It looked like it. But he didn’t know yet whether he was going to be the hero of a comedy or a tragedy.
The mountains were now very high, and even some of the rocks reared above them. They had entered a small bay, and the third officer was steering towards the best landing point. The shore was deserted. Beyond the shore and a space of tumbled boulders rose the fringe of a forest.
Ben looked at Sims. He discovered that Sims was looking at him. Sims had put away his binoculars, and was holding a revolver. He smiled, as their eyes met.
‘Nearly there,’ said Sims.
‘’Ooray,’ replied Ben.
The sail came down. Ben was ordered to take an oar. A few seconds later the boat touched bottom, and ran up an incline of moist shingle. Obeying a long-dormant instinct, he jumped out, and began to assist in the beaching of the boat; but he fell away almost at once, and stood still, panting.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Sims, toying with his revolver.
The leader was not doing any work. He was directing operations. Apparently, he did not trust anybody.
‘Miggerams,’ murmured Ben.
‘What?’ said Sims.
‘Got ’em,’ answered Ben. ‘Me ’ead’s a blinkin’ maypole.’
‘Then sit down,’ conceded Sims, ‘and don’t get up till you’re told to.’
Ben sat down on a boulder. The sudden exertion of rowing had told upon him. He remembered that he wasn’t well.
Someone sat down beside him. It was Molly. She stared straight ahead of her, as though intent on the beaching of the boat, but her lips moved almost imperceptibly, and the words she spoke slipped sideways. Just as far as Ben, and no farther.
‘Get your strength back first,’ she said.
Adopting the same process, he responded:
‘Wot abart you?’
He felt like a crab that had discovered how to talk.
‘O.K.,’ she said. ‘Are you game?’
Their eyes were on the boat. Faggis and the third officer were lifting the captive out.
‘Fer murder,’ murmured Ben.
Now the three men were holding a consultation. There seemed to be another argument on, but Sims, as usual, was winning. This was obvious by his unruffled attitude, and also by the manner in which he toyed with his revolver.
‘Got any idea?’ asked Molly, continuing the sideways conversation.
‘Yus,’ replied Ben.
‘What?’
‘Git ’er away from them.’
‘Of course. But how?’
‘Ah, now yer arskin’,’ said Ben.
Sims had won the argument. The third officer, covered by the revolver, was turning out his pockets.
‘Wot’s that for?’ wondered Ben.
‘He’s taking no chances,’ whispered Molly.
Faggis followed suit. His pockets revealed a knife. Sims relieved him of it.
‘Now ’e’s got ’em both,’ muttered Ben. ‘Pistol and sticker. Wunner wot ’e’d sell ’em for?’
‘Cave,’ the girl warned him. ‘He’s coming!’
Sims approached. His feet crunched on the beach with almost hypnotic composure. Did nothing ever worry him?
‘Now, you,’ he said to Ben. ‘Got anything dangerous on you?’
‘On’y me gold tooth-pick,’ replied Ben.
‘Turn out your pockets.’
Ben did so. They were empty.
‘Well, I’m blowed!’ he said. ‘Where’s my acid drop?’
Sims turned to Molly. His eyes seemed to go right through her, but she stood the scrutiny well.
‘You won’t search me!’ she declared.
‘It isn’t necessary,’ answered Sims. ‘I can see there’s nothing inside your dress beyond your figure.’
‘’Ere, that’s rude!’ objected Ben.
But the lady he was defending didn’t seem to mind.
‘People like us weren’t born polite,’ she remarked, with a faint smile. ‘Anyway, the rude one needn’t worry. I know which side my bread’s buttered. Well, what’s the next step? Do we look round for a hotel, or what?’
‘You’ll see,’ replied Sims, and moved away again.
He rejoined the others, and they consulted a map. The next step, evidently, depended upon the map.
‘Wish they’d start quarrellin’ agine,’ murmured Ben. ‘That’s wot we want, ain’t it?’
‘Yes, but not a chance,’ answered Molly. ‘There’ll be no big quarrel, unfortunately. You see, they know which side their bread’s buttered too. Sims is the only one who can lead them into safety—and if they don’t keep in with him, they get no pay.’
‘P’r’aps they won’t git no pay no’ow!’
‘They will, if the game goes right.’
‘’Owjer know?’
‘Oh, we’ve got our code. Have to have it, or we couldn’t carry on.’
‘Yus, but wot abart your code?’
‘Mine?’
‘Yus. You’re double-crossin’, ain’tcher?’
‘Oh, I see what you mean.’ She paused. ‘Yes, I’m double-crossing. But then you know why that is.’
‘I’ve fergot.’
‘I told you, this kind of game’s too gory for me.’
‘So yer did. And that lets yer aht, like. I git yer. But, look ’ere, miss. Wot mide yer come in on it at all? You was goin’ ter the capting, wasn’t yer?’
‘I was! But a nice chance I had after you shouted, didn’t I, when the whole world tumbled on top of us in that boat? You were dead to the wide. And if I’d cried out, like you did, goodness knows what would have happened! I expect you’d have gone overboard again, for one thing—and I wouldn’t have been able to fish you back again that trip!’
‘Lummy! That’s right! I ain’t fergot wot yer done fer me. And arter that, I s’p’ose they got away with it?’
She did not answer at once, and Ben looked at her suddenly.
‘Here, don’t do that!’ she whispered sharply. ‘Look down at your toes again!’
Ben obeyed. She was sharp, this kid! If they got through this safely, it wouldn’t be Ben’s fault, it would be hers.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Molly, after a pause. Her voice was very low now. Scarcely audible. Her lips would have been envied by a ventriloquist. ‘They got away—as you see—but, have they got away with it?’
‘Well, ain’t they?’
‘We don’t know what happened after we left the ship.’
‘They’ll think we gorn dahn.’
‘We don’t know, I say! They won’t have found the upturned boat. And Greene didn’t go back and tell them.’
‘So ’e didn’t,’ blinked Ben. ‘Why didn’t ’e? Funk, like wot I sed?’
‘Wind up of some sort, yes. But not of the wetting.’
‘Wot was it, then?’
‘Questions, I’d say. Didn’t like the idea of a cross-examination. You see, everything wasn’t quite tidy. He might have been caught on a loose end.’
‘Yus, when ’is finish comes ’e’ll be caught in a tight hend! Wot time did we shove orf, miss? Soon as I was knocked aht, or midnight, wot they sed.’
‘Later still. Nearer one. Look out!’
‘Wot?’
‘All right.’ He raised his head. ‘Now it’s down again. They made it later because it would be quieter.’
‘Yus, but I thort—seemed as if we was goin’ dahn jest arter I went unconshus.’
‘If you were unconscious, how would you know?’
‘That’s got me! On’y part of the time I hexpeck I was on’y ’arf an’ ’arf, you know. But, look ’ere, was we all lyin’ there orl that time? Me an’ you an’—’er?’
‘And Faggis. All covered up like good children! God, I could have screamed! Don’t ask me what happened when the game started! I’ve an idea it didn’t all go right, and that they changed their plans to fit. But the whole thing’s a blur! I’m almost as vague as you are. But I did one thing … Steady! They’re coming again!’
�
��Yus, I likes ’em that way too,’ said Ben loudly. ‘Baked in their skins.’
‘Oh, my God!’ muttered the girl. ‘Don’t try and be subtle!’ A few moments later, Sims’s long shadow fell across them.
‘I’m sorry to interfere with your tête-à-tête,’ he said; ‘but we’ve got a four-mile walk ahead of us, and as it won’t be an easy walk and we shall be racing the sun, we must start at once.’
‘Then you’ve found the hotel?’ queried Molly.
‘Oh, yes. Quite a charming one. Four walls and a roof, run by a man with a mule.’ He smiled as he added, ‘Our rooms were already engaged provisionally, you know, in advance, and it was just a question of finding the best way to the hotel from this spot.’
‘Rather lucky, aren’t we, that it’s only four miles?’ suggested the girl.
‘Exceedingly lucky,’ admitted Sims. ‘It might have been forty miles. Let us hope the luck will continue. Now, you, Ben—’
‘’Ere!’ interrupted Ben. ‘You ain’t bort me nime!’
‘No. I got it free from Mr Greene. You, Ben, will carry the food, which has been packed in the sack while you’ve been recovering your strength. Do you think you can manage it?’
‘Wot, food?’ replied Ben. ‘Don’t be silly!’
‘But no eating on the way, Ben.’
‘That’s orl right, Albert.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Granted. But, look ’ere—ain’t them hothers goin’ ter carry nothink?’
Sims nodded grimly.
‘Their load is somewhat heavier than yours,’ he remarked, ‘and they will take turns at it.’
He turned his head as he spoke. Faggis and Greene were already marching towards the forest. Faggis was carrying Miss Holbrooke across his shoulders.
‘Look here, Mr Sims,’ exclaimed Molly suddenly. ‘There’s one thing I’ve got to get clear right now.’
‘Got to?’ frowned Sims, swinging back abruptly.
‘Got to!’ repeated Molly firmly. ‘That girl—how much longer is she to remain in—in that condition?’
‘Until we get to the hotel,’ answered Sims. ‘Then she will receive every attention, till we move on to our next hotel. This is only a temporary one. And, meanwhile, as you can see, she has been unbound. If we meet any strangers—which is highly unlikely—she has had an accident.’
‘I see.’
‘And you’re satisfied?’
‘Quite. I’m not squeamish. I’m in on this. But, don’t forget—I bar the rough stuff.’
‘I am entirely in sympathy with you, Miss Smith. There shall be no rough stuff—unless it becomes necessary.’ He emphasised the last four words.
‘Yus, but now I got somethink ter say too,’ interposed Ben. ‘I’m ter carry the sack, and they’re ter carry—’er. Wot are you carryin’?’
‘This,’ said Mr Sims, and wagged his revolver.
Then he began to walk away.
‘Well, there’s one thing ’e’s fergot!’ muttered Ben. ‘The boat. S’p’ose that’s discovered?’
‘The boat will be attended to later,’ remarked Sims over his shoulder; ‘but our first job is to race the sun. Pick up that sack over there, and come along.’
Ben’s forehead was moist as he turned to Molly Smith.
‘Gawd, ’e’s got ears, ain’t ’e?’ he murmured. ‘’E wasn’t s’p’osed ter ’ear that! Yus, but I was orl right about them baked-in-their-skins,’ he added, to console himself. ‘You ’eard wot ’e sed abart hinter’uptin’ our tater-taters.’
‘Oh goodness, come on!’ gasped Molly, seizing his arm. ‘When you talk, I honestly don’t know whether to laugh or cry!’
‘Laughin’s best, miss,’ he assured her. ‘I does it hevery time I dies.’ A thought struck him. ‘P’r’aps that’s why I ain’t dead yet? They wants yer ter come serious.’ Then another thought struck him. ‘I say, miss. Wot was that thing you was sayin’ yer did when ’e come hup? Not wot yer did when ’e come hup, but wot yer sed yer did—well, when ’e come hup. I can’t ’elp it, miss—my ’ead’s still funny.’
‘I scribbled something on a piece of paper, and dropped it on the boat deck.’
‘Well, I’m blowed!’ murmured Ben, and prayed that the piece of paper hadn’t been lost. ‘Wot was it yer wrote?’
‘Something I overheard,’ whispered the girl. ‘The name of the second hotel we’re going to!’
19
The Mountain Track
The name of the second hotel they were going to? The name of the … Ben stared. But before his face could register the emotion that was going on behind it, his companion issued a swift instruction.
‘Pick up the sack!’ she muttered. ‘Quick!’
They were under observation again. Sims was glancing back over his shoulder. Ben bent down in a flurry, slipped, and clasped the sack. But he went on thinking—you can think in any position. Name of the second hotel, eh? The second place they were making for? Why, that would mean … No, would it?… Well, it might, you know, if …
‘Is he dying?’ came Sim’s voice from the distance.
Ben leapt up, rising as quickly as he had descended. The sack was on his back. He didn’t know how it had got there. He staggered forward with it, in the direction of the calling voice.
‘Manage it?’ asked the girl at his side.
‘Yus,’ murmured Ben.
‘If you get tired, I can lend you a hand,’ she suggested.
‘Wot, a gal?’ he objected. ‘Go hon!’
‘Go on yourself!’ she retorted. ‘This isn’t a question of politeness. It’s just a question of whether you can last out.’
‘Last hout? When there’s trouble arahnd, I’m always last hout and fust hin.’
‘I believe you’d joke on your deathbed!’
‘’Corse! Ain’t I jest toljer? It’s the on’y way ter stop yerself wobblin’.’
She looked at him, hesitating. Then she turned her head, and stared at the three men who were in advance. Faggis and Greene had paused, and were addressing Sims as he reached them.
‘Something’s worrying them,’ frowned the girl. ‘I expect it’s us. I’m going on ahead, if you don’t mind, or they’ll think we’re getting too thick.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Ben. ‘The blasted orficer’s comin’ back for yer.’
‘And then there’s Miss Holbrooke,’ she whispered. ‘I’d better be near her, in case she comes to. She may need help.’
‘So may you,’ he said. ‘If yer does, give us a shart.’
She smiled, and went forward to meet the third officer, while Ben trudged behind with the sack.
Ben himself was now the man with the sack! The thought come to him uncomfortably. The sack he was carrying contained food and other necessary odds and ends. What had it been originally designed to contain? He glanced at Sims, who was leading the party with Faggis a few paces to the rear. Sims had just reached the first trees of the gloomy forest. Ben shuddered.
Now he, too, was entering the forest. They were following a narrow, winding track. It wound gently upwards for a while, and the trees became thicker as they ascended. The trees seemed to be crowded nearer and nearer, as though anxious to watch the little procession go by. ‘We’re a reg’lar Lord Mayor’s Show for ’em, ain’t we?’ thought Ben. Of course, when you looked at the trees, they stood very straight and still. It was only when you caught them out of the corner of your eye that you found them moving, and advancing, and whispering.
The sky became blotted out. Ahead were dark green shadows through which the ascending path wound like a small, too venturesome child. Behind, also, were dark green shadows. A door seemed to have been closed between them and the beach. Ben fought a sudden longing for the beach. It had been clear and sunny there. If something came at you, there was space to run. And then, bordering the beach was the water, on some invisible part of which the Atalanta sailed, with its sense of orderliness and security. True, Ben had not experienced any of the security. He had e
xperienced all the Atalanta’s most insecure and uncomfortable places. But there had been law-abiding folk within hail, and even the throb-throb of the engines had been the pulse of organised, civilised work. Here, in this forest, too thick even for the sun to pierce, there were nothing but ghosts or murderous solidarity. ‘Yus, there’s three murderers ’ere,’ thought Ben, ‘and a couple o’ gals, one drugged, and me!’ A pretty gruesome Lord Mayor’s Show!
The path grew steeper. They were now beginning to ascend a definite slope. Not a nice, wide slope, but a narrowing slope, with great dark blobs on each side denoting cavities. The procession halted. Greene took Faggis’s load. Ben shifted his own from one shoulder to another. As he did so, he suddenly found Sims a yard away, watching him.
‘Like the view?’ inquired Sims.
‘It’s better when its back’s turned,’ answered Ben.
‘I think I must try your own back view,’ said Sims. ‘It may help you to get a move on.’
‘’Oo’s goin’ ter git a move on hup this mounting?’ demanded Ben.
‘We all are,’ replied Sims. ‘You included. We’ve some way to go yet, and I’ve given orders in front to mend the pace.’
‘I can’t go no quicker, not with this sack.’
‘You can, and you will.’
‘’Ow?’
‘I’ve a simple little device that will make you.’
He drew a step nearer and poked his revolver in Ben’s back.
‘Yer know,’ said Ben, ‘barrin’ the Kaiser, yer the nicest man I hever met.’
The journey continued. Sims, adhering to his new policy, remained in the rear. Several times Ben felt the point of the revolver between his shoulder blades, and accelerated materially. As the path grew steeper, the acceleration grew harder, but the point of the revolver was ruthless, and kept him on.
‘Wot would you say if I was ter drop dahn dead?’ puffed Ben once, as he felt a particularly hard jab.
‘If you stop to talk, you will undoubtedly drop down dead,’ replied Sims.
But five minutes later, Ben risked conversation again. The climb was beating him. He tripped on loose stones, and once fell flat. His breath was going, and also his nerve. They were now emerging from the thick forest and their track was bordered by chasms and dizzy depths.
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