“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 to-morrow. 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 standin’ 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.”
Choppy was a hard parter in general, but prompt when it paid. “Here y’are,” he snapped out; “two quid take ‘em and hook it, ‘fore I change my mind.”
So the chap took the two quid and went off along the road. We listened to hear his footsteps dyin’ away, and then Choppy grabs a pick himself.
“W’e’ll get this over quick,” he says, “before any more ‘Ome Chippers comes along. Them papers is a public noosance upsettin’ people’s minds like this. But keep a lookout in that there hole, in case that feller’s right.”
I don’t like thinkin’ about the job we had. Nobody ain’t got any right to ask me to work again for the rest o’ my life after what I did that night. That milestone was like them icebergs you read about — about ten times as much down below as up above. And the ground — well, you’d ha’ sworn we’d found a iron mine, all solid metal. Choppy dropped his pick soon and put in all his energy stimulatin’ Jerry and me, and gropin’ about in the dirt for any odd thing ‘Ome Chips might ha’ put there.
Well, we did it at last. That is, we got the milestone a-lollin’ over sideways in a big hole, and we began sich a fight to get it on the wheelbarrer as we’d never gone through before not even at Alexander’s Park. Jerry and me was down the hole heavin’ most desprit at the bottom of the stone, and Choppy Byles was haulin’ at the top to pull the thing into the barrer, and the chorus was enough to roast the little birds a-sleepin’ on the trees overhead. Our tempers was none the better for all this, and before we got the stone fair on the barrer we nearly had a fight among ourselves. I’d ha’ sworn I ‘eard Choppy laughin’ at us, but he said it was Jerry, an’ Jerry said it was us two, and we never properly settled it. But we did get the stone on the barrer at last, filled in the hole, and started off along the road.
It was a pretty straight bit o’ road, with trees along the side all very much the same so it looked as though we could stretch out that mile a good bit without makin’ the change look very noticeable. So we went along lookin’ for a place as looked as much as possible like the one we took it from when something else ‘appened.
I never see sich a country road as that one was that night; it was like the Strand, pretty near, barrin’ the lights an’ the evenin’ papers. We was just steadyin’ up to look at what seemed a good place when we heard footsteps.
“What shall we do?” I says.
“Stand still,” whispers Choppy. “P’r’aps he won’t notice, Get in front o’ the barrer.” Then we heard the footsteps again, and they was all over the road at once; and the next minute the chap comes in among us like a Catherine-wheel, and bang over the wheel-barrer we was tryin’ to hide.
“Whash this?” says the new chap turnin’ over very unsteady on the milestone.
“What they leave wheelbarrers about in public road for people tummle over for, eh? Wheelbarrers an’ — an’ tombstones! I say there’s a tombstone on thishyer barer D’y’ear? Tombstone. What you want tombstone on barrer middle o’ night for?” An’ with that he lifts up and sits in the barrer talkin’ to us by and large.
“I know what you think,” says he; “you think I’m drunk. That’s my legs; they’re shockin’, but I’m allri’ — sober as judge. Now what about tombstone?”
“It’s all right, old chap,” says Choppy tryin’ to haul him up. “It’s for a dawg we’re buryin’.”
The chap sat and wagged his head and chuckled. “Dawg?” he said. “Dawg? You don’t seem believe I’m sober. I know what you’ve done. You’ve bin an’ boned thishyer tombstone out o’ the churchyard ‘long there, to make — make — here, I say what you goin’ to make out o’ that tombstone?”
“You get up, old feller, and come along o’ me,” says Choppy, “and I’ll tell you all about it. I got a drink for you a little further up the road — in a flask. It’s a beautiful night for a walk; come along — the drink ain’t very far off.”
We never knew Choppy had got his flask with him, or it ‘ud ‘a’ been empty long before this, with what we’d gone through. But we got the chap up somehow between us, and him and Choppy went staggerin’ off along the road the way we’d come.
Choppy was gone a most rabunculous long time, and me and Jerry pretty well fell asleep on the milestone waitin’ for him. When he came at last he was spittin’ and snarlin’ with rage like an old tom-cat.
“That there drunken tyke’s been and lost my flask,” he said. “Swigged it empty and then dropped it in the ditch or somewhere — he didn’t know. I’ve bin gropin’ all over the road and ditch and burnt all my matches, and had to give it up. But he’s fast asleep an’ safe enough, up against a stile. These here Nuthatch people owe me a bit more over this; but I’ll have it all out of ‘em to-morrow. We’ll shove this milestone on a bit further still. But spread your coats over it, in case we meet somebody else in this here busy thoroughfare.”
So Jerry and me put our coats over it and started off once more. We didn’t go far this time — about fifty or sixty yards. We’d made it a pretty long mile by now, and there was a sort o’ place here that seemed a good deal like the one the milestone came from, so we stopped. And here we found the first bit o’ reasonable luck since we left the churchyard shed; the ground seemed pretty soft.
So we whanged in with the picks and shovels, and soon had a pretty tidy hole. The boss took a hand quite serious this time, for he was gettin’ nervous. Not that he was much good. If you get three men as ain’t used to it all a-diggin’ one hole together on a dark night, you’ll find they get a bit tangled up, one way and another. Jerry and me both resigned our appointments several times in that hole, and it was only business considerations as prevented a fight.
Now, we was diggin’ this hole just at the foot of the bank by the roadside, and there was a hedge atop of the bank. We’d got the hole, as we thought, pretty near deep enough, and was just a-stoppin’ to say so, when there came a most terrifyin’ voice from over the top o’ the hedge.
“Oo — oo — oo!” says the voice. “It’s murder! Nothing but murder!”
We looked up, and there was a monstrous sort of ragged head lookin’ down at us from the hedge.
“You’ve woke me up,” says the head, “with your horrid language. I may be obliged by circumstances to sleep agin a hedge, but I’ve got my feelin’s. You’ve got a corpse in that there barrer, covered over with coats, and you’re a-buryin’ of it. I ain’t goin’ to stand and see that done, not free of charge, I ain’t. I may be a tramp, but I’ve got my feelin’s!”
Here was another fine go. To think we should ha’ picked on the very spot where this tramp was dossin’! But Choppy spoke up again.
“‘S-sh!” he said. “We’re very sorry we disturbed you — didn’t know you was there. Do you read ‘Ome Chips?”
“Read what?” says the head.
“‘Ome Chips. The best and most ‘olesome family paper in the world. Full of excitin’ but moral stories, interestin’ puzzles, and instructive articles by Aunt Eliza. One penny weekly. We’re advertisin’ it.”
“Are you?” says the tramp. “Well, I’m a nervous chap and always carry a police whistle. I’ll blow it ‘ard, and advertise ‘Ome Chips a little more.”
“No,” says Choppy, very hasty, “don’t do that. We don’t advertise that way — anybody can blow a whistle.”
“I can,” says the tramp. “You hear me!” And he shoved the whistle in his mouth.
“Stow it!” says Choppy, scramblin’ up the bank. “Don’t do a silly thing like that. You see, we’re out buryin’ treasure.”
“All right, I don’t mind that,” says the chap in the hedge. “Bury it quick, so’s I can come an’ dig it up. Or give it me now, and save trouble.”
“That ain’t likely.” says Choppy. “You don’t seem to understand liter’y work. We cha’n’t bury no treasure here now, when you’ve spotted the place; not likely, is it? But we’ll give you five bob to go and sleep somewhere else.”
“Why?” asks the tramp. “I ain’t doin’ no ‘arm, and it’s a very nice hedge. No, I don’t believe this treasure yarn. My theory’s murder. It’s a habit I don’t ‘old with, is murder. I never allow a murder under two quid; and this whistle’s a very loud ‘un. Don’t you get no nearer — I’m nervous.”
Choppy Byles looked up at the tramp and down at us, helpless. Then he pulled out the money and handed it over. The tramp was off in a jiffy; and presently we could hear him whistlin’ a little tune a long way off. I believe he did that to give us another scare.
“Two more this peaceful village owes me,” says Choppy. “Just till to-morrow.”
So we tumbled that milestone into the hole holus-bolus, and shovelled in the earth quick and stamped it down. There was a rare lot there was no room for, but we kicked it about among the long grass and made it pretty tidy. And then we went home. We put the things back all right in the churchyard shed, and we crawled very quiet into the Fox and ‘Ounds not very long afore the potman.
In the mornin’, after breakfast, Choppy Byles says to the landlord, in a casual sort o’ way, “I s’pose you’re goin’ to see the runnin’ match this afternoon?”
“Why, yes,” says the landlord. “I did hink o’ goin’ over after dinner.”
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 270