Once Aboard the Lugger-- The History of George and his Mary

by W. W. Jacobs

  It was six o'clock when he had concluded. By then George had returned;the three held council in the study. Addressing Mr. Marrapit, Mr.Brunger tapped his note-book and his little packages. "We shall trackthe culprit, never fear, Mr. Marrapit," he said. "My impression is thatthis is the work of a gang--a _gang_."

  "Precisely my impression," George agreed.

  Mr. Brunger took the interruption with the gracious bow of one whocondescends to accept a pat on the back from an inferior. Mr. Marrapittwisted his fingers in his thin hair; groaned aloud.

  "A _gang,_" repeated Mr. Brunger, immensely relishing the word. "Wedetectives do not like to speak with certainty until we have clapped ourhands upon our men; we leave that for the amateurs, the bunglers--the_quacks_ of our profession." The famous confidential inquiry agenttapped the table with his forefinger and proceeded impressively. "But Iwill say this much. Not only a gang, but a desperate gang, a dangerous,stick-at-nothing gang."

  Mr. Marrapit writhed. The detective continued: "What are our grounds forthis belief?" he asked. "What are our _data_?"

  He looked at George. George shook his head. Easy enough, and useful,to acquiesce in the idea of a gang, but uncommonly hard to support thebelief. He shook his head.

  Mr. Brunger was disappointed; a little at sea, he would have clutchedeagerly at any aid. However, "impress your client." He continued: "Theseare our data. We have a valuable cat--a cat, sir, upon which the eyes ofcat-breeders are enviously fixed. Take America--you have had surprisingoffers from America for this cat, sir, so you told me?"

  "Eight hundred pounds," Mr. Marrapit groaned.

  "Precisely. Observe how our data accumulate. We have dissatisfactionamong breeders at home because you will not employ this cat as, in theiropinion, for the good of the breed, she should be employed."

  Mr. Marrapit moaned: "Polygamy is abhorrent to me."

  "Precisely. Our data positively pile about us. We have a thousandenthusiasts yearning for this cat. We have your refusal to sell orto--to--" Mr. Brunger allowed a hiatus delicately to express hismeaning. "Then depend upon it, sir, we have a determination to securethis cat by foul means since fair will not avail. We have a conspiracyamong unscrupulous breeders to obtain this valuable cat, and hence, sir,we have a gang--a _gang_."

  Mr. Marrapit put his anguish of mind into two very deep groans.

  "Keep calm, my dear sir," Mr. Brunger soothed. "We shall return yourcat. We have our data." He continued: "Now, sir, there are two ways ofdealing with a _gang_. We can capture the _gang_ or we can seduce the_gang_--by offering a reward."

  George jumped in his chair. "Anything wrong?" Mr. Brunger inquired.

  "Your--your extraordinary grasp of the case astonishes me," Georgeexclaimed.

  "Experience, sir, experience," said Mr. Brunger airily. Addressing Mr.Marrapit, "We must put both methods to work," he continued. "I shallnow go to town, look up the chief breeders and set members of my trainedstaff to track them. Also I must advertise this reward. With a cat ofsuch value we cannot use half measures. Shall we say one hundred poundsto start with?"

  "Barley water!" gasped Mr. Marrapit. "Barley water!"

  George sprang to the sideboard where always stood a jug of Mr.Marrapit's favourite refreshment. Mr. Marrapit drank, agitation rattlingthe glass against his teeth.

  "Think what it means to you, sir," persuaded Mr. Brunger, a littlealarmed at the effects of his proposal.

  The detective's tone had a very earnest note, for he was thinkingwith considerable gratification what the hundred pounds would mean tohimself. On previous occasions he had urged rewards from his clients,put Mr. Issy Jago in the way of securing them, and paid that gentleman apercentage.

  "Think what it means to you," he repeated. "What is a hundred pounds orthrice that sum against the restoration of your cat? Come, what is it,sir?"

  "Ruin," answered Mr. Marrapit, gulping barley water. "Ruin."

  Mr. Brunger urged gravely: "Oh, don't say that, sir. Think what our dumbpets are to us. I've got a blood-'ound at home myself that I'd givemy life for if I lost--gladly. Surely they're more to us, our faithfulfriends, than mere--mere--"

  "Pelf," supplied George, on a thin squeak that was shot out by theexcitement of seeing events so lustily playing his hand.

  "Mere pelf," adopted Mr. Brunger.

  Mr. Marrapit gulped heavily at the barley water; set his gaze upona life-size portrait in oils of his darling Rose; with fine calmannounced: "If it must be, it must be."

  With masterly celerity Mr. Brunger drew forward pen and paper;scribbled; in three minutes had Mr. Marrapit's signed authority to offerone hundred pounds reward.

  He put the document in his pocket; took up his hat. "To-morrow," hesaid after farewells, "I or one of my staff will return to scour theimmediate neighbourhood. It has been done, you tell me, but only byamateurs. The skilled detective, sir, will see a needle where theamateur cannot discern a haystack."

  VI.

  He was gone. His last words had considerably alarmed George. No time wasto be lost. All was working with a magic expediency, but the Rosemust not be risked in the vicinity of one of these needle-observingdetectives. She must be hurried away.

  "Uncle," George said, "I did not say it while the detective was here--Ido not wish to raise your hopes; but I believe I have a clue. Do notquestion me," he added, raising a hand in terror lest Mr. Marrapitshould begin examination. "I promise nothing. My ideas may be whollyimaginary. But I believe--I believe--oh, I believe I have a clue."

  Mr. Marrapit rushed for the bell. "Recall the detective! You should havespoken. I will send Fletcher in pursuit."

  George seized his uncle's arm. "On no account. That is why I did notspeak before. I am convinced I can do better alone."

  "You do not convince me. You are an amateur. We must have the skilledmind. Let me ring."

  George was in terror. "No, no; do you not see it may be waste of time?Let me at least make sure, then I will tell the detective. Meanwhilelet him pursue other clues. Why send the trained mind on what may be agoose-chase?"

  The argument had effect. Mr. Marrapit dropped into a chair.

  George explained. To follow the clue necessitated, he said, instantdeparture--by train. He would write fullest details; would wire fromtime to time if necessary. His uncle must trust him implicitly. Thedetective must not be told until he gave the word.

  Eager to clutch at any hope, Mr. Marrapit clutched at this. George wasgiven money for expenses; at eight o'clock left the house. There hadbeen no opportunity for words with his Mary. She did not even knowthat Mr. Marrapit had refused the money that was to mean marriage andRunnygate; she had not even danced with her George upon his success inhis examination. Leaving the household upon his desperate clue, Georgecould do no more than before them all bid her formal farewell. Athalf-past eight he is cramming the peerless Rose of Sharon into a baskettaken from Mr. Fletcher's outhouses; at nine the villain is trampingthe railway platform, in agony lest his burden shall mi-aow; at ten themonster is at Dippleford Admiral; at eleven the traitor is asleep in thebedroom of an inn, the agitated Rose uneasily slumbering upon his bed.

  CHAPTER VII.

  Terror At Dippleford Admiral.

  I.

  "Impress your client," was the maxim of Mr. David Brunger. "Make asplash and keep splashing," was that of Mr. Henry T. Bitt, editor ofFleet Street's new organ, the _Daily_.

  Muddy pools were Mr. Bitt's speciality. His idea of the greatestpossible splash was some stream, pure and beautiful to the casual eye,into which he could force his young men and set them trampling thebottom till the thick, unpleasant mud came clouding up whence it hadlong lain unsuspected. There was his splash, and then he would start tokeep splashing. By every art and device the pool would be flogged tillthe muddy water went flying broadcast, staining this, that, and theother fair name to the nasty delight of Mr. Bitt's readers. Scandal wasMr. Bitt's chief quest. Army scandal, navy scandal, political scandal,social scandal--these were the courses that Mr. Bitt continuously stro
veto serve up to his readers. Failing them--if disappointingly in evidenceon every side was the integrity and the honour for which Mr. Bitt ravedand bawled when in the thick of splashing a muddy pool,--then, arguedMr. Bitt, catch hold of something trivial and splash it, flog it,placard it, into a sensational and semi-mysterious bait that would setthe halfpennies rising like trout in an evening stream.

  Bringing these principles-indeed they won him his appointment--to theeditorship of the _Daily_, Mr. Bitt was set moody and irritable by thefact that he had no opportunity to exercise them over the first issue ofthe paper.

  But while preparing for press upon the second night the chance came.There was no scandal, no effective news; but there was matter for asensational, semi-mysterious "leading story" in a tiny little scrap ofnews dictated by Mr. David Brunger, laboriously copied out a dozen timesby Mr. Issy Jago and left by that gentleman at the offices of as manynewspapers.

  Seven sub-editors "spiked" it, three made of it a "fill-par.," one gaveit a headline and sent it up as an eight-line "news-par."; one, in theoffices of the _Daily_, read it, laughed; spoke to the news-editor;finally carried it up to Mr. Bitt.

  Mr. Bitt's journalistic nose gave one sniff. The thing was done. Someold idiot was actually offering the ridiculously large sum of onehundred pounds for the recovery of a cat. Here, out of the barren,un-newsy world, suddenly had sprung a seed that should grow to a forest.The very thing. The _Daily_ was saved.

  Away sped a reporter; and upon the following morning, bawling from theleading position of the principal page of the _Daily_, introducing acolumn and a quarter of leaded type, these headlines appeared:

  COUNTRY HOUSE OUTRAGE.

  VALUABLE CAT STOLEN.

  SENSATIONAL STORY.

  HUGE REWARD.

  CHANCE FOR AMATEUR DETECTIVES.

  All out of Mr. Issy Jago's tiny little paragraph.

  _Daily_ readers revelled in it. It appeared that a gang of between fiveand a dozen men had surrounded the lonely but picturesque and beautifulcountry residence of Mr. Christopher Marrapit at Herons' Holt, PaltleyHill, Surrey. Mr. Marrapit was an immensely wealthy retired merchantnow leading a secluded life in the evening of his days. First amongthe costly art and other treasures of his house he placed a magnificentorange cat, "The Rose of Sharon," a winner whenever exhibited. The gang,bursting their way into the house, had stolen this cat, despite Mr.Marrapit's heroic defence, leaving the unfortunate gentleman senselessand bleeding on the hearth-rug. Mr. Marrapit had offered 100 poundsreward for the recovery of his pet; and the _Daily_, under the heading"Catchy Clues," proceeded to tell its readers all over the country howbest they might win this sum.

  All out of Mr. Issy Jago's tiny little paragraph.

  II.

  _Daily_ readers revelled in it. Upon three of their number it had aparticular effect.

  Bill Wyvern had not been at the _Daily_ office that night. Employedduring the day, he had finished his work at six; after a gloomy meal hadgone gloomily to bed. This man was on probation. His appointment to apermanent post depended upon his in some way distinguishing himself; andthus far, as, miserable, he reflected, he utterly had failed. The "copy"he had done for the first issue of the _Daily_ had not been used; onthis day he had been sent upon an interview and had obtained from hissubject a wretched dozen words. These he had taken to the news-editor;and the news-editor had treated them and him with contempt.

  "But that's all he would say," poor Bill had expostulated.

  "All he would say!" the news-editor sneered. "Here, Mathers, take thisstuff and make a quarter-col. interview out of it."

  Thus it was in depressed mood that Bill on the following morning openedhis _Daily._

  The flaring "Country House Outrage" hit his eye; he read; in two minuteshis mood was changed. A sensation at Paltley Hill! At Mr. Marrapit's!Here was his chance! Who better fitted than he to work up this story?Fortunately he knew Mr. Henry T. Bitt's private address; had the goodsense to go straight to his chief.

  A cab took him to the editor's flat in Victoria Street. Mr. Bitt wasequally enthusiastic.

  "Hot stuff," said Mr. Bitt. "You've got your chance; make a splash. Goto the office and tell Lang I've put you on to it. Cut away down to thescene of the outrage and stay there as our Special Commissioner till Iwire you back. Serve it up hot. Make clues if you can't find 'em. Hot,mind. H-O-T."

  III.

  Professor Wyvern was the second reader upon whom the sensational storyhad particular effect.

  Through breakfast the Professor eyed with loving eagerness the copy ofthe _Daily_ that lay folded beside his plate.

  At intervals, "I have made a very good breakfast, now," he would say."Now I will try to find what Bill has written in this terrible paper."

  But thrice Mrs. Wyvern lovingly checked him. "Dear William, no. You havehardly touched your sole. You must finish it, dear, every scrap, beforeyou look at the paper. You have been eating such good breakfasts lately.Now, please, William, finish it first."

  "It is as big as a shark," the Professor grumbles, making shots with histrembling fork.

  "Dear William, it is a very small sole."

  At last he has finished. A line catches his eye as he unfolds the_Daily_, and he chuckles: "Oh, dear! This is a very horrible paper.'Actress and Stockbroker--Piccadilly by night.'"

  "Dear William, we only want to read what Bill has written. An interview,he tells us, with--"

  Dear William waggles his naughty old head over the actress and thestockbroker; shaky fingers unfold the centre pages; nose runs up onecolumn and down another, then suddenly starts back burnt by the flaring"Country House Outrage."

  "Dearest! Dearest! Whatever is the matter?"

  But dearest is speechless. Dearest can only cough and choke and splutterin convulsions of mirth over some terrific joke of which he will tellMrs. Wyvern no more than: "He has done it. Oh, dear! oh, dear! He hasdone it. Oh, dear! This will be very funny indeed!"

  IV.

  It will be seen that two out of the three readers particularlyinterested in Mr. Bitt's splash were agreeably interested. Upon thethird the effect was different.

  It was George's first morning in the little inn at Dippleford Admiral.An unaccustomed weight upon his legs, at which thrice he sleepily kickedwithout ridding himself of it, at length awoke him.

  He found the morning well advanced; the disturbing weight that hadoppressed him he saw to be a hairy object, orange of hue. Immediatelyhis drowsy senses awoke; took grip of events; sleep fled. This objectwas the Rose of Sharon, and at once George became actively astir to thesurgings of yesterday, the mysteries of the future.

  Pondering upon them, he was disturbed by a knock that heralded a voice:"The paper you ordered, mister; and when'll you be ready for breakfast?"

  "Twenty minutes," George replied; remembered the landlady had overnighttold him she was a little deaf; on a louder note bawled: "Twentyminutes, Mrs. Pinner!"

  Mrs. Pinner, after hesitation, remarked: "Ready now? Very well, mister";pushed a newspaper beneath the door; shuffled down the stairs.

  In the course of his brief negotiations with Mrs. Pinner upon theprevious evening, George, in response to the proud information that thepaper-boy arrived at nine o'clock every morning on a motor bicycle,had bellowed that he would have the _Daily_. For old Bill's sake he hadordered it; with friendly curiosity to see Bill's new associations henow withdrew his legs from beneath the Rose of Sharon; hopped out ofbed; opened the paper.

  Upon "Country House Outrage" George alighted plump; with goggle eyes,scalp creeping, blood freezing, read through to the last "Catchy Clue";aghast sank upon his bed.

  It had got into the papers! Among all difficult eventualities againstwhich he had made plans this had never found place. It had got into thepapers! The cat's abduction was, or soon would be, in the knowledge ofeveryone. This infernal reward which with huge joy he had heard offered,was now become the goad that would prick into active search for theRose every man, woman, or child who read the story
. It had got into thepapers! He was a felon now; fleeing justice; every hand against him.Discovery looked certain, and what did discovery mean? Discovery meantnot only loss of the enormous stake for which he was playing--hisdarling Mary,--but it meant--"Good God!" groaned my miserable George,"it means ruin; it means imprisonment."

  Melancholy pictures went galloping like wild nightmares through thisyoung man's mind. He saw himself in the dock, addressed in awful wordsby the judge who points out the despicable character of his crime;he saw himself in hideous garb labouring in a convict prison; hesaw himself struck off the roll at the College of Surgeons; he sawhimself--"Oh, Lord!" he groaned, "I'm fairly in the cart!"

  Very slowly, very abject, he peeled off his pyjamas; slid a white andtrembling leg into his bath.

  But the preposterous buoyancy of youth! The cold water that splashedaway the clamminess of bed washed, too, the more vapoury fears fromGeorge's brain; the chilly splashings that braced his system to atingling glow braced also his mind against the pummellings of hisposition. Drying, he caught himself whistling; catching himself in suchan act he laughed ruefully to think how little ground he had for goodspirits.