CHAPTER II
A MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR
"Get the luggage out, old man," said Dick. "We'll pad the hoof and see if we can find a cottage. We might, with luck, get a fellow with a horse to pull the bike to the top of the hill."
"I guess the job's beyond the powers of a gee-gee," remarked Athol, who, ankle-deep in snow, was unstrapping the luggage from the carrier. "We'll have a shot at hiking the show into the drift. It seems fairly firm snow on this side."
By dint of strenuous efforts the two lads succeeded in lifting the heavy side-car to the fringe of the road, leaving a space of less than six feet between the wheel of the car and the snow-bank on the opposite face of the track. Then, shouldering their belongings, the weather-bound travellers trudged stolidly up the hilly road.
"Here's a jamboree!" exclaimed Dick after a long silence. He was regaining his breath and with it his exuberant spirits. "We'll have something to remember. By Jove, isn't this a ripping country?"
"It's all very fine," said Athol guardedly, "but, remember, we may be held up for a fortnight. This stuff takes a jolly lot of thawing, you know. Hulloa! There's someone hammering."
"The child is correct," declared Dick with a laugh. "And hammering metal work. I believe our friend the horseman was a little out in his statements. There must be a human habitation of sorts, and, judging by the direction of the sounds—unless the acoustic properties of a snowstorm are erratic—the fellow is tinkering away on that hill on our right. Yes, old man, here's a gap in the hedge. It looks remarkably like a carriage drive."
For the last hundred yards the road was bounded by a raised bank surmounted by a thick laurel hedge. The gap that was just beginning to become visible resolved itself into a pathway barred by a tall gate tipped with a row of formidable spikes.
"Wonder there isn't an array of notice-boards of the 'Trespassers will be prosecuted' order," remarked Athol. "It seems to me that no one has used this path since it started snowing. However, it must lead somewhere, so let's investigate."
Lifting the rusty latch the two lads pushed hard against the gate. They had to force the bottom bars through eighteen inches of snow before they could open it.
The hammering noise was still maintained with hardly a break. The workman, whoever he might be, was certainly industrious.
For fifty yards the path ran straight up a steep ascent and then bore abruptly to the left. Here Athol and his chum were confronted by another gate which, unlike the outer one, was secured by a stout padlock and chain. On either side ran a laurel hedge almost as tall as the one separating the grounds from the highway. To the right hand gate-post was attached a socket supporting a large bell, the clapper being worked by means of a chain.
"I say, looks a bit fishy, eh?" remarked Dick, regarding the barrier with interest. "P'raps we've struck a private asylum."
"Don't know. Suppose if the owner wants to keep tramps and stranded wayfarers out, he's quite at liberty to do so," replied Athol. "However, necessity knows no law, so let's agitate the piece of sounding brass."
He jerked the chain. The bell rang out with startling loudness, the vibrations echoing and re-echoing between the pine clumps. The hammering ceased abruptly.
An old man, supporting himself by means of a stick, ambled through the snow, appearing from behind the hedge on the left of the gate. He was apparently about eighty years of age, wizened featured and white haired.
"What do you want?" he asked in a quavery voice. "My master sees no one except by appointment. If you have one, well and good; if you haven't, 'tisn't any use your stopping here."
As he spoke he made a snapping sound with his fingers and, in answer to the signal, two enormous bull-terriers lolled sullenly to the old man's side, and with the precision of a pair of music-hall twins, each bared his formidable teeth and growled menacingly.
Athol stood his ground. The chilliness of his reception had "set his back up."
"Look here, my man," he said with asperity. "You've done your duty by warning us, now go and tell your master that he is wanted—and look sharp about it."
Then, seeing the old fellow hesitate, he added,
"Sharp about it, I said. I'm not used to giving the same order twice."
"And I am not used to having my servants ordered about by strangers," exclaimed a deep, well-modulated voice. "Since your business seems urgent perhaps you will kindly state it."
The speaker was a tall, finely built man of about forty years of age. His features were clear cut, his brow lofty, and his jaw massive. He was clean shaven, revealing a pair of tightly pursed lips. His complexion was pale, his eyes of a deep blue colour and set rather wide apart beneath a pair of bushy, overhanging brows. Across his forehead was a horizontal scar of old standing, showing white even in contrast to his greyish complexion. His hair was dark brown tinged with grey and growing high upon his temples.
"We called to ask for assistance," began Athol. "Our motor-bike——"
"Mechanical breakdown?" asked the occupier of the premises.
"No; we're snowed up, and the side-car wheel has given out," announced the lad.
"H'm; well, I'm glad it isn't an engine fault," remarked the stranger. "Had it been you would have had no sympathy from me. A fellow who cannot tackle a refractory engine ought not to be allowed in charge of one on the road. Where's your bike?"
"About a hundred yards down the hill and in a snow-drift," replied Athol. "We did our level best but the snow was too much for us. We thought, perhaps, that we might find someone who has a horse——"
"Horse," repeated the man. "It will want something better than a horse, I'm thinking. Open those gates, Harvey, and look sharp about it. Come in, both of you. I'll be with you in a couple of minutes."
He gave the lads an approving smile as they both walked past the bulldogs without the faintest hesitation. Then he disappeared up the path, while the gatekeeper, having opened and unfastened the massive portal, vanished between the laurel hedges.
"We've struck a rummy show, old man," whispered Dick. "The old chap isn't a bad sort, though. Wonder what he is going to bring out? A traction engine?"
Tracey's curiosity was speedily set at rest by the reappearance of the stranger, dragging behind him a sleigh. The contrivance had no runners; it consisted merely of a rectangular sheet of metal curled at the foremost end. On it were thrown a couple of fir planks, about six feet in length, and nine inches in breadth.
"It's quite easy, thanks," said the stranger, declining the lads' offer to assist in dragging the sleigh. "It's made of aluminium. You will have to bear a hand when we get the bike on it. Best foot forward. I have a lot of work to finish before lunch, you know."
"Threaded?"
"Yes, we cut the threads before we left."
"Good men!" exclaimed their benefactor approvingly. "You both seem of a mechanical turn of mind. Well, you can set to work. If there's anything you require ring that bell. Lunch will be ready in an hour and twenty minutes. If you haven't finished by that time there's four hours between that and teatime. Excuse me, I must be off."
The shed was well lighted and warmed by means of hot water pipes. In one corner was a portable forge, in front of one window an up-to-date lathe. Engineer's tools, all in excellent condition, occupied racks on the walls, while on the beams overhead were bundles of white metal rods and stacks of aluminium sheeting.
"We've fallen on our feet, old man," remarked Dick. "Lunch, too, by Jove! I'm hungry. Our scrumptious repast at Shrewsbury is but a pleasant memory. I could do a jolly good tuck-in now."
"Nothing like work to while away the time," asserted Athol, casting off his motor-overalls and coat and rolling up his sleeves; "Buck up, old fellow, and rip that tyre off."
Soon the two young tourists were hard at it, and none was more surprised than they were when the door of the shed was opened and their host exclaimed,
"Spell-oh! Down tools, lads. Why, you have made a show. You'll find some cleaning stuff in that tin. I'll take you to the bathroom in the house."
"'Fraid we're in a jolly pickle," said Athol apologetically.
"I'm used to that," rejoined the stranger, as he led the way to a substantially-built stone-house standing in an open space between the pine-trees. "If you like to take off your boots—they look pretty saturated—I'll lend you some slippers."
Having washed, the lads were ushered into a long dining-room. The table was laid with covers for three. An old manservant, who might have been a brother to the gatekeeper, waited until the diners' wants had been attended to; then having thrown a couple of logs upon the already briskly glowing fire, he went out.
"Now to business," exclaimed their host. "First let me introduce myself. My name is Desmond Blake. My age—an important consideration in these strenuous days—is forty-two; my profession, an engineer who has been cold-shouldered by a—but that can wait. Now, tell me, what are your names? And what brings you in these parts?"