Danger! and Other Stories by Arthur Conan Doyle (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📖

are pleased to call them?”

“You will come to the Gardens to-night, uncle, at nine o’clock precisely.  You will walk down the centre path, and you will seat yourself upon one of the rustic seats which are beside the statue of Aphrodite.  You will wait and you will observe.”

“Very good; I will do so.  I begin to perceive, nephew, that the breed of Tregellis has not yet lost some of the points which have made it famous.”

It was at the stroke of nine that night when Sir Charles, throwing his reins to the groom, descended from his high yellow phaeton, which forthwith turned to take its place in the long line of fashionable carriages waiting for their owners.  As he entered the gate of the Gardens, the centre at that time of the dissipation and revelry of London, he turned up the collar of his driving-cape and drew his hat over his eyes, for he had no desire to be personally associated with what might well prove to be a public scandal.  In spite of his attempted disguise, however, there was that in his walk and his carriage which caused many an eye to be turned after him as he passed and many a hand to be raised in salute.  Sir Charles walked on, and, seating himself upon the rustic bench in front of the famous statue, which was in the very middle of the Gardens, he waited in amused suspense to see the next act in this comedy.

From the pavilion, whence the paths radiated, there came the strains of the band of the Foot Guards, and by the many-coloured lamps twinkling from every tree Sir Charles could see the confused whirl of the dancers.  Suddenly the music stopped.  The quadrilles were at an end.

An instant afterwards the central path by which he sat was thronged by the revellers.  In a many-coloured crowd, stocked and cravated with all the bravery of buff and plum-colour and blue, the bucks of the town passed and repassed with their high-waisted, straight-skirted, be-bonneted ladies upon their arms.

It was not a decorous assembly.  Many of the men, flushed and noisy, had come straight from their potations.  The women, too, were loud and aggressive.  Now and then, with a rush and a swirl, amid a chorus of screams from the girls and good-humoured laughter from their escorts, some band of high-blooded, noisy youths would break their way across the moving throng.  It was no place for the prim or demure, and there was a spirit of good-nature and merriment among the crowd which condoned the wildest liberty.

And yet there were some limits to what could be tolerated even by so Bohemian an assembly.  A murmur of anger followed in the wake of two roisterers who were making their way down the path.  It would, perhaps, be fairer to say one roisterer; for of the two it was only the first who carried himself with such insolence, although it was the second who ensured that he could do it with impunity.

The leader was a very tall, hatchet-faced man, dressed in the very height of fashion, whose evil, handsome features were flushed with wine and arrogance.  He shouldered his way roughly through the crowd, peering with an abominable smile into the faces of the women, and occasionally, where the weakness of the escort invited an insult, stretching out his hand and caressing the cheek or neck of some passing girl, laughing loudly as she winced away from his touch.

Close at his heels walked his hired attendant, whom, out of insolent caprice and with a desire to show his contempt for the prejudices of others, he had dressed as a rough country clergyman.  This fellow slouched along with frowning brows and surly, challenging eyes, like some faithful, hideous human bulldog, his knotted hands protruding from his rusty cassock, his great underhung jaw turning slowly from right to left as he menaced the crowd with his sinister gaze.  Already a close observer might have marked upon his face a heaviness and looseness of feature, the first signs of that physical decay which in a very few years was to stretch him, a helpless wreck, too weak to utter his own name, upon the causeway of the London streets.  At present, however, he was still an unbeaten man, the terror of the Ring, and as his ill-omened face was seen behind his infamous master many a half-raised cane was lowered and many a hot word was checked, while the whisper of “Hooper!  ’Ware Bully Hooper!” warned all who were aggrieved that it might be best to pocket their injuries lest some even worse thing should befall them.  Many a maimed and disfigured man had carried away from Vauxhall the handiwork of the Tinman and his patron.

Moving in insolent slowness through the crowd, the bully and his master had just come opposite to the bench upon which sat Sir Charles Tregellis.  At this place the path opened up into a circular space, brilliantly illuminated and surrounded by rustic seats.  From one of these an elderly, ringleted woman, deeply veiled, rose suddenly and barred the path of the swaggering nobleman.  Her voice sounded clear and strident above the babel of tongues, which hushed suddenly that their owners might hear it.

“Marry her, my lord!  I entreat you to marry her!  Oh, surely you will marry my poor Amelia!” said the voice.

Lord Barrymore stood aghast.  From all sides folk were closing in and heads were peering over shoulders.  He tried to push on, but the lady barred his way and two palms pressed upon his beruffled front.

“Surely, surely you would not desert her!  Take the advice of that good, kind clergyman behind you!” wailed the voice.  “Oh, be a man of honour and marry her!”

The elderly lady thrust out her hand and drew forward a lumpish-looking young woman, who sobbed and mopped her eyes with her handkerchief.

“The plague take you!” roared his lordship, in a fury.  “Who is the wench?  I vow that I never clapped eyes on either of you in my life!”

“It is my niece Amelia,” cried the lady, “your own loving Amelia!  Oh, my lord, can you pretend that you have forgotten poor, trusting Amelia, of Woodbine Cottage at Lichfield.”

“I never set foot in Lichfield in my life!” cried the peer.  “You are two impostors who should be whipped at the cart’s tail.”

“Oh, wicked!  Oh, Amelia!” screamed the lady, in a voice that resounded through the Gardens.  “Oh, my darling, try to soften his hard heart; pray him that he make an honest woman of you at last.”

With a lurch the stout young woman fell forward and embraced Lord Barrymore with the hug of a bear.  He would have raised his cane, but his arms were pinned to his sides.

“Hooper!  Hooper!” screamed the furious peer, craning his neck in horror, for the girl seemed to be trying to kiss him.

But the bruiser, as he ran forward, found himself entangled with the old lady.

“Out o’ the way, marm!” he cried.  “Out o’ the way, I say!” and pushed her violently aside.

“Oh, you rude, rude man!” she shrieked, springing back in front of him.  “He hustled me, good people; you saw him hustle me!  A clergyman, but no gentleman!  What! you would treat a lady so—you would do it again?  Oh, I could slap, slap, slap you!”

And with each repetition of the word, with extraordinary swiftness, her open palm rang upon the prizefighter’s cheek.

The crowd buzzed with amazement and delight.

“Hooper!  Hooper!” cried Lord Barrymore once more, for he was still struggling in the ever-closer embrace of the unwieldy and amorous Amelia.

The bully again pushed forward to the aid of his patron, but again the elderly lady confronted him, her head back, her left arm extended, her whole attitude, to his amazement, that of an expert boxer.

The prizefighter’s brutal nature was roused.  Woman or no woman, he would show the murmuring crowd what it meant to cross the path of the Tinman.  She had struck him.  She must take the consequence.  No one should square up to him with impunity.  He swung his right with a curse.  The bonnet instantly ducked under his arm, and a line of razor-like knuckles left an open cut under his eye.

Amid wild cries of delight and encouragement from the dense circle of spectators, the lady danced round the sham clergyman, dodging his ponderous blows, slipping under his arms, and smacking back at him most successfully.  Once she tripped and fell over her own skirt, but was up and at him again in an instant.

“You vulgar fellow!” she shrieked.  “Would you strike a helpless woman!  Take that!  Oh, you rude and ill-bred man!”

Bully Hooper was cowed for the first time in his life by the extraordinary thing that he was fighting.  The creature was as elusive as a shadow, and yet the blood was dripping down his chin from the effects of the blows.  He shrank back with an amazed face from so uncanny an antagonist.  And in the moment that he did so his spell was for ever broken.  Only success could hold it.  A check was fatal.  In all the crowd there was scarce one who was not nursing some grievance against master or man, and waiting for that moment of weakness in which to revenge it.

With a growl of rage the circle closed in.  There was an eddy of furious, struggling men, with Lord Barrymore’s thin, flushed face and Hooper’s bulldog jowl in the centre of it.  A moment after they were both upon the ground, and a dozen sticks were rising and falling above them.

“Let me up!  You’re killing me!  For God’s sake let me up!” cried a crackling voice.

Hooper fought mute, like the bulldog he was, till his senses were beaten out of him.

Bruised, kicked, and mauled, never did their worst victim come so badly from the Gardens as the bully and his patron that night.  But worse than the ache of wounds for Lord Barrymore was the smart of the mind as he thought how every club and drawing-room in London would laugh for a week to come at the tale of his Amelia and her aunt.

Sir Charles had stood, rocking with laughter, upon the bench which overlooked the scene.  When at last he made his way back through the crowds to his yellow phaeton, he was not entirely surprised to find that the back seat was already occupied by two giggling females, who were exchanging most unladylike repartees with the attendant grooms.

“You young rascals!” he remarked, over his shoulder, as he gathered up his reins.

The two females tittered loudly.

“Uncle Charles!” cried the elder, “may I present Mr. Jack Jarvis, of Brasenose College?  I think, uncle, you should take us somewhere to sup, for it has been a vastly fatiguing performance.  To-morrow I will do myself the honour to call, at your convenience, and will venture to bring with me the receipt for one thousand pounds.”

V.  THE HORROR OF THE HEIGHTS
(WHICH INCLUDES THE MANUSCRIPT KNOWN AS THE JOYCE-ARMSTRONG FRAGMENT)

The idea that the extraordinary narrative which has been called the Joyce-Armstrong Fragment is an elaborate practical joke evolved by some unknown person, cursed by a perverted and sinister sense of humour, has now been abandoned by all who have examined the matter.  The most macabre and imaginative of plotters would hesitate before linking his morbid fancies with the unquestioned and tragic facts which reinforce the statement.  Though the assertions contained in it are amazing and even monstrous, it is none the less forcing itself upon the general intelligence that they are true, and that we must readjust our ideas to the new