“At the bottom of the river Thames, exactly in the centre, rather to the right of Vauxhall Bridge, looking from this side. I expect it will be rediscovered in some future age, when the bed of the Thames is a diamond field.”
The rest of Bouvier’s savings went in the purchase of a boat, and in this, with a pail on a long rope, he was very busy for some time afterward. But he only got a great deal of mud into his boat.
THE AFFAIR OF THE. “AVALANCHE BICYCLE & TYRE CO., LTD.”
I
CYCLE companies were in the market everywhere. Immense fortunes were being made in a few days and sometimes little fortunes were being lost to build them up. Mining shares were dull for a season, and any company with the word “cycle” or “tyre” in its title was certain to attract capital, no matter what its prospects were like in the eyes of the expert. All the old private cycle companies suddenly were offered to the public, and their proprietors, already rich men, built themselves houses on the Riviera, bought yachts, ran racehorses, and left business for ever. Sometimes the shareholders got their money’s -worth, sometimes more, sometimes less — sometimes they got nothing but total loss; but still the game went on. One could never open a newspaper without finding, displayed at large, the prospectus of yet another cycle company with capital expressed in six figures at least, often in seven. Solemn old dailies, into whose editorial heads no new thing ever found its way till years after it had been forgotten elsewhere, suddenly exhibited the scandalous phenomenon of “broken columns” in their advertising sections, and the universal prospectuses stretched outrageously across half or even all the page — a thing to cause apoplexy in the bodily system of any self-respecting manager of the old school.
In the midst of this excitement it chanced that the firm of Dorrington & Hicks were engaged upon an investigation for the famous and long-established “Indestructible Bicycle & Tricycle Manufacturing Company,” of London and Coventry. The matter was not one of sufficient intricacy or difficulty to engage Dorrington’s personal attention, and it was given to an assistant. There was some doubt as to the validity of a certain patent having reference to a particular method of tightening the spokes and truing the wheels of a tricycle, and Dorrington’s assistant had to make inquiries (without attracting attention to the matter) as to whether or not there existed any evidence, either documentary or in the memory of veterans, of the use of this method, or anything like it, before the year 1885. The assistant completed his inquiries and made his report to Dorrington. Now I think I have said that, from every evidence I have seen, the chief matter of Dorrington’s solicitude was his own interest, and just at this time he had heard, as had others, much of the money being made in cycle companies. Also, like others, he had conceived a great desire to get the confidential advice of somebody “in the know” — advice which might lead him into the “good thing” desired by all the greedy who flutter about at the outside edge of the stock and share market. For this reason Dorrington determined to make this small matter of the wheel patent an affair of personal report. He was a man of infinite resource, plausibility and good-companionship, and there was money going in the cycle trade. Why then should he lose an opportunity of making himself pleasant, in the inner groves of that trade, and catch whatever might come his way — information, syndicate shares, directorships, anything? So that Dorrington made himself master of his assistant’s information, and proceeded to the head office of the “Indestructible” company on Holborn Viaduct, resolved to become the entertaining acquaintance of the managing director.
On his way his attention was attracted by a very elaborately fitted cycle shop which his recollection told him was new. “The Avalanche Bicycle & Tyre Company” was the legend gilt above the great plate-glass window, and in the window itself stood many brilliantly enamelled and plated bicycles, each labelled on the frame with the flaming red and gold transfer of the firm; and in the midst of all was another bicycle covered with dried mud, of which, however, sufficient had been carefully cleared away to expose a similar glaring transfer to those that decorated the rest — with a placard announcing that on this particular machine somebody had ridden some incredible distance on bad roads in very little more than no time at all. A crowd stood about the window; and gaped respectfully at the placard, the bicycles, the transfers and the mud, though they paid little attention to certain piles of folded white papers, endorsed in bold letters with the name of the company, with the suffix “limited” and the word “prospectus” in bloated black letter below. These, however, Dorrington observed at once, for he had himself that morning, in common with several thousand other people, received one by post. Also half a page of his morning paper had been filled with a copy of that same prospectus, and the afternoon had brought another copy in the evening paper. In the list of directors there was a titled name or two, together with a few unknown names — doubtless the “practical men.” And below this list there were such positive promises of tremendous dividends, backed up and proved beyond dispute by such ingenious piles of business-like figures, every line of figures referring to some other line for testimonials to its perfect genuineness and accuracy, that any reasonable man, it would seem, must instantly sell the hat off his head and the boots off his feet to buy one share at least, and so make his fortune for ever. True, the business was but lately established, but that was just it. It had rushed ahead with such amazing rapidity (as was natural with an avalanche) that it had got altogether out of hand, and orders couldn’t be executed at all; wherefore the proprietors were reluctantly compelled to let the public have some of the luck. This was Thursday. The share list was to be opened on Monday morning and closed inexorably at four o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, with a merciful extension to Wednesday morning for the candidates for wealth who were so unfortunate as to live in the country. So that it behoved everybody to waste no time lest he be numbered among the unlucky whose subscription-money should be returned in full, failing allotment. The prospectus did not absolutely say it in so many words, but no rational person could fail to feel that the directors were fervently hoping that nobody would get injured in the rush.
Dorrington passed on and reached the well-known establishment of the “Indestructible Bicycle Company.” This was already a limited company of a private sort, and had been so for ten years or more. And before that the concern had had eight or nine years of prosperous experience. The founder of the firm, Sir Paul Mallows, was now the managing director, and a great pillar of the cycling industry. Dorrington gave a clerk his card, and asked to see Mr. Mallows.
Mr. Mallows was out, it seemed, but Mr. Stedman, the secretary, was in, and him Dorrington saw. Mr. Stedman was a pleasant, youngish man, who had been a famous amateur bicyclist in his time, and was still an enthusiast. In ten minutes business was settled and dismissed, and Dorrington’s tact had brought the secretary into a pleasant discursive chat, with much exchange of anecdote. Dorrington expressed much interest in the subject of bicycling, and, seeing that Stedman had been a racing man, particularly as to bicycling races.
“There’ll be a rare good race on Saturday, I expect,” Stedman said. “Or rather,” he went on, “I expect the fifty miles record will go. I fancy our man Gillett is pretty safe to win, but he’ll have to move, and I quite expect to see a good set of new records on our advertisements next week. The next best man is Lant — the new fellow, you know — who rides for the ‘Avalanche’ people.”
“Let’s see, they’re going to the public as a limited company, aren’t they?” Dorrington asked, casually.
Stedman nodded, with a little grimace.
“You don’t think it’s a good thing, perhaps,” Dorrington said, noticing the grimace. “Is that so?”
“Well,” Stedman answered, “of course I can’t say. I don’t know much about the firm — nobody does, as far as I can tell — but they seem to have got a business together in almost no time; that is, if the business is as genuine as it looks at first sight. But they want a rare lot of capital, and then the prospectus
— well I’ve seen more satisfactory ones, you know. I don’t say it isn’t all right, of course, but still I shan’t go out of my way to recommend any friends of mine to plunge on it.”
“You won’t?”
“No, I won’t. Though no doubt they’ll get their capital, or most of it. Almost any cycle or tyre company can get subscribed just now. And this ‘Avalanche’ affair is both, and it is so well advertised, you know. Lant has been winning on their mounts just lately, and they’ve been booming it for all they’re worth. By Jove, if they could only screw him up to win the fifty miles on Saturday, and beat our man Gillett, that would give them a push! Just at the correct moment too. Gillett’s never been beaten yet at the distance, you know. But Lant can’t do it — though, as I have said, he’ll make some fast riding — it’d be a race, I tell you!”
“I should like to see it.”
“Why not come? See about it, will you? And perhaps you’d like to run down to the track after dinner this evening and see our man training — awfully interesting, I can tell you, with all the pacing machinery and that. Will you come?”
Dorrington expressed himself delighted, and suggested that Stedman should dine with him before going to the track. Stedman, for his part, charmed with his new acquaintance — as everybody was at a first meeting with Dorrington — assented gladly.
At that moment the door of Stedman’s room was pushed open and a well-dressed, middle-aged man, with a shaven, flabby face, appeared. “I beg pardon,” he said, “I thought you were alone. I’ve just ripped my finger against the handle of my brougham door as I came in — the screw sticks out. Have you a piece of sticking plaster?” He extended a bleeding finger as he spoke. Stedman looked doubtfully at his desk.
“Here is some court plaster,” Dorrington exclaimed, producing his pocket-book. “I always carry it — it’s handier than ordinary sticking plaster. How much do you want?”
“Thanks — an inch or so.”
“This is Mr. Dorrington, of Messrs. Dorrington & Hicks, Mr. Mallows,” Stedman said. “Our managing director, Mr. Paul Mallows, Mr. Dorrington.”
Dorrington was delighted to make Mr. Mallows’ acquaintance, and he busied himself with a careful strapping of the damaged finger. Mr. Mallows had the large frame of a man of strong build who has had much hard bodily work, but there hung about it the heavier, softer flesh that told of a later period of ease and sloth. “Ah, Mr. Mallows,” Stedman said, “the bicycle’s the safest thing, after all! Dangerous things these broughams!”
“Ah, you younger men,” Mr. Mallows replied, with a slow and rounded enunciation, “you younger men can afford to be active! We elders—”
“Can afford a brougham,” Dorrington added, before the managing director began the next word. “Just so — and the bicycle does it all; wonderful thing the bicycle!”
Dorrington had not misjudged his man, and the oblique reference to his wealth flattered Mr. Hallows. Dorrington went once more through his report as to the spoke patent and then Mr. Mallows bade him good-bye.
“Good day, Mr. Dorrington, good day,” he said. “I am extremely obliged by your careful personal attention to this matter of the patent. We may leave it with Mr. Stedman now, I think. Good day. I hope soon to have the pleasure of meeting you again.” And with clumsy stateliness Mr. Mallow’s vanished.
II
“SO you don’t think the ‘Avalanche’ good business as an investment?” Dorrington said once more as he and Stedman, after an excellent dinner, were cabbing it to the track.
“No, no,” Stedman answered, “don’t touch it! There’s better things than that coming along presently. Perhaps I shall be able to put you in for something you know a bit later; but don’t be in a hurry. As to the ‘Avalanche,’ even if everything else were satisfactory, there’s too much ‘booming’ being done just now to please me. All sorts of rumours, you know, of their having something ‘up their sleeve,’ and so on; mysterious hints in the papers, and all that; as to something revolutionary being in hand with the ‘Avalanche’ people. Perhaps there is. But why they don’t fetch it out in view of the public subscription for shares is more than I can understand, unless they don’t want too much of a rush. And as to that well they don’t look like modestly shrinking from anything of that sort up to the present.”
They were at the track soon after seven but Gillett was not yet riding. Dorrington remarked that Gillett appeared to begin late.
“Well,” Stedman explained, “he’s one of those fellows that afternoon training doesn’t seem to suit, unless it is a bit of walking exercise. He just does a few miles in the morning and a spurt or two, and then he comes on just before sunset for a fast ten or fifteen miles — that is when he is getting fit for such a race as Saturday’s. To-night will be his last spin of that length before Saturday, because to-morrow will be the day before the race. To-morrow he’ll only go a spurt or two, and rest most of the day.”
They strolled about inside the track, the two highly “banked” ends whereof seemed to a near-sighted person in the centre to be solid erect walls, along the face of which the training riders skimmed, fly-fashion. Only three or four persons beside themselves were in the enclosure when they first came, but in ten minutes’ time Mr. Paul Mallows came across the track.
“Why,” said Stedman to Dorrington, “here’s the governor! It isn’t often he comes down here. But I expect he’s anxious to see how Gillett’s going, in view of Saturday.”
“Good evening Mr. Mallows,” said Dorrington. “I hope the finger’s all right? Want any more plaster?”
“Good evening, good evening,” responded Mr. Mallows heavily. “Thank you, the finger’s not troubling me a bit.” He held it up, still decorated by the black plaster. “Your plaster remains, you see — I was a little careful not to fray it too much in washing, that was all.” And Mr. Mallows sat down on a light iron garden-chair (of which several stood here and there in the enclosure) and began to watch the riding.
The track was clear, and dusk was approaching when at last the great Gillett made his appearance on the track. He answered a friendly question or two put to him by Mallows and Stedman, and then, giving his coat to his trainer, swung off along the track on his bicycle, led in front by a tandem and closely attended by a triplet. In fifty yards his pace quickened, and he settled down into a swift even pace, regular as clockwork. Sometimes the tandem and sometimes the triplet went to the front, but Gillett neither checked nor heeded as, nursed by his pacers, who were directed by the trainer from the centre, he swept along mile after mile, each mile in but a few seconds over the two minutes.
“Look at the action!” exclaimed Stedman with enthusiasm. “Just watch him. Not an ounce of power wasted there! Did you ever see more regular ankle work? And did anybody ever sit a machine quite so well as that? Show me a movement anywhere above the hips!”
“Ah,” said Mr. Hallows, “Gillett has a wonderful style — a wonderful style, really!”
The men in the enclosure wandered about here and there on the grass, watching Gillett’s riding as one watches the performance of a great piece of art — which, indeed, was what Gillett’s riding was. There were, besides Mallows, Stedman, Dorrington and the trainer, two officials of the Cyclists’ Union, an amateur racing man named Sparks, the track superintendent and another man. The sky grew darker, and gloom fell about the track. The machines became invisible, and little could be seen of the riders across the ground but the row of rhythmically working, legs and the white cap that Gillett wore. The trainer had just told Stedman that there would be three fast laps and then his man would come off the track.
“Well, Mr. Stedman,” said Mr. Mallows, “I think we shall be all right for Saturday.”
“Rather!” answered Stedman confidently. “Gillett’s going great guns, and steady as a watch!”
The pace now suddenly increased. The tandem shot once more to the front, the triplet hung on the rider’s flank, and the group of swishing wheels flew round the track at a “one-fifty” gait. Th
e spectators turned about, following the riders round the track with their eyes. And then swinging into the straight from the top bend, the tandem checked suddenly and gave a little jump. Gillett crashed into it from behind, and the triplet, failing to clear, wavered and swung, and crashed over and along the track too. All three machines and six men were involved in one complicated smash.
Everybody rushed across the grass, the trainer first. Then the cause of the disaster was seen. Lying on its side on the track, with men and bicycles piled over and against it, was one of the green painted light iron garden-chairs that had been standing in the enclosure. The triplet men were struggling to their feet, and though much cut and shaken, seemed the least hurt of the lot. One of the men of the tandem was insensible, and Gillett, who from his position had got all the worst of it, lay senseless too, badly cut and bruised, and his left arm was broken.
The trainer was cursing and tearing his hair. “If I knew; who’d done this,” Stedman cried, “I’d pulp him with that chair!”
“Oh, that betting, that betting!” wailed Mr. Mallows, hopping about distractedly; “see what it leads people into doing! It can’t have been an accident, can it?”
“Accident? Skittles! A man doesn’t put a chair on a track in the dark and leave it there by accident. Is anybody getting away there from the outside of the track?”
“No, there’s nobody. He wouldn’t wait till this, he’s clear off a minute ago and more. Here, Fielders! Shut the outer gate, and we’ll see who’s about.”
But there seemed to be no suspicious character. Indeed, except for the ground-man, his boy, Gillett’s trainer, and a racing man, who had just finished dressing in the pavilion, there seemed to be nobody about beyond those whom everybody had seen standing in the enclosure. But there had been ample time for anybody, standing unnoticed at the outer rails, to get across the track in the dark, just after the riders had passed, place the obstruction, and escape before the completion of the lap.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 199