The Search Party. George A. Birmingham
what to fear, handed his visitor a third pint of porter.
“I’m thinking,” said Patsy, “that it’s about time for us to be making a move in the matter of collecting funds for the horse races and athletic sports. The season’s going on and if we don’t have them before the end of the month the days will be getting short on us. I suppose now I may put you down for a pound the same as last year?”
“You may,” said Jimmy. “But what was it you were after telling me about Dr. O’Grady?”
“Does he owe you any money?”
“He does, a power.”
“Then you’ll not see it. Devil the penny of it ever you’ll handle, no matter how you try.”
Patsy chuckled. He had nourished a grudge against Jimmy O’Loughlin ever since the election of the inspector of sheep dipping.
“And why will I not?”
“Because the doctor’s gone, that’s why. He’s off to America, and every stick of furniture he owns is gone along with him.”
“He is not,” said Jimmy. “He couldn’t. It was only last night he passed this door, looking the same as usual. I was speaking to him myself, and him on his way home after being out beyond in the bog.”
“It was last night he went.”
“He couldn’t. Sure you know as well as I do there’s no train.”
“There’s the goods that passes at one o’clock. What would hinder him getting into one of them cattle trucks? Who’d see him? Anyway, whether it was that way he went or another, he’s gone. And you may be looking for your money from New York. Be damn! but I’d take half a crown for all of it you’ll ever get.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Jimmy; but it was evident that he was fighting desperately against conviction.
“Go round to the house then yourself and you’ll see. He’s not in it, and what’s more he didn’t leave it this morning, for old Biddy Halloran was watching out for him along the road the way he’d renew the bottle he gave her for the rheumatism, and if he’d gone out she’d have seen him.”
“It might be,” said Jimmy, “that he was called out in the night and didn’t get back yet.”
“It might; but it wasn’t. I’m after spending the morning since ten o’clock making inquiries here and there, and devil the one there is in the parish sick enough to be fetching the doctor out in the middle of the night. If there was I’d have heard of it. And Father Moroney would have heard of it, but he didn’t, for I asked him this minute.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said very much what I’m saying myself, that the doctor’s gone. ‘And small blame to him,’ says Father Moroney, ‘with the way that old reprobate of a Jimmy O’Loughlin, who’s no better than a gombeen man, has him persecuted for the trifle of money he owes.’ It’s the truth I’m telling you.”
It was not the truth, but it could scarcely be called a lie, for the essence of a lie is the desire to deceive, and Patsy Devlin invented the speech he put into the priest’s mouth without the least hope of its being believed. The best he expected was to exasperate Jimmy O’Loughlin. Even in this he failed.
“If so be he’s gone,” said Jimmy, “and I wouldn’t say but he might, I’d as soon he got clear off out of this as not. I’ll lose upwards of thirty pounds by him, but I’d sooner lose it than see the doctor tormented by that bloodsucker of a fellow from Dublin that has a bill of his. I’ve a great liking for the doctor, and always had. He was an innocent poor man that wouldn’t harm a child, besides being pleasant and agreeable as e’er a one you’d meet.”
Patsy Devlin felt aggrieved. He had sprung his mine on Jimmy O’Loughlin, and the wretched thing had somehow failed to explode. He had looked forward to enjoying a torrent of oaths and bitter speeches directed against the absconding debtor. He had hoped to see Jimmy writhe in impotent rage at the loss of his money.
“Be damn!” he said helplessly.
“And anyway,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin, “there’s the furniture of the house left, and it’ll be a queer thing if I don’t get a hold of the best of it before ever the Dublin man—Vavasour or some such they call him—hears that the doctor’s gone.”
There was no more spirit left in Patsy Devlin. He did not even repeat the obviously incredible statement that the doctor had secretly carried his furniture away with him in the middle of the night.
“The train’s in,” he said, changing the subject abruptly, “for I hear the cars coming down from the station. If so be now that there should be a traveller in belonging to one of them drapery firms, or Campbell’s traveller with the flour, you might give me the word so as I can get a subscription out of him for the sports. The most use those fellows are is to subscribe to one thing or another where subscriptions is needed.”
Jimmy O’Loughlin nodded. He realized the importance of the commercial traveller as a contributor to local funds of every kind. He left the door and reached the bar of the hotel just as his bus, a ramshackle, dilapidated vehicle drawn by a sickly horse, drew up. It contained a lady. Jimmy O’Loughlin appraised her at a glance as she stepped out of the bus. She was dressed in a grey tweed coat and skirt of good cut and expensive appearance. She wore gloves which looked almost new, and she had an umbrella with a silver handle. She was tall and carried herself with the air of one who was accustomed to command service from those around her. Her way of walking reminded Jimmy O’Loughlin of Lady Flavia Canning, Lord Manton’s daughter; but this lady was a great deal younger and better looking than Lady Flavia. Jimmy O’Loughlin allowed his eyes to leave her for an instant and seek the roof of the bus. On it was a large travelling trunk, a handsome bag, and a bundle of rugs and golf clubs. Jimmy’s decision was made in an instant. He addressed his guest as “my lady.”
She made no protest against the title.
“Can I get a room in this hotel?” she asked.
“Certainly, my lady. Why not? Thomas, will you bring the lady’s luggage in at once and take it up to number two, that’s the front room on the first floor. Your ladyship will be wanting a private sitting-room?”
“If I do,” she said, “I shall ask for it.”
Jimmy O’Loughlin was snubbed, but he bore no malice. A lady of title has a right to snub hotel-keepers. He stole a glance at the label on her luggage as Thomas, the driver of the bus, passed him with the trunk on his shoulders. He discovered that she was not a lady of title. “Miss A. M. Blow,” he read. “Passenger to Clonmore.” The name struck him as being familiar, but for a moment he could not recollect where he had heard it. Then he remembered. Miss Blow passed upstairs guided by Bridgy, the maid. Patsy Devlin emerged from the bar.
“It’s the doctor’s young lady,” whispered Jimmy O’Loughlin.
“Is it, be damn? How do you know that?”
“Didn’t he often tell me,” said Jimmy, “that he was to be married to a young lady out of Leeds or one of them towns beyond in England, and that her name was Miss Blow? And didn’t I see it on her trunk, ‘Miss A. M. Blow’? Would there be two in the world of the name?”
“And what would bring her down to Clonmore?”
“How would I know? Unless maybe she’s heard of the misfortunes that has the doctor pretty near bet. She might have seen his name in the paper when the judgment was gave against him.”
“She might; but if she did wouldn’t she keep away from him as far as ever she could?”
“She would not,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin. “That’s not the sort she is. I seen her and you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Well, and if you did you might have known that she’d be the sort