There was certainly not another pile of clothes anywhere in sight, and Mr. Bostock, his first fright over, began to grow very anxious. He walked a step or two farther in and called again, this time very loudly indeed, “Ha — hum!” And then, when no sound answered him, he proceeded— “Anybody there?”
Nobody was there, it would seem, so presently, Mr. Bostock, staring wildly and anxiously in all directions, crept out of the water again. Was it possible that his eyes had deceived him?
No; the clothes were exactly what he had taken them to be, and no others were in sight. He snatched hastily at a grubby old plaid shawl that crowned the heap, and, wrapping it about him, began to explore the beach.
It was all useless. Nobody was near him, and not a scrap of his own clothing was to be seen. Mr. Bostock’s mind did not work with great rapidity, but now that he had got dry by his boyhood’s method of running about the beach, with some assistance from the grubby plaid shawl, he realized that he was faced by the dreadful prospect of returning to civilization disguised as a “geezer.”
He lifted the shabby garments gingerly, and shuddered. They had that peculiar gritty griminess that makes any sensitive person shudder, and they smelt damp, like a rag-shop. Mr. Bostock shrank and groaned, but there was no help for it. With an infinitude of shivers and squirms he began to put them on.
He felt about the skirt for pockets, and grew conscious of a new terror. There was a pocket — a torn, clammy bag dangling by one corner — and it was empty! In the pockets of Mr. Bostock’s vanished suit were nearly ten pounds in gold and silver, a pocket-book with several notes in it, a gold watch and chain, and some other valuables, to say nothing of his railway-ticket. He broke into a cold sweat. Not only must he go among his fellow-creatures as a “geezer,” but as a “geezer” absolutely penniless!
The prospect was more terrible than anything Mr. Bostock had imagined in his life. He broke into a fit of savage indignation at the callous depravity of the wretched female who had stolen his clothes, and must now be masquerading in them as a man — in itself a scandalous offence against the law. And at that reflection Mr. Bostock’s distress became, if possible, still more acute. For it struck him that he too, arrayed in the horrible clothes he was struggling with, would be committing the same scandalous offence, and liable to the same penalty!
At length the dismal toilet was complete, and Mr. Bostock, miserable enough, but ignorant even now of the amazing figure he was making by reason of his unskilful management of the unaccustomed garments, addressed himself to the next step. Beachpool was two miles in one direction, Scarbourne more than seven the other way. Pulling nervously at the strings of the battered bonnet, which all too scantily covered his lack of tresses, he turned first one way and then the other. Which way should he go?
The rising tide answered the question for him.
Long before he could traverse the seven rocky miles under the cliffs he would be caught by the tide; so perforce he turned back to Beach-pool. He did it with some vague sense of relief, too, for he had not yet invented a means of dodging Mrs. Bostock. He did not even know where she might be encountered. The capture of Mrs. Berkeley Wiggs had been the object of some ambition, and now that it was effected, Mrs. Bostock would probably keep her as long as possible — for a drive inland — to lunch — anything convenient. But even supposing Mrs. Bostock safely out of the way, how could her wretched husband possibly enter the select boarding establishment undetected in the guise of a “geezer?”
The way to Beachpool was filled with perplexity, and Mr. Bostock grew desperate as he went. What could he do? Whose help could he ask? Who would lend money to an apparently and obviously disreputable old woman, who told a cock-and-bull tale of being a gentleman of substance, much respected in the City, in need of a little temporary assistance? The very best he could hope for from such a course was that inquiries would be made, which was the last thing he wanted; for, in his mind’s eye, he saw the terrible figure of Mrs. Bostock, stern, suspicious, and incredulous, standing at the other end of those inquiries. But it would be far more likely that he would be given in charge of the police straightway.
Mr. Bostock was convinced that to beg would not only be difficult, but useless; and in his dire extremity he began to consider the possibility of stealing — of stealing clothes, money, anything that would get him out of this horrible mess. So low had the principles of the hitherto blameless Mr. Bostock been brought in the course of a mere hour or two from his tiny, almost involuntary, departure from the path of rectitude. (Refer to moral, ut supra.)
As a man of business it had, of course, occurred to him to wire to his office for a telegraphic money-order, to be sent to the nearest post-office. But, as a man of business also, he remembered that any person applying for the money must produce complete proof of his identity. Proof of his identity in this amazing rig! But, to begin with, the telegram to the office must cost at least sixpence. And where was the sixpence?
And so Mr. Bostock crept into Beachpool in a very different state of mind from that in which he had left it; meditating theft. He was ready to steal the pennies from a blind man’s hat. Indeed, he would have preferred that proverbial form of larceny before any other, from its comparative safety and simplicity; but blind men have far too little in their hats.
He slunk about the back streets, sweating with terror at the notice he was attracting. It was only because of his clean-shaven face that he had dared to come into the town at all, and now he began to wish himself back on the empty beach. But something must be done, and desperation forced him far beyond his natural courage, which was not very great. He found himself in a street leading directly into the High Street, and straight before him in the High. Street was a cheap tailor’s, where dummy figures, labelled “This style, thirty shillings,” stood by the door.
No peri ever gazed at the portals of Paradise with half the ardent longing with which Mr. Bostock stared at the door of that cheap tailor’s shop. Very gladly would he have given a cheque for fifty pounds for one of those shoddy suits and a ticket to London. He had no chequebook, and if he had, what would any sane tailor think of such a proposition from a disreputable-looking old woman?
But the shop, with its possible salvation, attracted him. Perhaps he might make an arrangement with the tailor. He drew nearer, eyeing the dummies at the door with an affectionate interest which might well have aroused the notice of any observer, and, in fact, did attract the atteniton of the shopkeeper, lurking like a spider in the recesses of his shop. Even in his present excitement, Mr. Bostock was sane enough to see the impossibility of either stealing a suit off a dummy, or eloping with the dummy complete, clothes and all, under his arm. But as he neared the doorway he could not resist the impulse to extend his hand to the coveted garments; and at that moment the shopkeeper appeared.
He was a shiny, stout, frock-coated Jew, and he said, very peremptorily: “Here, vat you vant? Out o’ dis here!”
Mr. Bostock thrust all his resolution into his voice; it was a rather large, round, rolling voice, very impressive from a confident middle-aged gentleman in the right clothes, but startlingly out of character with his present outfit.
“I — ah — wish to see you privately on a matter of business,” said Mr. Bostock.
“Ah, I dessey,” replied the shopkeeper; “ve got nodden to give avay here. Hook it, misses; sharp!”
“But I assure you — if you will only listen—”
“Got no dime to stand talkin’ mit you. If you von’t go — then pht! B’leesman!”
Mr. Bostock had not noticed that two policemen were inspecting him with some curiosity from the nearest corner. Now he saw them with a sudden twinge of alarm, and straightway began a hurried retreat across the road.
“Hi! You there! Here — come here!” cried one of the policemen, starting smartly after him.
At that Mr. Bostock lost all hold of his wits, and, snatching up his skirts in both hands, ran madly up the street he had come by, followed by both the pol
icemen and the beginnings of a joyful crowd.
With no more thought of disguise, no more plans or schemes, nothing but a frantic desire to get away, anywhere, anyhow, Mr. Bostock scampered up one narrow street and down another, with a gathering hunt behind him. The bonnet dangled over his shoulders by the strings round his neck, and the bulgy “jemimas” threatened to fly off his feet as he ran. Blind instinct taught him to turn each corner as he came to it, and so keep out of view of his pursuers as much as possible; and fortunately his way led him through the old town, where the fishermen’s alleys favored his flight. But Mr. Bostock was a poor runner, and it was the mere spur of terror that kept him ahead. He caught at a post and swung into a street leading down to the sea, and as he did it he met a gust of wind that took the bonnet clean away up the street behind him. There was an alley to the right, and into that he plunged, bonnetless and somewhat bald; and farther still, growing slower and more “blown” as he went, till he emerged at the back of a row of unfinished houses in the outskirts of the town. And here he trod on a brickbat, which twisted the “jemima” sideways on his foot and flung him headlong.
He could run no more. His little remaining breath was clean knocked out of him, and he lay where he fell, beaten and done for. But presently, as the first shock of the fall wore off, he became aware that the noise of pursuit had ceased, and that, as a fact, he was alone behind the unfinished houses, and comparatively safe. The lost bonnet had saved him, for the hunters naturally kept on up the street along which they found the thing bowling, and so off on the wrong track.
Mr. Bostock climbed painfully to his feet, and crawled, panting, behind a broken fence. Why he had been chased with such persistence he could not divine, but, at any rate, it was clear that he must get out of Beachpool with no more delay. He put the plaid shawl over his head, and made shift to pull the rest of his dress into some sort of order. Then he started out, with much timid reconnoitring to tramp to Scar-bourne by road.
There was nothing else to be done. He must approach the back way to the select boarding establishment, and take one of the servants, who might recognize him, into his confidence. He would promise anything — a sovereign, five pounds, whatever the girl asked — to be smuggled in during the absence of his family. It was a difficult expedient, but the only one. And with this last resort in view Mr. Bostock began his nine miles’ tramp.
He went with the greatest caution till he was well clear of Beachpool, and even then only ventured to walk his best — which was not very good, for he was mightily tired already — when nobody was in sight. Twice he stopped to extract small pebbles from the “jemimas,” which had cracks convenient for their admission; and then, as he approached the confines of a village, he stopped for a more peremptory reason still. For there was a bounce from the hedge behind him, a pair of stalwart arms clasped him round, and a loud voice shouted by his ear: “Here he be, sergeant! I got him! Sergeant!”
Struggles were unavailing, for the arms clipped him firmly just above the elbow, and the affrighted Mr. Bostock perceived that they were encased in blue sleeves, with an armlet; at the same moment a hatless policeman came running from a cottage by the wayside and seized him in front.
“Get the handcuffs, sergeant! He be a desprit char’cter!” bawled the voice in the captive’s ear.
“All right — we won’t stand to none of his despritness here,” replied the sergeant, dexterously seizing Mr. Bostock by the wrist and collar. “Come along, you!”
“I — I — I’ve had my clothes stolen!” gasped Mr. Bostock.
“Had yer — ha! ha! That’s a good ‘un,” cried the sergeant. “Had his clothes stole!”
“Ha! ha!” echoed the other captor, catching Mr. Bostock’s other arm; “that be a moighty good ‘un, sergeant!”
“But I have, I tell you!” desperately wailed the victim.
“All right, me fine feller,” grimly responded the sergeant; “you needn’t make a song about them clothes. ‘We’ve got ‘em ‘ere for ye all right. Come along!”
A flash of perplexed hope confused Mr. Bostock’s faculties, and then, as he was led toward the cottage, a slatternly old woman appeared at the door.
“Yes!” cried the old woman shrilly, “that’s the blaggard right enough. That’s my shawl over his ‘ed! An’ my other frock! An’ my boots! An’ — an’ what ha’ ye done with my bonnet, you low thief? Sergeant, he’s been an’ sold my best bonnet!”
“What?” cried Mr. Bostock. “Are these things yours?”
“Course they are, impidence! Comin’ into people’s ‘ouses a-night an’ stealin’ wittles, an’—’’
“Then I give that woman in charge!” interrupted Mr. Bostock. “She’s stolen my clothes, and ten pounds, and a pocket-book, and my watch and chain!”
At this the old woman spluttered with rage, and the two policemen guffawed aloud. “You’re a gay ‘un, you are! There ain’t no watch-pocket in them clothes! You shall have ‘em, my boy — we’re a-goin’ to put ‘em on ye afore we take ye back. Here y’are!”
With these words Mr. Bostock was forced in at the door of the cottage, and so to a room at the back.
“Here’s yer clothes, my hearty,” proceeded the sergeant; “and precious glad you’ll be to get into ‘em again, I don’t think. Come along!”
With that he shut the door behind them, and presented to Mr. Bostock’s astounded eyes — a suit of drabbish yellow, decorated with black “broad arrows!” Nothing but the uniform of the convict prison!
Mr. Bostock stared wildly. Was this some frenzied nightmare, or was he really stark mad?
He gabbled incoherently. “No, no — stole my clothes — bathing — not them — name of Bostock — refer to my bankers — no — it’s all a mistake!” And then he stopped, with open mouth, as the state of the case dawned on him slowly.
Some wretched convict had escaped and left these things. He had entered the cottage in the night for food, had gone off disguised in the only clothes he could find, and had wandered, hiding in lonely paces, till he had reached the sea-shore. And then he had made another change, at Mr. Bostock’s expense!
And, indeed, that was exactly what had happened. And the curiosity of the police at Beachpool, the chase, and now the final capture — all were due to that invaluable invention, the telephone.
“Come along — into ‘em!” urged the sergeant, with the horrible clothes in his hand. “You was precious anxious about ‘em just now. Or shall we shove ‘em on for ye?”
“No, no, I tell you — it’s a mistake. Take me to Scarbourne — no, wire to Cornhill! I’ll give you five pounds — ten — fifty!” Poor Mr. Bostock struggled to his feet and feebly made for the door.
The succeeding quarter of an hour is too painful for description. But at its expiration Mr. Bostock was led forth in convict garb — it was very tight, but in the flush of their triumph the village police force of two suspected nothing from that — and pushed into a light cart with a fast horse, in presence of the whole population of the village. All that his struggle had gained for him was the distinction and interest, in the popular eye, of being very firmly handcuffed.
The horse was whipped up and the village was left behind, which at any rate was some relief. Twenty minutes’ smart drive brought the party within distant sight of Scarbourne, and within very near sight of an open carriage, which they rapidly overtook. Mr. Bostock’s disorganized faculties were barely beginning to rearrange themselves, but he did recognize that carriage, and the people in it. With a gasp he slid off the seat, to hide himself in the bottom of the cart.
“Hold up!” exhorted the constable, hauling at his arm. “Sergeant! he’s tryin’ to hide from them ladies in the carriage! P’r’aps he’s had somethink o’ theirs!”
The sergeant gazed down on the cowering form, and then gave the horse an extra flick. “P’r’aps he has,” he said. “We’ll ask ‘em.”
And thus it came about that Mr. Bostock, grimy, bruised, handcuffed, and bedizened with broad-arrows, was h
auled up from the bottom of the cart and presented for identification to the horrified gaze of Mrs. Bostock, Miss Bostock, Miss Julia Bostock, Mrs. Berkeley Wiggs, and the coachman on the box.
After that nothing mattered. The handsome apologies of the prison governor were a mockery, for Mr. Bostock would have preferred to stay with him.
THE HOUSE OF HADDOCK
ROBOSHOBERY DOVE hauled at the twist-knotted cord by his side till his enormous silver watch emerged from its fob. According to immemorial ritual he banged the long-suffering timepice three times edgewise on the socket of his wooden leg, clapped it to his ear, and finally looked at the face, comparing it with that of the old sun-dial over the church door behind us.
“‘Taren’t to be judged the sun’s nigh two hours out, so ’tis like it may be the watch,” he said. “An’ none so much out, nayther, considerin’. ’Tis a wunnerful good watch for all its an oad ‘un.”
“Your father’s, wasn’t it?” I asked, indolently.
“My father gave fi’ pun’ for that watch, sir, at foulness, before eighteen hundred.” for this conversation took place a good many years ago, when I was a very young person and Roboshobery Dove was not so many years short of ninety, tough old fellow as he was. “He gave fi’ pun’ for it of a man whose father had been a genelman once.”
We were sitting on the tombstone before the church door; the tombstone that had served so many purposes since it had ceased, by reason of illegibility, to keep its charge as a memorial. For it was scored and worn by scythe-blades, it made a convenient waiting-place opposite the church door and the dial, and, if you turned your back on the church, as we had done, you looked out upon what always seemed to me the most wonderful view on earth; over the tumbling roofs of the little town below and so across the five miles’ width of sea that makes the outer gate of the Thames. It was said that the level stone had had other uses too; it had been found adapted to certain profane games, in which buttons and halfpennies had their parts; but that was in the old days, before people were all good.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 257