by Van Reid
The noise of the crowd rose to a deafening level as John Benning and the one-armed soldier took to the sidelines. The two combatants knew enough to shake hands and take opposite sides of the ring, but Thump only stood between them, looking from one to the other.
“Give the word, sir,” said John Benning to Mr. Thump. Thump hadn’t the slightest notion what that word might be. He considered saying “Ready, aim, fire!” but this seemed out of place. “On your mark, get set, go!” was equally inappropriate. Finally, he shouted, like an emperor at the Colosseum, “Let the game begin!” and tripped in his haste to remove himself from harm’s way. The crowd roared with cheers and laughter as Blithewaite and Van Smooten circled, tigerishly, several paces away from each other. They had divested themselves of coats and hats and rolled up their sleeves in a businesslike manner; now they were fired with blood and determination. Thump scurried from one side of the ring to the other.
The combatants made several circuits of the ring, glaring with express dislike—jaws jutted, eyes wide with fierce intensity, mouths constricted in frowns that would have been painful in lesser men. The noise of the crowd increased as its numbers grew and Blithewaite and Van Smooten were so filled with pugnacious resolve that they began to throw jabs into the air, though they were not within six feet of each other.
Thump was soon out of breath and red in the face as he moved his short bulk back and forth, covering more ground than either of the fighters. Twice he backed into a flailing blow, and once he thought he heard a growl emanate from Van Smooten’s throat.
The battlers shot dangerous looks over their fists. The veneer of civilization had fallen; all pretense to human charity was tossed aside, all tolerance of an opposing view sloughed off like so much useless clothing. Perhaps ten feet away from one another, now, they circled the ring with concentrated emotion.
So far they had endangered no one accept Thump, but their continued circling had a heroic quality that spurred the raucous clamor of the crowd.
“Yes, sir,” said the one-armed sergeant to John Benning. “This may be the way to fight a war.”
“Do you suppose that either of them knows whom he’s fighting?” wondered Benning over the din, Indeed, so relentless were the two combatants that they were unaware of stretching the limits of the ring. The crowd retreated slightly as one of them backed into someone or the other trod upon a toe. Somehow the distance between them had grown rather than lessened, and this only seemed to increase the terrible volatility of their stares and give greater accent to the violent fluctuation of their thrusting limbs. Then came the moment of truth, for Van Smooten unexpectedly stepped on Blithewaite’s hat, an action that (to be fair) was undoubtedly accidental. Blithewaite, however, was renewed in his martial anger, and being in the vicinity of Van Smooten’s hat, he purposely crushed it with the heel of his boot. Van Smooten was so thunderstruck by this gesture of disdain that he stepped back. Blithewaite followed suit, impelled as he was by the force of Van Smooten’s wild expression.
They were now a full fifteen feet away from each other. The surrounding tumult reached an almost unbearable peak, and without further prodding the throng fell back. Blithewaite and Van Smooten sensed in this mass retreat an awe, perhaps even a fear, of their grisly purpose. Thump stood alone in the center of the ring and glanced helplessly from one violent politician to the other. There was a new sound to the crowd, a sort of warning, even pleading, and Blithewaite and Van Smooten, each convinced that this sense of fright and awe was directed at himself, closed ranks with one another—stiffly and with strangely agitated steps.
Thump watched in horror as they neared the center of the ring, their faces contorted with animal ferocity, their minds twisted with the approbation of the crowd and the memory of their pulverized hats. The throng cried out again, but Blithewaite and Van Smooten were past any change of heart. They were nearly upon one another, no longer flailing the air with their dangerous blows. A great shadow fell over them, as if the sky itself took on the aspect of impending doom.
Thump thought that he could hear his name being called from the crowd, and he turned to see Ephram and Eagleton pointing at the sky. He looked up then and found himself directly below Mrs. Roberto’s gracefully billowing skirts. He thought, as she descended upon him, that it was, without a doubt, an attractive suit of tights. He was quite taken, really, and didn’t exactly mind when he and she became entangled, first in her gracefully billowing skirts, then—and Blithewaite and Van Smooten disappeared as well—in the red, white, and blue canopy of her gracefully billowing parachute!
13 The Veiled Invitation
MISTER WALTON AND DR. MORIARTY ARRIVED AT THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE crowd in time to see Mrs. Roberto and her parachute descend over the figures in the improvised boxing ring. Dr. Moriarty opened a way through the throng and Mister Walton followed him till they came to the edge of the inner circle. Already John Benning and the one-armed sergeant were directing the gathering of the parachute, so that the fate of those beneath could be discovered.
Mr. Thump was the only one who had sustained any real injury; a large bump was visible on his forehead—possibly inflicted by the heel of one of Mrs. Roberto’s black boots. Mrs. Roberto was already tending to the stricken man when they were revealed from beneath the lifted parachute. His head was resting gently in her lap; he appeared unconscious, but was breathing, and there was a look of peace upon his face that few did not envy.
Blithewaite and Van Smooten were not to be found. Like rabbits beneath a magician’s cape, they had vanished.
Ephram and Eagleton hurried to the side of their stalwart friend; Dr. Moriarty called for some water, which was brought, and some medicinal spirits, which were quickly produced from the crowd. Gathered around the still form of Thump, John Benning remarked to the one-armed soldier how much they must appear like Benjamin West’s painting of The Death of General Wolfe.
“It was an heroic action, Thump,” said Ephram to his unconscious friend.
“In the fray,” said Eagleton. “Ever in the fray.”
“Dear me, was he fighting?” asked Mister Walton.
“He was referee,” said the sergeant, with a wry smile.
“None more suited to balancing the scales of fair and sportsmanlike play,” said Eagleton.
“Insistent upon his duty,” said Ephram, forgetting that Thump had to be restrained from dashing off when chosen for the office. But there was absolutely a tear in Ephram’s eye as he looked down upon his fallen comrade.
“He is undaunted by the prospect of danger,” added Eagleton.
Thump heard all this from a beatific haze. It was gratifying to hear the voice of Mister Walton, who seemed to have recognized someone in the crowd that had gathered around the stricken man. “I am delighted to see you again, sir,” came another familiar voice in answer to Mister Walton’s greeting.
Mrs. Roberto was tender in her attentions to Thump, who took a deep sigh, as if sleeping upon the softest pillow. “My,” said Mrs. Roberto, “he has a magnificent beard!” She brushed the hair back from his forehead. Dr. Moriarty had bathed the man’s face in cool water, and now he applied a flask of brandy to Thump’s lips.
Thump’s eyes opened dreamily. He hadn’t, until this moment, the slightest notion where he was; and now he found himself looking past certain of Mrs. Roberto’s physical endowments, which were considerable, and into her soft brown eyes as she gazed upon him with the utmost concern.
“High tide at eighteen past six,” said Thump and without warning he sat up.
Eagleton and Ephram were greatly agitated by their friend’s agitation. Ephram produced one of his pocket watches and announced the time. “Twenty-three minutes past the hour of twelve,” he said, looking at the watch critically.
“Showers expected,” said Eagleton, ever the meteorographer. “Late afternoon, early evening. Possible thunderstorms scattered throughout the southern part of the state.”
Thump was on his feet now, brushing himself down. Mister Walton
and the sergeant helped Mrs. Roberto to her feet. “I hope you are not hurt,” she said to Thump.
“One piece, I think,” he said. He was so shaken by his physical contact with the woman that he couldn’t even think to thank her for her concern.
“He seems quite fit, really,” said Ephram.
“Tremendous descent,” said Eagleton. He turned red in the face. “In the parachute, you know.”
“It was a remarkable performance,” said Mister Walton to Mrs. Roberto. “We were quite thrilled.”
The crowd, by this time, had dispersed to other events, and even John Benning, who had instigated the great Blithewaite–Van Smooten bout, shook Thump’s hand and wandered off to other pursuits. The one-armed sergeant went to join his regiment. Mrs. Roberto’s crew was carefully folding her parachute and she thanked Dr. Moriarty and Mister Walton for her rescue from under her equipage, then returned to her balloon, which had been winched back to earth.
“I can’t say that I am surprised to find you here,” said Ephram to Mister Walton.
“Ever in the thick,” added Eagleton.
Having retrieved his hat, which had blown some yards away, Thump returned to the group. “Forming a club, you know,” he said. “Not to forget.”
“I will certainly keep it in mind,” said Mister Walton. The three men insisted on shaking his hand once more, and they stood looking from Mister Walton to Dr. Moriarty, till Mister Walton excused himself on the grounds that he must return to his hosts. Dr. Moriarty gave Thump a final once-over, declared him hale, and accompanied Mister Walton across the field. Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump went off in search of a booth that would serve food.
“Did you understand what any of that was about?” asked Mister Walton.
“Not entirely,” said the doctor. “The sergeant said that the two speakers decided to have their differences out in the ring.”
“How extraordinary!”
“I suspect an outside agency might have influenced them. Good afternoon, Tom.”
This last was directed to a boy of about ten or eleven years, who stepped out from under the oak, near which the Underwoods and Dr. Moriarty’s family had laid their picnics. The lad was hatless and his corn-silk hair stuck out at several angles. “Uncle Enoch is poorly, Doctor,” he said, his solemn expression not attuned to the celebration of the day.
“Enoch has been poorly for some time now,” replied the doctor.
“He’s gotten worse and he told Mama they’re coming for him.”
The doctor nodded seriously. “You know what my rig looks like, son. Go drive it up by the field and I’ll meet you there.”
There was something that Mister Walton had wanted to tell Cordelia, but in the face of this new concern he promptly forgot about it. “I hope your patient is not as ill as his family fears,” he said to Dr. Moriarty.
“Tom’s mother is a practical woman and not given to exaggeration,” said the doctor. “If she sent for me, Enoch must be near his time. He’s her husband’s uncle and ninety-six, after all. Dear,” he said to his wife, who had been sitting with Mercia and Aunt Delia, “I’ll send Tom back with the carriage, so you and the girls can go home after the fireworks.”
“Nonsense,” said Cordelia’s great-aunt. She waved a negligent hand from her seat beneath the oak. “We will bring them home, Patrick.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Frost, but will you have room?”
“Certainly. The more the merrier, and if it’s a little cozy, so be it.”
The doctor was thinking that Mister Walton would be taking up a lot of room in Delia’s rig, and sensing this, Mister Walton informed him that he had not come with the Underwoods. Dr. Moriarty rummaged through his family’s picnic hamper and found half a sandwich. He gathered his coat and hat and called to his two daughters, who were still playing croquet, and who were used to their father being called away at all hours and events. He bade goodbye and looked ready to leave—Tom had already driven the carriage up to the edge of the field. The doctor stood for a moment with his hat and coat, as if inwardly debating something.
“Mister Walton,” he said, turning to the bespectacled fellow. “Have you any plans for this evening?”
“Why no, Doctor. Is there any way that I can be of assistance?”
The doctor moved in the direction of his carriage, indicating that Mister Walton should walk with him. “I am guessing that you’re the sort of man who wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to witness an uncommon occurrence.
“You intrigue me, Doctor,” said Mister Walton, falling in beside the man, and adjusting his spectacles on his nose.
“Good. Your friend beneath the parachute—when did he say the tide would be high?”
“Eighteen past six, I believe, though I must admit to some confusion over his reasons for announcing it, just then.”
“That would put low tide at something past midnight. It was a bit of a non sequitur, wasn’t it. Now, there will be dancing, early in the evening—at the town hall, since rain is expected—and fireworks at nine, I think. I should imagine that you might take a turn or two on the dance floor.”
“If I can find a willing victim to accompany me.”
Contrary to this self-deprecation, Dr. Moriarty thought to himself that the portly Mister Walton would cut a pleasing figure in the gambols and waltzes. “I’ll send my carriage for you at about half past ten, then, and have it meet you at the hall.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mister Walton. He was vastly curious, but did his best to appear otherwise.
“I’m sorry to be mysterious, but I find myself with the chance to have an . . . uncorrupted observer.” Dr. Moriarty stopped for a moment and regarded Mister Walton seriously. “I should warn you that I am inviting you to a death watch.”
“I thought, perhaps.”
“You must not feel obliged to join me.”
“I am sure you have reasons for asking me along.”
“Good. You might say that this has been a case I have been working on for some years.” And finishing the distance to the carriage by himself, he called over his shoulder: “If Holmes can have his Watson, Moriarty will have his Walton.”
14 Tolerable and Moderately Good
THE STORM SENT THE FOURTH OF JULY BALL INDOORS AND SIMULTANEOUSLY solved the problem of overcrowding by driving away those who had come in open rigs. Aunt Delia’s carriage had a collapsible top, which had already been raised to keep the seats dry, and so she and the attendant Underwoods were among those who remained. It was a genial mob—for there is seldom a more satisfied group of revelers than those who revel in spite of the weather.
Mercia and James sped the dance floor with precision and élan. Their daughter, from her chair against the wall, watched them with a mixture of pleasure and longing—longing for the simplicity of her childhood, longing for some unknown but eventful future, and longing for a present in which she would find herself part of such a couple. James and Mercia were leaving the dance floor, glowing from their exertions, when a waltz was called. James took his wife’s hand, gently swept her toward him, and led her gracefully away again as the first notes plaintively sang from the lead fiddle.
Mister Walton had been speaking with Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump on the other side of the room, but as the new song struck up, he hurried his round self to Aunt Delia’s chair and offered his hand. Aunt Delia’s seventy-eight years weighed very lightly upon her as she accepted his invitation. Soon they vanished among the twirling crowd.
Cordelia watched for them or her parents to appear again as the dancers revolved past her in a blur. The faces, mostly unfamiliar, shifted one to another and she had become almost hypnotized by the sweep of outstretched arms, the confidential expressions, and the swirl of skirts, when she was conscious of the handsome young man whom she had seen in Freeport this morning—the very same handsome young man who had prevented her from falling overboard at Portland’s Custom House Wharf two days before. He was walking toward her.
Conflicting
notions chased each other through Cordelia’s mind as she watched the man approach: one was to absent herself from his immediate trajectory, another was to pretend that she did not recognize him, and several quickly conceived plans incorporated various witty (or hopefully witty) things she might say once he was within speaking distance.
You can see that I have stayed well away from the water since I spoke with you last.
No, that wouldn’t do; it made it sound as if she didn’t bathe.
You will be glad to see that there is no height here for me to fall from.
That sounded as if she were clumsy, or constantly in need of rescue.
He was looking directly, and frankly, into her eyes, and smiled warmly as he came to her. Did it really take as long to happen as it does to tell? Looking back, Cordelia would certainly doubt it, for she hadn’t arrived at a satisfactory plan before he stopped in front of her seat and bowed with comic formality.
“Oh, please, don’t get up,” he said, as she rose from her chair. She did think, perhaps, that she had appeared too eager, so she returned to her seat, but with such a loud sort of landing that he couldn’t be blamed for wondering if she had hurt herself. It was not gracefully accomplished, and Cordelia was, by this time, red to the tips of her ears.
“I haven’t had the opportunity to properly thank you,” she managed to say, referring to his timely rescue of her two days before.
“Perhaps, then, you might thank me by putting my name on your dance card.” There was a sincere hope in his brown eyes that struck a chord, almost painfully within her.
“To tell the truth, I hadn’t expected to need a dance card,” she said; and to look at her soft features, her freckled nose and dark eyebrows, her green eyes and red hair glowing in the lamplight, one might think—though mistakenly—that the statement was dishonest. Cordelia had imagined herself, from childhood, to be plain, and all the admiring glances that had come her way had not convinced her otherwise.