Cleek of Scotland Yard: Detective Stories. Hanshew Thomas W.
about the twisting, sweat-drenched, helpless shape, and with great haste and infinite tenderness gathered it up and carried it into the house; but he had scarcely more than laid the boy upon a sofa and lit the lamp of the small apartment which served them as a general living-room, when all the agony of uncertainty which beset his mind regarding the genesis of this terrifying attack vanished in a sudden rush of enlightenment.
All that was left of a bounteous and strikingly diversified afternoon tea still littered the small round dining table, and there, on one plate, lay the shells of two crabs, on another, the remains of a large rhubarb tart, on a third, the skins of five bananas leaning coquettishly up against the lid of an open pickle jar, and hard by there was a pint tumbler with the white blur of milk dimming it.
“Good Lord! The young anaconda!” blurted out Cleek, as he stood and stared at this appalling array. “No wonder, no wonder!” Then he turned round on his heel, looked at the writhing and moaning boy, and in a sudden fever of doing, peeled off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and made a bolt for the kitchen stove, the hot-water kettle, and the medicine chest.
The result of Master Dollops’ little gastronomic experiment scarcely needs to be recorded. It is sufficient to say that he had the time of his life that night; that he kept Cleek busy every minute for the next twenty-four hours wringing out flannels in hot water and dosing him with homely remedies, and that when he finally came through the siege was as limp as a wet newspaper and as feeble as a good many dry ones.
“What you need to pull yourself together is a change, you reckless young ostrich – a week’s roughing it in the open country by field and stream, and as many miles as possible from so much as the odour of a pastry cook’s shop,” said Cleek, patting him gently upon the shoulder. “A nice sort of assistant you are – keeping a man out of his bed for twenty-four hours, with his heart in his mouth and his hair on end, you young beggar. Now, now, now! None of your blubbing! Sit tight while I run down and make some gruel for you. After that I’ll nip out and ’phone through to the Yard and tell Mr. Narkom to have somebody look up a caravan that can be hired, and we’ll be off for a week’s ‘gypsying’ in Yorkshire, old chap.”
He did – coming back later with a piece of surprising news. For it just so happened that the idea of a week’s holiday-making, a week’s rambling about the green lanes, the broad moors, and through the wild gorges of the West Riding, and living the simple life in a caravan, appealed to Mr. Maverick Narkom as being the most desirable thing in the world at that moment, and he made haste to ask Cleek’s permission to share the holiday with him. As nothing could have been more to his great ally’s liking, the matter was settled forthwith. A caravan was hired by telegram to Sheffield, and at ten the next morning the little party turned its back upon London and fared forth to the pleasant country lands, the charm of laughing waters, and the magic that hides in trees.
For five days they led an absolutely idyllic life; loafing in green wildernesses and sleeping in the shadow of whispering woods; and this getting back to nature proved as much of a tonic to the two men as to the boy himself – refreshing both mind and body, putting red blood into their veins, and breathing the breath of God into their nostrils.
Having amply provisioned the caravan before starting, they went no nearer to any human habitation than they were obliged to do in passing from one district to another; and one day was so exact a pattern of the next that its history might have stood for them all: up with the dawn and the birds and into woodland pool or tree-shaded river; then gathering fuel and making a fire and cooking breakfast; then washing the utensils, harnessing the horses, and moving on again – sometimes Cleek driving, sometimes Narkom, sometimes the boy – stopping when they were hungry to prepare lunch just as they had prepared breakfast, then forging on again until they found some tree-hedged dell or bosky wood where they might spend the night, crooned to sleep by the wind in the leaves, and watched over by the sentinel stars.
So they had spent the major part of the week, and so they might have spent it all, but that chance chose to thrust them suddenly out of idleness into activity, and to bring them – here, in this Arcadia – face to face again with the evils of mankind and the harsh duty of the law.
It had gone nine o’clock on that fifth night when a curious thing happened: they had halted for the night by the banks of a shallow, chattering stream which flowed through a wayside spinney, beyond whose clustering treetops they had seen, before the light failed, the castellated top of a distant tower and, farther afield, the weathercock on an uplifting church spire; they had supped and were enjoying their ease – the two men sprawling at full length on the ground enjoying a comfortable smoke, while Dollops, with a mouth harmonica, was doing “Knocked ’Em in the Old Kent Road,” his back against a tree, his eyes upturned in ecstasy, his long legs stretched out upon the turf, and his feet crossed one over the other – and all about them was peace; all the sordid, money-grubbing, crime-stained world seemed millions of miles away, when, of a sudden, there came a swift rush of bodies – trampling on dead leaves and brushing against live ones – then a voice cried out commandingly, “Surrender yourselves in the name of the king!” and scrambling to a sitting position, they looked up to find themselves confronted by a constable, a gamekeeper, and two farm labourers – the one with drawn truncheon and the other three with cocked guns.
CHAPTER VII
“Hullo, I say!” began Mr. Narkom, in amazement. “Why, what the dickens – ” But he was suffered to get no farther.
“You mind your P’s and Q’s! I warn you that anything you say will be used against you!” interjected sharply and authoritatively the voice of the constable. “Hawkins, you and Marlow keep close guard over these chaps while me and Mr. Simpkins looks round for the animal. I said it would be the work of gypsies, didn’t I now, Mr. Simpkins?” addressing the gamekeeper. “Come on and let’s have a look for the beast. Keep eyes peeled and gun at full cock, Mr. Simpkins, and give un both barrels if un makes to spring at us. This be a sharp capture, Mr. Simpkins – what?”
“Aye, but un seems to take it uncommon cool, Mr. Nippers – one of ’em’s larfiin’ fit to bust hisself!” replied the gamekeeper as Cleek slapped both thighs, and throwing back his head, voiced an appreciative guffaw. “Un doan’t look much loike gypsies either from t’ little as Ah can see of ’em in this tomfool loight. Wait a bit till Ah scoop up an armful o’ leaves and throw ’em on the embers o’ fire yon.”
He did so forthwith; and the moment the dry leaves fell on the remnants of the fire which the caravanners had used to cook their evening meal there was a gush of aromatic smoke, a sudden puff, and then a broad ribbon of light rushed upward and dispelled every trace of darkness. And by the aid of that ribbon of light Mr. Nippers saw something which made him almost collapse with astonishment and chagrin.
The great of the world may, and often do, forget their meetings with the small fry, but the small fry never cease to remember their meetings with the great, or to treasure a vivid remembrance of that immortal day when they were privileged to rub elbows with the elect.
Five years had passed since Mrs. Maverick Narkom, seeking a place wherein to spend the summer holidays with the little Narkoms and their nurses, had let her choice fall upon Winton-Old-Bridges and had dwelt there for two whole months. Three times during her sojourn her liege lord had come down for a week-end with his wife and children, and during one of these brief visits, meeting Mr. Ephraim Nippers, the village constable in the public highway, he had deigned to stop and speak to the man and to present him with a sixpenny cigar.
Times had changed since then; Mr. Nippers was now head constable for the district, but he still kept that cigar under a glass shade on the drawing-room whatnot, and he still treasured a vivid recollection of the great man who had given it to him and whom he now saw sitting on the ground with his coat off and his waistcoat unbuttoned, his moustache uncurled, wisps of dried grass clinging to his tousled hair, and all the dignity of office conspicuous by its absence.
“Oh, lummy!” said Mr. Nippers with a gulp. “Put down the hammers of them guns, you two – put ’em down quick! It’s Mr. Narkom – Mr. Maverick Narkom, superintendent at Scotland Yard!”
“Hullo!” exclaimed Mr. Narkom, shading his eyes from the firelight and leaning forward to get a clearer