Round the World in Seven Days

by Herbert Strang

  CHAPTER XVII

  A MIDNIGHT VIGIL

  Mr. William Barracombe was the most punctual of men. He entered hisoffice in Mincing Lane precisely at ten o'clock on Thursday morning.His letters had already been sorted and arranged in two neat piles onhis desk. Topmost on one of them was a cablegram from Toronto: "Meetme home eleven p.m. Smith." He never admitted that anything wouldsurprise him, and in fact he showed no sign of excitement, but lookedthrough his correspondence methodically, distributing the papers amongseveral baskets to be dealt with by respective members of his staff,or by himself. This done, he rang for the office boy, ordered him toremove the baskets, and then took up the cablegram again.

  "By Jove!" he said to himself.

  He reached down his A B C and looked out a train for Cosham.

  "I may as well go down to dinner," he thought.

  His next proceeding was to telephone to his chambers instructing hisman to meet him at Waterloo with his suit-case. Then he wrote atelegram to Mrs. Smith announcing that he would dine with her thatevening. Thereupon he was ready to tackle the business problems whichwould absorb his attention until five o'clock.

  On arriving at Cosham Park he was taken to the study, where Kate Smithwas awaiting him.

  "You have heard from Charley?" she said anxiously, after shakinghands.

  "Yes. Have you?"

  "He wired 'All well.' He is very economical. All his messages havebeen just those two words, except yesterday's from Honolulu. That was'Father safe.'"

  "That's magnificent. He didn't tell me that, the rascal. Like you, Ihave nothing before but 'All well.'"

  "Do tell me what he wired you this time. I was afraid when we got yourtelegram that something had happened."

  "Not a bit of it. He expects to be here at eleven."

  "How delightful! I am quite proud of him, really. You can come and seeMother now. I wanted to speak to you first because she knows nothingabout Charley's journey. I thought it best to keep it from her untilI knew about Father, and having kept it so long I decided to leave itfor Charley to tell himself. I don't know whether I can manage it. I'mso excited I could scream."

  "Don't mind me. Ah! How d'ye do, Mrs. Smith?" The lady had justentered. "You'll forgive my presumption?"

  "Not at all--that is, an old friend like you doesn't presume, Mr.Barracombe. Have you heard from Charley lately?"

  "A word or two. He's coming home to-night. He asked me to meet himhere."

  "How vexing! I mean, I wish I had known before; I can tell you what Icouldn't tell a stranger: we've fish for only three. But I am glad thedear boy will have a few hours at home before he rejoins his ship. Itwas very annoying that his leave should be spoilt. I am sure hiscaptain works him too hard."

  "I don't fancy he'll consider his leave spoilt. But don't be concernedabout the fish; he won't be home till eleven."

  "My bed-time is ten; I haven't made an exception for years; but Ishall certainly sit up for him; if you'll play cribbage with me tokeep me awake. We dine at eight. You know your room?"

  A servant entered.

  "Please, m'm, there's a man asking for Mr. Charley."

  "Who is he, Betts?"

  "A stranger to me, m'm. His name is Barton, and he's a farmer sort ofman."

  "Did you tell him that Mr. Charley is not at home?"

  "Yes, m'm. He said he'd wait."

  "Tell him that Mr. Charley will not be in till eleven. He had bettercall again."

  The servant returned in a minute or two.

  "Please, m'm, the man says he don't mind waiting. He has come milesspecial to see Mr. Charley, and he says he won't be put off. He seemsa bit put out, m'm."

  "I'll go and see him, Mother," said Kate. "It may be important."

  "Perhaps Mr. Barracombe will go with you, my dear. The man may beintoxicated."

  Kate and Mr. Barracombe proceeded to the hall, where stood a man inrough country garments, his calves encased in brown leather leggins.

  "You wish to see my brother?" said Kate.

  "I do so, if Mr. Charles Thusidger Smith, R.N., be your brother, miss.He give me this card wi's name prented on it, and vowed and declaredhe'd send me a cheque as soon as he got my bill for the damage hedone. 'Tis a week come Saturday since I sent my bill, and daze me ifI've got a cheque or even had any answer. That's not fair dealing; itbean't proper; that's what _I_ say."

  Mr. Barracombe's eyes twinkled. He glanced at Kate, and said--

  "Your name is B-B--"

  "Barton, sir; Firtop Farm, Mottisfont."

  "What is this b-b-bill for d-d-damages you speak of?"

  "Why, sir, 'twas like this. Last Thursday night as was, I was justa-strippin' off my coat to go to bed when I heard a randy of a noiseout-along, and my dogs set up a-barkin', and goin' to look, there wasa airyplane had shoved hisself into my hayrick, and a young fellera-splutterin' and hollerin', and usin' all manner of heathen languageto my dog. He cooled down arter a bit, when I'd spoke to him prettystraight, axin' who'd pay for the mess he'd made, and he wentdown-along to village, sayin' he'd take a bed there for hisself andhis man, and pay me what was fair. Drown me if he wasn't back inhalf-an-hour, all of a heat, tellin' me in a commandin' way--being anofficer by what he said--to pull down my fence and help him hoist thatairyplane on to the road. I wouldn't stir a finger till he'd promisedfaithful to pay, not me; then we worked me and some labourin' men hebrought, till we was all of a sweat, and we got the dratted thing out,and off she went, whizzin' and buzzin' in a way I never did see. Comemornin' I took a look at things, and there was half my hay not worth acuss for horse or ass, and thirty feet of fence fit for nowt butfirewood. 'Send in your bill,' says he, and send it I did, and neithersong nor sixpence have I got for it. Thinks I, I'll go and see if hegive me a right name and address, and a mighty moil 'twas to find theplace, and no train back till mornin', and my wife don't know where Ibe."

  "Very annoying. What's the amount of your b-b-bill?"

  "Here it be. Cast your eye on it, sir. I ain't overcharged a penny."

  He handed Mr. Barracombe a soiled paper folded many times--"To damageto hay, repairing fence, and cleaning up, _L_4 2_s_ 4-1/2_d_."

  "What's the ha'penny?" asked Mr. Barracombe.

  "I never thowt there'd be any question of a ha'penny, drown me if Idid. The ha'penny be for the ball of twine we used to get fencestraight. I didn't want it set up all crissmacross, mind 'ee, and youhave to draw a line same as when you're plantin' 'taties."

  "Well, Mr. B-B-Barton, I'm sorry Mr. Smith isn't at home, but thef-fact is he's been for a voyage round the world, and won't be hometill eleven."

  "That's a good 'un. Round the world! Why, I tell 'ee this was only ase'nnight ago. I seed him myself. He couldn't get a half nor a quarterround the world in the time. My son Jock be a sailor, and he don't doit under six months. That won't wash with Isaac Barton. No, no, ifhe'll be home at eleven he hain't been round the world. Anyway, I'llbide till he comes. I dussn't show my face to home without _L_4 2_s._4-1/2_d._, railway fare extry."

  "If that's the case I'd b-better p-p-pay you myself. Mr. Smith willsettle with me. Here's a f-f-five-pound note: that will pay yourb-b-bill and your f-fare, and leave something over for a b-bed in thevillage if you can't get home to-night."

  "Well now, that's handsome, be dazed if it hain't."

  "Just receipt your bill, w-will you? By the b-bye, Mr. Smith didn'tpay you anything on account?"

  "I won't tell a lie. He did. He give me a pound, but that don't comein the reckonin'. Hay was _L_3, wood fifteen shillin', men's time_L_1, beer two shillin', odds and ends five shillin', nailsfour-pence, twine a ha'penny, makin' _L_5, 2_s._ 4-1/2_d._ I've a-tookoff _L_1, leavin' _L_4 2_s_. 4-1/2_d._"

  "Very well. Here's a s-stamp."

  The farmer receipted the bill.

  "Thank'ee, sir." He cleared his throat, "If I med make so bold, sir,meanin' no offence--"

  "What n-now?"

  "Why, sir, speakin' in my simple common way, I never hears a bodystutter in his talk bu
t I think of my brother Sam and how he curedhisself. He was a terrible bad stutterer in his young days, he was,nearly bustin' hisself tryin' to get it out, poor soul. But a cleverparson chap learned him how to cure hisself, and if I med make sobold, I'll tell 'ee how 'twas done."

  "I shall be d-delighted."

  "Well, this parson chap--ah! he was a clever feller, everywhere exceptin the pulpit--he said to my brother, 'Sam,' says he--he always talkedin that homely way--'Sam, poor feller, I'll tell 'ee what the bishoptold me when I stuttered so bad I couldn't say 'Dearly belovedbrethren' without bub--bub--bubbing awful. 'Say the bub--bub--bubinside yerself,' says he, 'and then you can stutter as long as youlike without a soul knowin' it. My brother Sam thowt 'a med as wellgive it a trial, and he did, and bless 'ee, in a week he could talk asstraightforward as the Prime Minister, and no one 'ud ever know what aterrible lot of b's and m's and other plaguey letters he swallered.Try it, sir; say 'Baby mustn't bother mummy' that way ten times everymorning afore breakfast, and 'Pepper-pots and mustard plasters' aforegoin' to bed, and I lay you'll get over it as quick as my brotherSam. Good-night, sir and miss, and thank 'ee."

  "Why _do_ you pretend so?" said Kate, laughing, when the door wasshut.

  "My dear Kate, I have stuttered for pleasure and profit ever since Idiscovered the efficacy of it at school. When I didn't know my lessonone day I put on a stammer, and my bub--bub--bubbing, as the farmercalls it, made the master so uncomfortable that, ever afterwards, atthe first sign of it he passed me over. That's why I'm such a foolto-day."

  "You're incorrigible. Come, it's time to dress for dinner."

  The time between dinner and eleven passed all too slowly. Mrs. Smithand Barracombe played cribbage; Kate was restless, opening a book,laying it down, touching the piano, going to the window and peeringout into the dark.

  "Why are you so restless to-night, Kate?" asked her mother. "One wouldthink that Charley had been away for months instead of a week."

  "Ah, but you see, Mother, he hasn't--"

  "Hasn't what--Fifteen two, fifteen four--Well, Kate?"

  "Has never been quite so late home on his last night of leave, has he,Mother?"

  "That is true--one for his nob. I really think they ought to make hima captain, for he seems to be an exceedingly useful officer. He wentaway last Thursday, as I understood, on some business connected with awreck. I do hope none of the poor men were drowned. I often think ofmy husband, Mr. Barracombe, on the other side of the world, goingabout among those dreadful coral reefs, and I wish he would retire andlive safely at home. I could never understand what he findsinteresting in bits of stone and things of that sort, but of course heis a very distinguished man."

  So the good lady prattled on, placidly unconscious of her nearness tothe border-line between comedy and tragedy.

  The clock struck eleven.

  "Thank you, Mr. Barracombe; I have enjoyed the game," said Mrs. Smith."Charley will soon be here."

  "Let us go to the door," said Kate. "Perhaps we shall hear him."

  "Mr. Barracombe will go with you, Kate; I am a little afraid of thenight air. Wrap yourself up."

  The two went to the conservatory door, overlooking the park. The skywas clear, the air was still; not a sound was to be heard. Every nowand then a broad flash of light fleetingly illuminated the sky; it wasno doubt the searchlight at Spithead.

  "I wish he would come," said Kate. "It would be terrible if anythingwent wrong at the very last. How far is it across the Atlantic?"

  "It's three thousand five hundred miles to Liverpool from New York,and rather more from Toronto; a ticklish journey, with no chance oflanding till he gets to Ireland."

  "It makes me shudder to think of him crossing the sea in that frailmachine."

  "People shuddered at the first railway train, speed ten miles an hour;now we grumble at fifty. In a few years we shall have an aerialMarathon, with the circumference of the globe for the course."

  "Hark! What is that?"

  "The rumble of a train," said Barracombe, after a moment's silence."Shall we walk down to the sheds? There's a clear view from there,without trees; we could see the aeroplane a long way off, thoughprobably we should hear it first."

  They went on, remained at the sheds for some minutes, scanning thesky, then retraced their steps. A quarter-past eleven struck. Kategrew more and more anxious, and Barracombe found it more and moredifficult to talk unconcernedly. They returned to the house, andentering through the conservatory, discovered Mrs. Smith asleep in herchair. Barracombe noiselessly put some coal on the fire, and theystole out again.

  Half-past eleven.

  "Don't you think you had better go to bed, Kate?"

  "I couldn't sleep if I did, Billy. I couldn't even lie still. Oh, howhelpless one feels! Charley may be drowning, and we don't know it, andcan't do anything to help."

  "Pull yourself together, Kate. I am sure he is all right. He probablystarted later than he intended. You may be sure he wouldn't startunless the engine was in thorough good order. Let us go in and playpatience."

  "No, no; I must move. Let us walk down the road."

  Barracombe was more perturbed than he would admit. It was unlike Smithto miscalculate. His telegram was probably sent off at the moment ofstarting, or even after he had started, from Toronto. If the enginehad worked at all, it would work at full speed, so that the loss oftime on the journey implied either contrary winds, a mistaken course,or a serious mishap. Kate was so little in the mood for talking thatBarracombe in responsive silence could toss the various probabilitiesabout in his mind until he felt a nervous excitability that annoyedhim.

  They walked up and down the silent road. The church clock struck aquarter to twelve. The minutes dragged until it was again heard. Alittle after twelve they stopped short at the same moment; Kategrasped Barracombe's arm.

  "Listen!" she said.

  A faint sound, like the murmur of the wind, but becoming louder withextraordinary rapidity.

  "Oh, Billy!" cried the girl. "Run; he'll be at the sheds first."

  She caught his hand and tugged him towards the park gate, a hundredyards distant.

  "My dear Kate!" he protested; "I'm not so young as I was. _Let_ him bethere first, confound him!"

  But he ran all the same. The engine was roaring overhead,_fortissimo_; looking up, the two panting runners saw the flashlight.A sudden silence, as when the word _tacet_ in an orchestral scorehushes to silence bassoons and horns, drums and cymbals, all theinstruments that but a moment before were convulsing the air withmyriad waves of sound.

  "He's gliding!" cried Kate, standing breathless at the door of theshed. The machine descended silently and rested on the smooth levelsward. Kate darted forward.

  "Oh, Charley!" she cried; "you've come!"