The Second Dandy Chater

by Tom Gallon

  CHAPTER XXII

  OGLEDON PLAYS HIS LAST CARD

  Philip Chater, after being tumbled so unceremoniously out of the fly,lost no time in scrambling to his feet, with the aid of Captain Quistand the man of the melancholy visage. He found some difficulty ingetting up on his own account, by reason of the handcuffs which stilladorned his wrists. The Captain, now that his first lament was overconcerning the wonderful silk hat, picked up the wreckage of hisheadgear out of the dust, and became in a moment the resolute man ofaction.

  “Phil, my lad,” he said, briskly—“we ’aven’t got a moment to throwaway. At the rate that there ’oss is a goin’, they’ll be in Chelmsford,with the town roused, in about ’arf an hour; and then they’ll begin terscour the country, if yer like. Luckily it’s dark, an’ the moon ain’t ashowin’ ’er face as much as she was; so we’ll cut straight across these’ere fields, an’ lie close for a bit at the circus. Lor’—wot a luckything it is that I took to ’osses an’ sawdust!”

  Philip was hurried along so rapidly, and assisted over stiles andthrough gates and hedges at such a pace, that he found it quiteimpossible to ask any questions. The Captain kept an arm tightly lockedin his, as though he feared Philip might escape again, on his ownaccount; while the melancholy man scouted in advance, on the lookoutfor possible surprises. In this order, after going at a great rate forsome half hour or so, they came to a place where a few lights weregleaming among trees, and some shadowy figures moving to and fro. Inthe pale light of the moon, a huge tent stood up as a background to thepicture, the front of which was occupied by one or two smaller tents,and a couple of caravans. Without stopping for anything, the Captaindived in amongst these, pulled open the door of one of the caravans,and motioned to Philip to go in.

  The place was dimly lighted by a little oil lamp hung at one side;Philip recognised it, at the first glance, as the caravan in which hehad escaped from Chelmsford. The Captain and the melancholy manfollowing him in, the latter closed the door carefully, while theformer produced from a little locker, various bottles and glasses witha smiling face.

  “Not a word, Phil, my boy,” said the Captain, in a hoarsewhisper—“till sich time as you gets a drop of summink warmin’ insideyer. You’ve ’ad sich an uncommonly lively time lately, an’ ’ave bintumbled about to that extent, as it’s a marvel ter me if you ’ave anysystem left at all. So down with it, Phil, my lad—with the noblesentiment—(I feels like a boy-pirate meself!)—‘Confusion to theperlice!’”

  “I am more grateful to you, old friend, than I can say,” said Philip,“and, if I can get these bracelets off, I shall be able to drink, or todo anything else with greater ease. However, I’ll drink to the toastwith all my heart.” He raised the glass in both his manacled hands,with a laugh.

  “We’ll ’ave them little ornyments orf in ’arf a jiffy,” said theCaptain, diving into the locker again. “We guessed you might ’avesummink of that sort, as a little delicate attention from yourfriends—so we got pervided accordin’. ’Ere’s a file from our’andy-man’s tool-bag; an’ I reckon I’d best ’ave a go at the rivets.”

  The Captain set to work at once; nor would he utter a word, in reply toany questions, until the handcuffs were removed. It took someconsiderable time, and while the filing went on, Philip noticed thatthe melancholy man kept his eyes fixed upon the floor—onlyoccasionally indulging in that extraordinary cough, with which he hadbeen afflicted at the Chater Arms.

  At last, the handcuffs being safely put out of sight, the Captain,turning to the melancholy man, said abruptly—“Now then, Skerritt, myboy—let’s know ’ow this ’ere affair was brought orf for theinfermation of Mr. Chater. This, Phil,” he added, “is a man as is to betrusted with anythink—from untold gold to w’iskey—a man as formerlysailed under me, an’ ’as joined me, as a sort of depitty clown. I’llown,” added the Captain, in a hoarse whisper behind his hand toPhilip—“I’ll own as ’e don’t look it—but ’e’s got a way with ’im,w’en ’e’s painted up, as would fairly astonish yer.”

  Mr. Skerritt immediately plunged into an account of his doings, and ofhow he contrived to meet Philip; explaining it all with many of thosecurious sounds before referred to, and with much rolling of onemelancholy eye. He had a curious funereal voice, as though it had sunkbelow the usual level at some period, of great depression, and hadnever been got up again.

  “The Cap’n ’avin’ passed the word as there were a shipmate in distress,I started out fer ter sight ’im; got wind that ’e might be expected inBamberton—wind an’ tide bein’, so ter speak, favourable. The Cap’n’ere come as far as the cross-roads wi’ me an’ we arranged signals.Then I ’eard a fair rumpus in the village, an’ got up jus’ in time tosee the perliceman a bein’ pounded in the ribs by a ole gent in hisstockin’ feet, an’ Mr. Chater a layin’ about proper among the lubbersas was a tryin’ to ’old ’im. I shoves meself for’ard, an’ manages tergit with ’im an’ the perliceman, w’en they starts fer Chelmsford. Therest ’e knows.” Here Mr. Skerritt laughed again, in that peculiarfashion of his, and looked more melancholy than ever.

  “But, Captain,” urged Philip—“you don’t seem to realise what a riskyou run, in thus defying the Law, and befriending a man who is anoutlaw. My debt to you is greater than I can pay; and I cannot permityou to run any further danger on my account.”

  “’Old ’ard—’old ’ard, mess-mate,” cried the Captain. “’Osses or no’osses—circuses or no circuses—I stan’ by a friend. I confess I don’tunderstan’ the business—an’ I don’t like you a runnin’ under falsecolours; but you’ve give me yer word as ’ow you’re innocent; an’ I’llcontinue for to rescue yer, once a week, if necessary—till furtherorders. I don’t take no notice of objections or risks; rescue yer Iwill, agin yer will or with it. An’ now, Phil, as we starts earlyto-morrer mornin’, I’d advise yer to turn in, an’ git wot sleep yercan. An’ in order that yer may sleep with a easy mind, there’s some oneas I’d like yer ter see, afore I battens yer down for the night.”

  So saying, the worthy Captain opened the door cautiously, and creptdown the steps. In a few moments, the door was opened again, by anotherhand; and a light figure darted in, and fell at Philip’s feet. It wasClara Siggs.

  He was so astonished and so delighted at this unexpected meeting, that,as he raised her from the floor, and looked into her eyes, he bent hishead, and kissed her, quite on an impulse.

  “My dear girl,” he said—“this is the best part of all—to know thatyou are safe and well, and in good hands. Tell me—how did you comehere?”

  “Mrs. Quist, with whom I lodged at Chelmsford, gave up her house, andcame to join the Captain. She has made up her mind to travel about infuture with her husband—to look after him a little, I fancy”—Claralaughed softly as she spoke—“and so I came with her.”

  “I saw your mother a few hours since,” said Philip, watching the girlintently as he spoke—“and assured her that you were with friends, andwell cared for. When will you return to her?”

  She looked up at him quickly for a moment, with a half reproachfulexpression on her face. “When you tell me to go,” she said, slowly.

  “No—not when _I_ tell you, child; but when your own heart tells you. Iwouldn’t have you think me ungrateful, for the world; I wouldn’t haveyou think that I undervalue, in any way, your sacrifice for me, or yourvaluable help in my time of greatest need; I shall remember it all,while God gives me memory to remember anything. But I should be a bruteand a coward, if I took advantage of it—or of you. You are very young,and have, I trust, a long and happy life before you; my life seems tobe going down in shadows. More than all else, I want you to think thatthe Dandy Chater who lingered with you in the woods, and whisperedfoolish things to you, is not the Dandy Chater who holds your handsnow, and speaks to you out of a full and grateful heart. Perhaps—whocan tell, child?—perhaps trouble and suffering have altered him—havemade him see many things in a better light; perhaps
he’s a differentman altogether.”

  She was weeping quietly, with her head bowed down on the hands he held;but she did not interrupt him.

  “There’s an old mother at home, waiting to welcome back the prettychild she brought into the world, and has held so often in her arms;there’s a grey-headed father, who loves you; and there’s some oneelse—a good-hearted lad, with never a stain upon him—who loves you,too, as you deserve to be loved. Now—when does your heart tell you youmust go back to them?”

  “I—I understand,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I’ve had time tothink, during these few days—and this wild and foolish heart of mineseems to beat for them—for him—more than it ever did before. I shouldlike to go back to them at once—to-morrow—now that I know you aresafe. But will they understand?”

  “Your mother will understand everything,” said Philip, with a smile.

  For three days, Philip Chater remained with the circus—keeping hiddenduring the day, and only venturing out at night. During that time, hehad some narrow escapes from re-capture; once, he lay under a tarpaulinwhich had been flung hurriedly over him, and heard a constable makingminute enquiries concerning the missing Dandy Chater, while CaptainPeter Quist gave as minute replies. Realising, however, that he couldnot remain hidden much longer, and being fully aware of the risk whichwas run so cheerfully by the Captain, and those associated with him, hedetermined to get away, and to let what risk and danger there was beupon his own shoulders.

  He knew well, however, that the Captain would never consent to hisdeparture; and would be mortally offended at the mere suggestion ofsuch a thing. Therefore, he determined to steal away, without givingany warning of his intention. Clara Siggs, under a safe escort, hadgone back to Bamberton; and the circus was already making arrangementsto move on further afield.

  Accordingly, quite late at night, when all the people connected withthe circus were sleeping, he started to make his escape. He hadabsolutely refused to occupy the caravan originally intended for him,because he knew that, by so doing, the Captain and Mrs. Quist would berendered practically homeless; after much contention about the matter,it had been arranged that he should sleep in a rough tent, and in thecompany of the melancholy one. And, on this night, he lay wide awake inthe darkness, listening to the heavy breathing of that gentleman, andstriving to make up his mind what course to pursue, when once he shouldbe clear of the little encampment.

  Fortunately, the melancholy man was a heavy sleeper, and Philip wasable to creep past him, and get out of the tent, under the stars,without rousing him or any one else. Standing there, in the silence ofthe night, with only those faint points of light glimmering and winkingabove him, and no sound all about, save the distant barking of a dog,Philip wondered what he should do—to what point of the compass heshould turn. So far as he knew, he stood absolutely alone, with all hisbattles still to fight. But even now, with a full knowledge of thedangers through which he had passed, and the dangers he had still toface, Bamberton—the scene of all his troubles—drew him like a magnet.

  The circus had moved on, some fifteen miles to the westward of thevillage; but Philip had kept careful note of the route taken, and wasable to set out at once, by the most direct road. There was but smallfear of his meeting any one, in the middle of the night; but, for allthat, he was watchful and suspicious of every sound.

  He made straight for the Chater Arms, and reached it at about fiveo’clock in the morning; lying concealed at a little distance, he waiteduntil he saw Betty herself throw open her window, and show her bloomingface to the fresh morning sun; creeping near, he signalled to her, andin a few moments she appeared at the door leading into the yard, andbeckoned to him.

  Before a word was spoken, she drew him inside, and hugged him in herhearty fashion, and wept a little in quite a womanly one.

  “Clara is with you?” was his first question.

  “Yes—an’ as well as well. But, my dear boy, wot brings yer back toBamberton?”

  Philip hurriedly explained his reasons for leaving CaptainQuist—reasons which Betty cordially approved.

  “You won’t need to worry yerself a bit, deary,” she said—“’cos thatthere idjut Tokely ’as took ’isself back to Scotland Yard—an’ thereain’t nobody in the ’ouse, ’cept a drunken little wretch wot seems to’ave plenty of money, an’ is goin’ on in a fair way to empty my bar.An’ of all the strange things”—she stopped suddenly, and looked atPhilip, and clapped her hands together; “Phil, dear lad,—to think thatyou an’ ’im should ’ave come together, at this time, in this place, an’with ole Betty under the same roof!”

  Philip stared at her in astonishment. “Why, little mother”—he said,laughing—“what on earth are you rambling on about?”

  “Not ramblin’ at all, deary—but jus’ speakin’ of plain honest facts.The man who’s sleepin’ upstairs now is a chap—a Doctor—by the name ofCripps——”

  “Not the Cripps of whom you told me, Betty!” cried Philip, excitedly.“Not the man who was paid to keep the secret of my birth?”

  “The very same,” cried Betty, with equal excitement. “Why—Phil, dearlad——”

  “Don’t waste a moment, Betty,” he cried—“I must see this man at once.”

  “But ’e’s in bed—an’ sleepin’ like a pig; it took Toby an’ another manto get ’im upstairs las’ night—an’ ’e fought all the way.”

  “I don’t care if he’s in bed—or where he is,” said Philip—“I must seehim.”

  Persuaded at last that the matter was really urgent, Betty led the wayupstairs—pointed to a door—and hurriedly retired. Philip Chater,after knocking once, and getting no response, turned the handle andwent in.

  Dr. Cripps must have gone to bed, as suggested by Betty Siggs, in astate of considerable excitement. His dilapidated clothing wasliterally all over the room, as though he had stripped it from hisperson, and hurled it in all directions. He was hanging half out ofbed, as though he had made a vain attempt to stand on his head on thefloor, and had fallen asleep before accomplishing it; so that hiscountenance, at all times an inflamed one, was literally purple.Philip, in his impatience, hurried towards him, shook him into anupright position, and spoke his name.

  The unfortunate Cripps, awakened thus hurriedly from his slumbers, andhaving no time to collect his thoughts properly, saw before him the manwho had been the cause of all his miseries and troubles, and rememberednothing of that solution of the mystery at which he had so opportunelyarrived. Indeed, the fifty pounds he had earned—or obtained—fromMadge Barnshaw was going far to make him a greater wreck than before;for he was melting it into a liquid form, as rapidly as mortal mancould.

  Staring, in those first moments of semi-consciousness, into the eyes ofDandy Chater, as he supposed, he beat him off with both hands, shriekedaloud, and made for the window. Philip had only just time to catch himround the waist; in another moment, he would have gone head first intothe yard below.

  “Steady, my friend—steady!” exclaimed Philip, putting theterror-stricken man into a chair, and getting between him and thewindow. “What are you frightened at? What’s the matter?”

  Cripps looked at him for a moment or two, and then his face graduallychanged. “You came—came on a man so suddenly,” he said. “But I seenow; I suppose you’re the other one.”

  Philip laughed. “Yes,” he said—“I’m the other one. You know all aboutme, Cripps; you know that I’m a fugitive from justice—and you know,better than any one, that I am innocent, and am suffering for mybrother’s sins. I suppose you know that he is dead?”

  Cripps nodded. “Fished him out of the river myself, with a beastlysailor-man, who dragged me into it by sheer brute force,” he replied.“And, ever since then, you’ve been appearing to me as a ghost—andfrightening me out of what few wits I have left. Now—what are yougoing to do?”

  “First,” said Philip, sitting down near him—“I want to assure you thatI am your friend; I want to plead with you to help me—to work with meto bri
ng this business to an end. Who knows the real story, exceptyourself?”

  “No one,” said Cripps after a moment’s thought—“except the woman whotook you to Australia.”

  “And she will say nothing, I know,” replied Philip. “Now there is aman—a cousin of mine—named Ogledon——”

  Cripps shook a feeble fist in the air. “Ogledon is a scoundrel—adevil,” he cried. “Ask him how Dandy Chater—your brother, mindyou—met his death?”

  “If you know anything of that, Dr. Cripps—in mercy tell me!” exclaimedPhilip.

  “Ogledon killed him; that much I know, from his own lips,” said thelittle man, after a pause. “You see, you have taken his place soneatly, that it has never occurred to anybody to imagine that Dandy isdead. I was always sorry for Dandy—oh—don’t laugh at me; I’m adrunken little creature, of no good to any one—but Dandy would havebeen all right, if it hadn’t have been for Ogledon. Ogledon took him,when he was a mere lad, and moulded him as he would. And then killedhim to finish it. But there’s worse than that.”

  “Worse!” cried Philip. “What do you mean? What can be worse than that?”

  “Do you know a young girl named Marnham? No—Barnham—Barn——”

  “Barnshaw?” asked Philip, with his heart beginning to beatuncomfortably fast.

  “Barnshaw it is. Lives at a house near here. Well—Ogledon’s been sweeton her for a long time, although, from what I hear, she would havenothing to say to him.”

  “Heaven bless her! I should think not, indeed!”

  “Well—Ogledon made up his mind to get hold of her; he has sent her anurgent message to go to him, on the plea that he can explain about you.”

  “About me?” said Philip, in astonishment.

  “Yes—or rather about Dandy Chater. That was the message: ‘I can tellyou the truth about Dandy Chater.’ At least, so the Shady ’un told me.”

  “The Shady ’un? What has he to do with it?”

  “Everything. He has been trusted by Ogledon with the message; I saw himthis very afternoon, when he came in here to enquire the way—havingmissed it somehow or other. And Miss Barnshaw has gone back with him.”

  Philip Chater drew a deep breath. “Steady now, Cripps; let’s have thisthing straight. You say the Shady ’un has taken Miss Barnshaw toOgledon. Where is Ogledon? Where are they to meet?”

  “At a hut on the river bank, near The Three Watermen,” replied Cripps.

  “Where Dandy Chater met his death!” muttered Philip to himself.“Cripps, get into your clothes; we’ll follow them at once!”