Rodney Stone by Arthur Conan Doyle (i love reading books txt) 📖

fear.  But you cannot tell what diablerie they may be up to.  Let us only find him safe and sound, and I’ll never lose sight of him until I see him in the ring.  We’ll sit up on guard with our pistols, nephew, and I only trust that these villains may be indiscreet enough to attempt it.  But they must have been very sure of success before they put the odds up to such a figure, and it is that which alarms me.”

“But surely they have nothing to win by such villainy, sir?  If they were to hurt Jim Harrison the battle could not be fought, and the bets would not be decided.”

“So it would be in an ordinary prize-battle, nephew; and it is fortunate that it should be so, or the rascals who infest the ring would soon make all sport impossible.  But here it is different.  On the terms of the wager I lose unless I can produce a man, within the prescribed ages, who can beat Crab Wilson.  You must remember that I have never named my man.  C’est dommage, but so it is!  We know who it is and so do our opponents, but the referees and stakeholder would take no notice of that.  If we complain that Jim Harrison has been crippled, they would answer that they have no official knowledge that Jim Harrison was our nominee.  It’s play or pay, and the villains are taking advantage of it.”

My uncle’s fears as to our being blocked upon the road were only too well founded, for after we passed Reigate there was such a procession of every sort of vehicle, that I believe for the whole eight miles there was not a horse whose nose was further than a few feet from the back of the curricle or barouche in front.  Every road leading from London, as well as those from Guildford in the west and Tunbridge in the east, had contributed their stream of four-in-hands, gigs, and mounted sportsmen, until the whole broad Brighton highway was choked from ditch to ditch with a laughing, singing, shouting throng, all flowing in the same direction.  No man who looked upon that motley crowd could deny that, for good or evil, the love of the ring was confined to no class, but was a national peculiarity, deeply seated in the English nature, and a common heritage of the young aristocrat in his drag and of the rough costers sitting six deep in their pony cart.  There I saw statesmen and soldiers, noblemen and lawyers, farmers and squires, with roughs of the East End and yokels of the shires, all toiling along with the prospect of a night of discomfort before them, on the chance of seeing a fight which might, for all that they knew, be decided in a single round.  A more cheery and hearty set of people could not be imagined, and the chaff flew about as thick as the dust clouds, while at every wayside inn the landlord and the drawers would be out with trays of foam-headed tankards to moisten those importunate throats.  The ale-drinking, the rude good-fellowship, the heartiness, the laughter at discomforts, the craving to see the fight—all these may be set down as vulgar and trivial by those to whom they are distasteful; but to me, listening to the far-off and uncertain echoes of our distant past, they seem to have been the very bones upon which much that is most solid and virile in this ancient race was moulded.

But, alas for our chance of hastening onwards!  Even my uncle’s skill could not pick a passage through that moving mass.  We could but fall into our places and be content to snail along from Reigate to Horley and on to Povey Cross and over Lowfield Heath, while day shaded away into twilight, and that deepened into night.  At Kimberham Bridge the carriage-lamps were all lit, and it was wonderful, where the road curved downwards before us, to see this writhing serpent with the golden scales crawling before us in the darkness.  And then, at last, we saw the formless mass of the huge Crawley elm looming before us in the gloom, and there was the broad village street with the glimmer of the cottage windows, and the high front of the old George Inn, glowing from every door and pane and crevice, in honour of the noble company who were to sleep within that night.

p. 253CHAPTER XV.
FOUL PLAY.

My uncle’s impatience would not suffer him to wait for the slow rotation which would bring us to the door, but he flung the reins and a crown-piece to one of the rough fellows who thronged the side-walk, and pushing his way vigorously through the crowd, he made for the entrance.  As he came within the circle of light thrown by the windows, a whisper ran round as to who this masterful gentleman with the pale face and the driving-coat might be, and a lane was formed to admit us.  I had never before understood the popularity of my uncle in the sporting world, for the folk began to huzza as we passed with cries of “Hurrah for Buck Tregellis!  Good luck to you and your man, Sir Charles!  Clear a path for a bang-up noble Corinthian!” whilst the landlord, attracted by the shouting, came running out to greet us.

“Good evening, Sir Charles!” he cried.  “I hope I see you well, sir, and I trust that you will find that your man does credit to the George.”

“How is he?” asked my uncle, quickly.

“Never better, sir.  Looks a picture, he does—and fit to fight for a kingdom.”

My uncle gave a sigh of relief.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“He’s gone to his room early, sir, seein’ that he had some very partic’lar business to-morrow mornin’,” said the landlord, grinning.

“Where is Belcher?”

“Here he is, in the bar parlour.”

He opened a door as he spoke, and looking in we saw a score of well-dressed men, some of whose faces had become familiar to me during my short West End career, seated round a table upon which stood a steaming soup-tureen filled with punch.  At the further end, very much at his ease amongst the aristocrats and exquisites who surrounded him, sat the Champion of England, his superb figure thrown back in his chair, a flush upon his handsome face, and a loose red handkerchief knotted carelessly round his throat in the picturesque fashion which was long known by his name.  Half a century has passed since then, and I have seen my share of fine men.  Perhaps it is because I am a slight creature myself, but it is my peculiarity that I had rather look upon a splendid man than upon any work of Nature.  Yet during all that time I have never seen a finer man than Jim Belcher, and if I wish to match him in my memory, I can only turn to that other Jim whose fate and fortunes I am trying to lay before you.

There was a shout of jovial greeting when my uncle’s face was seen in the doorway.

“Come in, Tregellis!”  “We were expecting you!”  “There’s a devilled bladebone ordered.”  “What’s the latest from London?”  “What is the meaning of the long odds against your man?”  “Have the folk gone mad?”  “What the devil is it all about?”  They were all talking at once.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” my uncle answered.  “I shall be happy to give you any information in my power a little later.  I have a matter of some slight importance to decide.  Belcher, I would have a word with you!”

The Champion came out with us into the passage.

“Where is your man, Belcher?”

“He has gone to his room, sir.  I believe that he should have a clear twelve hours’ sleep before fighting.”

“What sort of day has he had?”

“I did him lightly in the matter of exercise.  Clubs, dumbbells, walking, and a half-hour with the mufflers.  He’ll do us all proud, sir, or I’m a Dutchman!  But what in the world’s amiss with the betting?  If I didn’t know that he was as straight as a line, I’d ha’ thought he was planning a cross and laying against himself.”

“It’s about that I’ve hurried down.  I have good information, Belcher, that there has been a plot to cripple him, and that the rogues are so sure of success that they are prepared to lay anything against his appearance.”

Belcher whistled between his teeth.

“I’ve seen no sign of anything of the kind, sir.  No one has been near him or had speech with him, except only your nephew there and myself.”

“Four villains, with Berks at their head, got the start of us by several hours.  It was Warr who told me.”

“What Bill Warr says is straight, and what Joe Berks does is crooked.  Who were the others, sir?”

“Red Ike, Fighting Yussef, and Chris McCarthy.”

“A pretty gang, too!  Well, sir, the lad is safe, but it would be as well, perhaps, for one or other of us to stay in his room with him.  For my own part, as long as he’s my charge I’m never very far away.”

“It is a pity to wake him.”

“He can hardly be asleep with all this racket in the house.  This way, sir, and down the passage!”

We passed along the low-roofed, devious corridors of the old-fashioned inn to the back of the house.

“This is my room, sir,” said Belcher, nodding to a door upon the right.  “This one upon the left is his.”  He threw it open as he spoke.  “Here’s Sir Charles Tregellis come to see you, Jim,” said he; and then, “Good Lord, what is the meaning of this?”

The little chamber lay before us brightly illuminated by a brass lamp which stood upon the table.  The bedclothes had not been turned down, but there was an indentation upon the counterpane which showed that some one had lain there.  One-half of the lattice window was swinging on its hinge, and a cloth cap lying upon the table was the only sign of the occupant.  My uncle looked round him and shook his head.

“It seems that we are too late,” said he.

“That’s his cap, sir.  Where in the world can he have gone to with his head bare?  I thought he was safe in his bed an hour ago.  Jim!  Jim!” he shouted.

“He has certainly gone through the window,” cried my uncle.  “I believe these villains have enticed him out by some devilish device of their own.  Hold the lamp, nephew.  Ha!  I thought so.  Here are his footmarks upon the flower-bed outside.”

The landlord, and one or two of the Corinthians from the bar-parlour, had followed us to the back of the house.  Some one had opened the side door, and we found ourselves in the kitchen garden, where, clustering upon the gravel path, we were able to hold the lamp over the soft, newly turned earth which lay between us and the window.

“That’s his footmark!” said Belcher.  “He wore his running boots this evening, and you can see the nails.  But what’s this?  Some one else has been here.”

“A woman!” I cried.

“By Heaven, you’re right, nephew,” said my uncle.

Belcher gave a hearty curse.

“He never had a word to say to any girl in the village.  I took partic’lar notice of that.  And to think of them coming in like this at the last moment!”

“It’s clear as possible, Tregellis,” said the Hon. Berkeley Craven, who was one of the company from the bar-parlour.  “Whoever it was came outside the window and tapped.  You see here, and here, the small feet have their toes to the house, while the others are all leading away.  She came to summon him, and he followed her.”

“That is perfectly certain,” said my uncle.  “There’s not a moment to be lost.  We must divide and search in different directions, unless we can get some clue as to where they have gone.”

“There’s only the one path out of the garden,” cried the landlord, leading the way.  “It opens out into this back lane, which leads up to the stables.  The other end of the lane goes out into the side road.”

The bright yellow glare from a stable lantern cut a ring suddenly from the darkness, and an ostler came lounging out of the yard.

“Who’s that?” cried the landlord.

“It’s me, master!  Bill Shields.”

“How long have you been there, Bill?”

“Well, master, I’ve been in an’ out of the stables this hour back.  We can’t pack in another ’orse, and there’s no use tryin’.  I daren’t ’ardly give them their feed, for, if they was to thicken out just ever so little—”

“See here, Bill.  Be careful how you answer, for a mistake may cost you your place.  Have you seen any one pass down the lane?”

“There was a feller in a rabbit-skin cap some time ago.  ’E was loiterin’ about until I asked ’im what ’is business was, for I didn’t care about the looks of ’im, or the way that ’e was peepin’ in at the windows.  I turned the stable lantern on to ’im, but ’e ducked ’is face, an’ I could only swear