off, unlocking doors for the nonce, while Fergus remained in the hole to mop his forehead.

  “We need to have another bucket,” said the manager, on his return. “I’ve thought of every other thing. There’s a disused well in the yard, and down goes every blessed bucket!”

  To and fro, over the lip of the closing well, back into the throat of the deepening hole, went the buckets for many a night; and by day Fergus Carrick employed his best wits to make an intrinsically anomalous position appear natural to the world. It was a position which he himself could thoroughly enjoy; he was largely his own master. He had daily opportunities of picking up the ways and customs of the bush, and a nightly excitement which did not pall as the secret task approached conclusion; but he was subjected to much chaff and questioning from the other young bloods of Glenranald. He felt from the first that it was what he must expect. He was a groom with a place at his master’s table; he was a jackeroo who introduced station life into a town. And the element of underlying mystery, really existing as it did, was detected soon enough by other young heads, led by that of Fowler, the keen bank clerk.

  “I was looking at you both together, and you do favor the old man, and no error!” he would say; or else, “What is it you could hang the boss for, Fergy, old toucher?”

  These delicate but cryptic sallies being ignored or parried, the heavy swamp of innuendo was invariably deserted for the breezy hill-top of plain speech, and Fergus had often work enough to put a guard upon hand and tongue. But his temperament was eminently self-contained, and on the whole he was an elusive target for the witticisms of his friends. There was no wit, however, and no attempt at it on the part of Donkin, the cantankerous cashier. He seldom addressed a word to Carrick, never a civil word, but more than once he treated his chief to a sarcastic remonstrance on his degrading familiarity with an underling. In such encounters the imperturbable graybeard was well able to take care of himself, albeit he expressed to Fergus a regret that he had not exercised a little more ingenuity in the beginning.

  “You should have come to me with a letter of introduction,” said he.

  “But who would have given me one?”

  “I would, yon first night, and you’d have presented it next day in office hours,” replied the manager. “But it’s too late to think about it now, and in a few days Donkin may know the truth.”

  He might have known it already, but for one difficulty. They had digged their pit to the generous depth of eight feet, so that a tall prisoner could barely touch the trap-door with extended finger-tips; and Stingaree (whose latest performance was no longer the Yallarook affair) was of medium height according to his police description. The trap-door was a double one, which parted in the centre with the deadly precision of the gallows floor. The difficulty was to make the flaps close automatically, with the mouse-trap effect of Macbean’s ambition. It was managed eventually by boring separate wells for a weight behind the hinges on either side. Copper wire running on minute pulleys let into grooves suspended these weights and connected them with the flaps, and powerful door-springs supplemented the more elaborate contrivance. The lever controlling the whole was concealed under the counter, and reached by thrusting a foot through a panel, which also opened inward on a spring.

  It may be conceived that all this represented the midnight labors and the constant thought of many weeks. It was now the beginning of the cool but brilliant Riverina winter, and, despite the disparity in their years, the two Scotsmen were fast friends. They had worked together as one man, with the same patient passion for perfection, the same delight in detail for its own sake. Almost the only difference was that the old fellow refreshed his energies with the glass of whiskey which was never far from his elbow after banking hours, while the young one cultivated the local excess of continual tea. And all this time the rascally Stingaree ranged the district, with or without his taciturn accomplice, covering great distances in fabulous time, lurking none knew where, and springing on the unwary in the last places in which his presence was suspected.

  “But he has not yet robbed a bank, and we have our hopes,” wrote Fergus to a faithful sister at Largs. “It may be for fear of the revolvers with which all the banks are provided now. Mr. Macbean has been practising with ours, and purposely put a bullet through one of our back windows. The whole township has been chafing him about it, and the local rag has risen to a sarcastic paragraph, which is exactly what we wanted. The trap-door over the pit is now practically finished. It’s too complicated to describe, but Stingaree has only to march into the bank and ‘stick it up,’ and the man behind the counter has only to touch a lever with his foot for the villain to disappear through the floor into a prison it’ll take him all his time to break. On Saturday the cashier and the clerk are coming to dinner, and before we sit down they are to be shown everything.”

  This was but a fraction of one of the long letters which Fergus despatched by nearly every mail. Silent and self-contained as he was, he had one confidante at the opposite end of the earth, one escape-pipe in his pen. Not a word of the great secret had he even written to another soul. To his trusted sister he had never before been quite so communicative. His conscience pricked him as he took his letter to the post, and he had it registered on no other score.

  On Saturday the bank closed at one o’clock; the staff were to return and dine at seven, the Queen’s birthday falling on the same day for a sufficient pretext. As the hour approached Fergus made the distressing discovery that his friend and host had anticipated the festivities with too free a hand. Macbean was not drunk, but he was perceptibly blunted and blurred, and Fergus had never seen the pale eyes so watery or the black skull-cap so much on one side of the venerable head. The lad was genuinely grieved. A whiskey bottle stood empty on the laden board, and he had the temerity to pocket the corkscrew while Macbean was gone to his storeroom for another bottle. A solemn search ensued, and then Fergus was despatched in haste for a new corkscrew.

  “An’ look slippy,” said Macbean, “or we’ll have old Donkin here before ye get back.”

  “Not for another three-quarters of an hour,” remarked Fergus, looking at his watch.

  “Any minute!” retorted Macbean, with a ribald epithet. “I invited Donkin, in confidence, to come a good half-hour airly, and I’ll tell ye for why. Donkin must ken, but I’m none so sure o’ yon other impident young squ
irt. His tongue’s too long for his mouth. Donkin or I could always be behind the counter; anyway, I mean to take his opeenion before tellin’ any other body.”

  Entertaining his own distrust of the vivacious Fowler, Fergus commended the decision, and so took his departure by the private entrance. It was near sundown; a fresh breeze blew along the hard road, puffing cloudlets of yellow sand into the rosy dusk. Fergus hurried till he was out of sight, and then idled shamelessly under trees. He was not going on for a new corkscrew. He was going back to confess boldly where he had found the old one. And the sight of Donkin in the distance sent him back in something of a hurry; it was quite enough to have to spend an evening with the cantankerous cashier.

  The bank was practically at one end of the township as then laid out; two or three buildings there were further on, but they stood altogether aloof. The bank, for a bank, was sufficiently isolated, and Fergus could not but congratulate himself on the completion of its ingenious and unsuspected defences. It only remained to keep the inventor reasonably sober for the evening, and thereafter to whistle or to pray for Stingaree. Meanwhile the present was no mean occasion, and Fergus was glad to see that Macbean had thrown open the official doors in his absence. They had often agreed that it would be worth all their labor to enlighten Donkin by letting the pit gape under his nose as he entered the bank. Fergus glanced over his shoulder, saw the other hurrying, and hurried himself in order to take up a good position for seeing the cashier’s face. He was in the middle of the treacherous floor before he perceived that it was not Macbean in the half-light behind the counter, but a good-looking man whom he had never seen before.

  “Didn’t know I was invited, eh?” said the stranger, putting up a single eye-glass. “Don’t believe it, perhaps? You’d better ask Mr. Macbean!”

  And before it had occurred to him to stir from where he stood agape, the floor fell from under the feet of Fergus, his body lurched forward, and came down flat and heavy on the hard earth eight feet below. Not entirely stunned, though shaken and hurt from head to heel, he was still collecting his senses when the pit blackened as the trap-door shut in implicit obedience to its weights and springs. And in the clinging velvet darkness the young man heard a groan.