The Tale of Timber Town. Grace Alfred Augustus
is it two guineas, or do you make it five?”
“‘Doctor,’ did you say? No, Moonlight, my respected friend, I scorn the title. Doctors are a brood that batten on the ills of others. First day: ‘A pain internally, madam? Very serious. I will send you some medicine. Two guineas. Yes, the sum of two guineas.’ Next day: ‘Ah, the pain is no better, madam? Go on taking the medicine. Fee? Two guineas, if you please.’ And so on till the pain cures itself. If not, the patient grows worse, dies, is buried, and the doctor’s fees accrue proportionately. But we will suppose that the patient has some incurable tumour. The doctor comes, examines, looks wise, shakes his head, says the only chance is to operate; but it will be touch and go, just a toss up. He gets his knives, opens up the patient, and by good luck touches no vital part. Then the patient is saved, and it’s ‘My work, gentlemen, entirely my work. That’s what skill will do. My fee is forty-five guineas.’ That’s how he makes up for the folks that don’t pay. Doctor, me? No, Moonlight, my friend, I am a practitioner who treats for love. No fee; no fee at all. But, Annie, my dear, I’ll trouble you for that glass of brandy.”
The digger was contemplating Tresco’s face with a look of bewildered astonishment. “An’ who the blanky blank are you?” he exclaimed, with all his native uncouthness. “What the blank do you want to take my clo’es off of me for? Who the blue infernal – ” All eyes were fixed on his contused countenance and the enormous bump on his temple. “Ah! there’s the gent that shook me of five quid. I’ll remember you, old party. An’ as for you two spielers – you thought to fleece me. I’ll give you what for! An’ there’s the other toff, ’im that biffed me. Fancy bein’ flattened out by a toney remittance man! Wonderful. I call it British pluck, real bull-dog courage – three to one, an’ me the littlest of the lot, bar one. Oh, it’s grand. It pays a man to keep his mouth shut, when he comes to Timber Town with money in his pocket.”
The eyes of the spectators began to turn angrily upon Lichfield and Garsett, who, looking guilty as thieves, stood uneasy and apart; but Scarlett stepped forward, and was about to speak in self-defence, when Mr. Crewe offered to explain the situation.
“I ask you to listen to me for one moment,” he said; “I ask you to take my explanation as that of a disinterested party, a mere looker on. These three gentlemen” – he pointed to the three euchre players – “were having a game of cards, quite a friendly game of cards, in which a considerable sum of money was changing hands. My friend Scarlett, here, was looking on with me, when for some cause a quarrel arose. Next thing, the gentleman here on the sofa was attacking his opponents in the game with an empty bottle – you can see the pieces of broken glass amongst the cards upon the floor. Now, a bottle is a very dangerous weapon, a very dangerous weapon indeed; I might say a deadly weapon. Then it was that Mr. Scarlett interfered. He pulled off our friend, and was attacked – I saw this with my own eyes – attacked violently, and in self-defence he struck this gentleman, and inadvertently stunned him. That, I assure you, is exactly how the case stands. No great damage is done. The difference is settled, and, of course, the game is over.”
“An’ ’e,” said the digger, raising himself to a sitting posture, “’e shook me for five quid. The wily ol’e serpint. ’E never done nothin’ – ’e only shook me for five quid.”
“Count the money into three equal parts, landlord,” said the Father of Timber Town. “It’s perfectly true, I did relieve the gentleman of five pounds; but it was the result of a bet, of a bet he himself insisted on. He would have made it even heavier, had I allowed him. But here is the money – he can have it back. I return it. I bet with no man who begrudges to pay money he fairly loses; but I have no further dealings with such a man.”
“Oh, you think I want the blanky money, do you?” cried the digger. “You’re the ol’e gen’leman as is said to own the crimson town, ain’t you? Well, keep that five quid, an’ ’elp to paint it crimsoner. I don’t want the money. I can get plenty more where it came from, just for the pickin’ of it up. You keep it, ol’e feller, an’ by an’ by I’ll come and buy the town clean over your head.”
“Give the patient some more brandy, my dear.” Tresco’s voice sounded as sonorous as a parson’s. “Now he’s talkin’. And what will you do with the town when you’ve bought it, my enterprising friend?”
“I’ll turn the present crowd out – they’re too mean to live. I’ll sell it to a set of Chinamen, or niggers. I’d prefer ’em.”
“These are the ravings of delirium,” said Tresco. “I ask you to pay no attention to such expressions. We frequently hear things of this sort in the profession, but we let them pass. He’ll be better in the morning.”
“Is the money divided?” asked Mr. Crewe.
“Yes,” said the landlord. “One hundred and twenty-five pounds and sixpence in each lot.”
“Mr. Garsett,” said the Father of Timber Town, the tone of command in his voice, “come and take your money. Mr. Lichfield, take yours, sir.”
Still agitated and confused, the two gamblers came forward, took their shares, and pocketed notes and gold with trembling hands.
“Give your friend his, Tresco,” said the venerable arbitrator.
“Here’s your winnings, or your losings,” said the goldsmith to the digger. “It don’t matter what name you call ’em by, but tuck it safely away agin your brisket. And when next you strike it rich, take my advice: put it in the bank, an’ keep it there.”
The digger took the money in his open hands, placed scoopwise together, and said, “All this mine, is it? You’re too kind. What do I want the blanky money for, eh? Didn’t I tell you I could get money for the pickin’ of it up? Well, you’re all a pretty measly crowd, all as poor as church rats, by the manners of yer. Well, you pick it up.” And he flung the money among the crowd, lay back on the couch, and closed his eyes.
There was a scurry, and a scrambling on the floor, in the doorway, and in the passage outside.
Amid the tumult, Garsett and the American slunk off unperceived, while Tresco and Mr. Crewe, the landlord, Gentle Annie and Scarlett remained spectators of the scene.
Soon all was hushed and still, and they were left alone with the eccentric digger; but presently the tall figure of Moonlight, the man with the tawny beard, reappeared.
“Here’s fifty pound, anyway,” he said, placing a quantity of notes and gold in the landlord’s hands. “Some I picked up myself, some I took off a blackguard I knocked over in the passage. Take the lot, and give it back to this semi-lunatic when he suffers his recovery in the morning. Good-night, gentlemen; I wish you the pleasures of the evening.” So saying, the man with the tawny beard disappeared, and it was not long before Tresco was left alone with his patient.
CHAPTER VIII
The harbour of Timber Town was formed by a low-lying island shaped like a long lizard, which stretched itself across an indentation in the coast-line, and the tail of which joined the mainland at low tide, while the channel between its head and the opposing cliffs was deep, practicable, and safe.
Immediately opposite this end of the island the wharves and quays of Timber Town stretched along the shore, backed by hills which were dotted with painted wooden houses, nestling amid bowers of trees. Beyond these hills lay Timber Town itself, invisible, sheltered, at the bottom of its basin.
The day was hot, clear and still; the water lapped the shore lazily, and the refracted atmosphere shimmered with heat, wherever the sea touched the land.
A little dingey put off from the shore. It contained two men, one of whom sat in the stern while the other pulled. Silently over the surface of the calm, blue water the little craft skimmed. It passed through a small fleet of yachts and pleasure-boats moored under the lee of the protecting island, and presently touched the pebbles of a miniature beach.
Out stepped the Pilot of Timber Town and Captain Sartoris.
“An’ you call this blazin’ climate o’