Jack Carstairs of the power house

by Sydney Sandys

CHAPTER XX

Bounce had seen that little incident, too. He crossed the ring and helped Carstairs to dress. He said nothing, but his peculiar hazel eyes were alight.

While they were still busy, the little civil engineer from the water-works appeared on the scene. He looked round in surprise. "What the blazes are you chaps doing here?" he asked.

A navvy answered from the crowd. "A fight, sir." The whole assembly had the air of school boys caught breaking bounds.

The little man blazed with anger. "Damn it," he said, "why didn't you tell me? You know I like to see that everything is above board at these little gatherings." He stood on the top of the little hill clear to the view of all.

"Beg parding, sir. This 'ere were sort of impromptoo."

"Impromptu! By Jove—you know I don't like impromptu fights."

"Very sorry, sir," the spokesman muttered, and they all looked it. By sheer force of character and unswerving fairness of treatment, this little man had obtained, in the course of two years' constant association, a complete ascendency over these wild, strong men.

"Who's been fighting?" he asked.

"Charlie Moore an' a toff bloke, then two toff blokes."

"Oh," he said, in a completely changed tone, and made his way quickly to where Carstairs was.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Carstairs was dressed and just moving off, "My name is Carstairs. I'm an engineer too, electrical and mechanical. I'm staying at the Blue Boar in the village, I have an engagement now. If you will call there this evening, I shall be pleased to have a talk with you."

"But what's the fight about? Have my men been molesting you?"

"Oh no." Carstairs looked round, the navvies were beginning to move off hurriedly. He did not want to get them into trouble, still he was not good at lying. "I was to blame," he said. "We had a difference of opinion and settled it in the time-honoured way; they behaved like gentlemen."

The little man's eyes sparkled. He looked round, but the last of the five hundred was disappearing hurriedly, like a cart horse colt over the hillock. He laughed aloud. "They're just damn great kids! those chaps, but the very best. I shan't be able to get within earshot of one of 'em till Monday morning now. They'll shun me like the plague." He laughed again. "By George they are rum chaps. About the first week they were here there was a violent row with the old farmer on the hill there." He pointed to a farm house in the distance. "They went rabbiting with dogs and ferrets right in front of his house; when he expostulated, they were going to pull his place to pieces. He sent for me. I couldn't stop their poaching, of course, nobody could; but I objected to their threatening the man. 'Well, sir,' they said (it was that man Moore by the way), 'what beat us was the cheek o' the beggar coming an' talking to three on us.' He didn't speak to one of them afterwards, poor chap, he was frightened out of his wits; they're a mean sort of swine, farmers. Fancy grousing about a blooming rabbit."

Carstairs laughed. "How about the woods over there?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't think there's much left in 'em now. The keepers keep away when my chaps are about." The little man laughed. "They have elaborate shooting parties with plenty of beer, and about six old guns between 'em. Take it in turns for a shot. Gravely presented me with a pair of pheasants once, and got quite shirty when I wouldn't have 'em; couldn't understand that they were stolen. 'Why! the keeper seen us,' they explained. 'If he'd been a wise man he would have not seen you,' I said. 'Will 'e 'ave a trout then, mister?' 'No thanks,' I said. 'Well, I'm beggared,' they answered, and went away growling. They still think I'm a bit mad."

They laughed together and strolled on. Carstairs was obviously impatient, but the little man did not see it. He only met men with a soul above beer at very rare intervals.

"Damn funny chaps, you know, but the best, the very best, at heart. Don't care tuppence for anybody, and quite fail to see why they should. 'When my 'at's on, my roof's on, an' off I goes,' they say. They wander up and get a start, work for a day, 'sub' a 'bob,' and slope off. Sometimes a man will start one day, and next a policeman arrives, and the man is missing, two or three more with him very likely. Damn funny chaps. What for? Oh, nothing serious as a rule, pinching a pair of boots from a shop window, or something like that, you know; I had a man murdered once, though; not here—up in the midlands, had a hole knocked in his head with a pick axe, never found out who did it. There are black sheep in every flock, of course."

"Men are about the same as any other machine, I think, you get out rather less than you put in. Breed simply means efficiency and reliability."

"Yes. By Jove, that's so. Look here, come up to my digs, will you? What! an engagement. Oh, I see. Well, ta-ta for the present."

They were quite close to the caravan, and the little man looked at Carstairs curiously as he saw where he was going. He made no comment, but turned and made his way back to the village.

The camp was quite silent, the vans were all drawn up together in the form of a square. The dogs and children all seemed to have disappeared. Carstairs went up the steps of the caravan, and knocked at the little door. He began to wonder vaguely if the gipsies had all deserted the place, till he caught sight of the crown of a hat and the muzzle of a gun on the roof of a caravan.

The door was very quietly opened by the old woman (she was in ragged male attire), and her eyes gleamed like an eagle's in the sunlight as she looked at Carstairs. She put a hand on his shoulder. "Well done, well done," she said.

He put her hand gently aside. "Where is your daughter?" he asked.

"Gone to London," she answered.

Carstairs frowned like a thunder-storm. "Confound it! She gave me this ring about two minutes ago."

The woman smiled and looked at the ring. "Yes, that's her mother's. Don't lose it."

"Yours?" he said. "What's she bolted away again for?"

She positively laughed, and Carstairs turned to go away. She stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "I'm not her mother," she said.

"What! Then who is?"

"Lady Cleeve's sister. She's dead."

"Holy God! But that man—Sir Thomas, said——"

"He didn't know and didn't care much. She's his child, but not mine; mine died, and we stole this one. God forgive me! She's been more than a daughter to me. And he—he was always drunk, always drunk when he wasn't playing the fiddle, always drunk. And now he's dead."

"Oh!" Carstairs said; it was all he could think of at the time.

The gipsy woman sat on the top step of the little ladder, her head in her hands, crooning to herself. "My God! My God! And now he's dead! He charmed me with his singing and his playing, and he was in the gutter playing for coppers and drink, while his lawful wife lay dying in her mother's home. Oh, my God! my God!"

Carstairs stood in wonder; he did not know whether to stay or go. She took no notice of him, but crooned on, rocking herself from side to side. "And now he's dead. Dead! Him that opened the gates of Heaven with his fiddle! dead and along with her, but I shall have him; he's mine, mine, and there's another. O my God! My God! but I'm going too! I shall be the first."

Carstairs tapped her on the shoulder. "Pull yourself together," he said. "Shall I get you some brandy?"

"Brandy? No! that's been the curse of it all." She raised her head and glared at him with eyes like live coals. "I stole this child, his child, that ought to have been brought up in the lap of luxury, I stole her and brought her up like a gipsy to try and bring him back." She dropped her head into her hands again and wailed. "God forgive me! God forgive me!"

He shook her quite roughly. "It's no use groaning now," he said, "try and make amends. Have you told the girl who she is?"

"Yes, to-day, and gave her the ring. All there is to prove it."

"Is that why she left you, then?" Carstairs could hardly believe it, remembering the affection the girl had always shown for this woman whom she believed to be her mother.

"No, no, she kissed me like an angel from heaven. It's you, you who made her leave."

"Me! but she's just given me this ring, and—and she kissed me too."

The woman looked up at him again, but her eyes were now dim with tears. "You don't understand, she's very proud, prouder than that old man who's just dead. She'll come for that ring some day."

"No! By God, she won't. I'll find her, and take it to her." He pulled out a card. "Look here, that's my address. If I don't find her before I go back next week, will you send me her address, or any news of her you may have?"

"I shall be dead in a month; it's no use leaving me this."

"What's the use of talking rot like that?" he said, angrily. "Are you going to help me?"

"No," she answered simply.

He turned and left her without another word. "Bounce," he said, as he climbed into the dog-cart, "you've had some experience. Are all women mad?"

"Every one on 'em, sir. That is, them wots any good."

"Ah! Well, let her go like hell for Southville."

On the way they passed the little civil engineer. "Hullo!" he shouted, "are you off, then?"

Carstairs pulled up. "Yes, jump up and come on into Southville with me, I want some one to swear at."

"Ha! That's it, is it?" He climbed in. "What else are you going to do with me?"

"Put you up for the week-end, swear at you all day, Sunday, and send you back about your business on Monday."

"Well, half a minute; let's go via my digs—that farm over there—and I'll collect some togs."

"Not a sock or a pyjama. Come as you are, and we'll go to church to-morrow, yellow leggings, and all. I want you to be best man."

"This is rather sudden, isn't it?"

"Not at all, the only obstacle is whether I can catch the bride in time."

"Ah, I see, but there's some formality about banns, and living in the parish, and so on."

"My dear fellow, I'm a parson's son."

"I might have known that by your command of swear words. So am I."

"Is that so? I might have known that too by your perverted morals. Never saw such an indignant chap as you when you thought those navvies had cheated you out of a fight."

"Yes. By Jove, I shall wake those chaps up about that on Monday."

They all three laughed.

"The bride is along this road somewhere; she's only got about twenty minutes or half an hour's start. We're bound to catch her, and then, by Jove! I'll gag and bind her if she won't come quietly."

"They never do that," Bounce said, wagging his head sagely.

"Look here, Bounce, if you sit up there croaking away like some old raven, I'll chuck you out of the cart."

"Very sorry, sir, but fax is fax, ain't 'em?"

Carstairs turned to the civil engineer. "They call him Bull-dog Bounce," he explained, "it's no use arguing with him. By the way, I don't know your name. Mine's Carstairs."

"Whitworth. Jack Whitworth."

"Jack. I'm a Jack, too. So is Bounce here. That's strange."

"No, sir. Beggin' your pardon, sir. A. E. Bounce, sir. Algernon Edward Bounce, A.B. That's how it's writ down in the Service books."

"Yes, of course, so you told me before. I'd forgotten. I'm sorry."

The little civil engineer was inclined to smile till he glanced at Bounce's perfectly serious face, then he stared straight ahead, and they drove in silence for some time.

As they neared the outskirts of Southville and still saw no signs of the girl on the road, Carstairs got angry. "I wonder if that woman lied to me," he muttered.

They drove on till they reached the hotel. "No luck this journey," he said, with a resigned smile. "Come on in and have a drink, Bounce." They held a council of war in the smoking room. Whitworth raised his brows in wonder at the tale which was partially disclosed to him.

"The curse of it is, I've got to go up north again on Wednesday," Carstairs said.

"Ah, that is awkward. I'll keep an eye on the camp for you, and let you know if the girl's there, or if that dark chap is hanging around."

"Mister Darwen's 'ad enough I expect, sir."

"Not he, Bounce. He'll turn up smiling again."

Bounce left them shortly afterwards, and the two engineers, after partaking of a substantial meal, strolled round the town, particularly the railway station part of it, in the hope of meeting the girl. At about ten o'clock they went home and went straight to bed, they had both had a busy day, particularly Carstairs.

The hotel was old fashioned and very comfortable, but the resources in the way of bedrooms were strictly limited, partly due to the reputation of the place. Anyhow that evening the only bedroom they had to offer for Whitworth was a small one right at the top of an obscure wing of the building. Carstairs said nothing, but had his own luggage taken up there, and gave Whitworth his room, fairly large, close to a bathroom and over-looking a nicely kept lawn and shrubbery. He saw him installed in it, supplying his wants as much as possible from his own portmanteau.

"I'm sorry I brought you away in such a hurry."

"That's alright, I'm used to roughing it. It's quite a treat to me to have the electric light in my room and listen to the traffic outside. I feel like a kid on a holiday in London."

"Hope you'll sleep alright. Good night."

"Trust me for that. Good night."

Carstairs was soon in bed and asleep, but it was still dark when in his obscure corner of the building he became aware of some sort of commotion going on downstairs; he had a sort of vague impression that he had been awakened by a cry. He lay for a moment and heard a police whistle blown violently, and a voice shouting, "Police! Police!"

He sprang out of bed, hurriedly donned a few garments, and wound his way along tortuous passages to the entrance hall. Whitworth was standing there (the centre of a group) in shirt and trousers, with a small bedroom poker in his hand.

"What's the trouble?" Carstairs asked.

"Trouble! By Gad!" The little man was red as a turkey cock and furiously angry. "Some damned swine tried to rob me, came in through the window. I was awake and heard him climbing up, wondered what it was. The window was open—I always sleep with it open—he pushed up the bottom sash and got inside, then I switched on the light and went for him. Look here!" he stretched his neck and pulled down the collar of his shirt showing finger marks still there. "He had no boots or stockings on; he took me by the throat and held me off, with one foot shoved into the pit of my stomach. I was as helpless as a kid. His arms were so long I was quite clear of him, and he was as strong as a tiger. Then—what do you think? he looked in my face a minute, and chucked me across the room. Look here," he exposed a bruised elbow. "I grabbed the poker, and he hopped out of the window like a monkey. I'll swear he was more like a monkey than anything I've ever seen; he was doubled up, hunchbacked, and his head tilted upwards all the time. His hands were below his knees; he jumped from all fours. Most hideous brute I've ever seen. I ran to the window, intending to chuck the poker at him, but he was gone; whether up or down, I couldn't say."

Carstairs listened in silence, his face was very grave. A policeman arrived, and took profuse notes. "Hunchback," he said. "There was a gang here about three year ago with a hunchback bloke."

Then the excitement abated, and the few male visitors who had come out half dressed, to ascertain the cause of the trouble, wandered back to bed. The engineers did likewise.

Carstairs, before getting into bed, carefully examined the room; he locked the door, wedged the window, and put his big pocket knife under his pillow. Then he slept like a top, for he was at heart a fatalist, and felt that nothing would happen that night, and he was right. The morning broke bright and clear, and he and Whitworth were down to breakfast early.

The little man chatted away merrily about his adventure as he disposed of a very liberal breakfast. "The cheek of the swine, to try and rob me!" he said, with unbounded astonishment and indignation, so that Carstairs smiled.

"You seem to have imbibed the spirit of your navvies pretty well."

Whitworth laughed. "By Gad, if I'd got that poker a second or two sooner, I'd have flattened him out. Wish old Hiscocks had been there. He's my sort of body servant, chain-bearer, carries the instruments, and that sort of thing, one of the finest men on top of this earth, sixteen stone odd, and no stomach; he'd have flattened that chap to a pulp, he's been in the marine artillery."

"Yes, I know. Bounce knocked him out in a ten-round contest in Japan."

"What!" Whitworth dropped his knife and fork in astonishment.

"That's right, because I remember my uncle telling me about it."

"Good Lord! That little Bounce. Well, I'm hanged."

"My dear chap, Bounce is invincible. You ought to have seen him chuck a seven-foot policeman out of the works in this town one night."

Whitworth went on with his breakfast with a business like air. "I must find a job for Bounce," he said, decidedly. "What's his pay now?"

"That's been arranged; he's coming up north with me, driving on the test plate. He's worth his weight in gold there, so prompt, clear-headed, and reliable."

"Mean swine! Fancy keeping a man like that indoors driving dirty engines, he ought to be outside in the sun and the rain with the birds and the flowers."

Carstairs laughed. "When you've finished grubbing we'll get outside with the flowers and the birds," he said.

Shortly after they sallied forth together and went for a brisk walk in the country. Coming back they were just in time for the people trooping out of church, and who should they meet but Darwen, prayer book in hand, smiling, gay, as usual.

"Hullo, there's that chap—" Whitworth commenced.

"Yes. He's probably the biggest sweep unhung, but I know his mother, and I must have a word with him."

Darwen held out his hand. "May I presume to congratulate you on a good score yesterday?" he said.

"I was lucky," Carstairs answered, ignoring the hand. Whitworth strolled on.

Darwen still smiled. "I can't allow that, my dear chap. You were good, scientific. I ought to have known you were not such a fool as you look."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it, old chap, honestly I consider you a smart chap; in fact, it begins to seem as if there's not room on this earth for both you and I." He smiled in his happy, genial way, but his eyes were taking in every movement of Carstairs' features.

"Oh, the earth is a big place, we can avoid each other. I'm going to Chilcombe to-morrow, and next day up north again, I expect, but can't say for certain till I get my letters. I shall call to see your mater when I'm that way."

"Yes, do! Of course she need never know of our little scrap, eh?" Darwen's eyes had the same old sparkle in them, and Carstairs with immobile face and calm eyes was watching him as he watched an engine under test.

"No, of course not!"

"By the way one of my old friends in the force told me there was a burglary at some hotel here last night." His eyes flickered with a sunny smile as he watched Carstairs' face.

"Ye-es, my hotel. A drunken sailor climbed in at one of the windows and left by the same route." Carstairs' face was almost expressionless.

"Ah! You didn't see the fun, then?"

"No, there wasn't much to see, I understand."

Darwen stepped up close and looked intently into his eyes. "Do you ever lie, Carstairs?"

"Oh, yes! not, I think, frequently; as often as you, for instance." His face was sphinx-like still.

"No, by God, I don't believe you could! Decently!" He stepped back and laughed aloud. "You've neglected the most vital accomplishment of modern life—to lie well. Ta, ta, old chap, I wish we could be pals." He passed on with a happy smile and looked up to the sun. "The Lord has delivered him into my hands," he said, to himself.

Carstairs rejoined Whitworth, and they returned to the hotel. After dinner, as they sat smoking, he said, suddenly: "Would you like to catch that chap who tried to rob you last night?"

"By Gad, I should like to give him a hiding."

Carstairs puffed his pipe in silence for a few moments, his steady, shrewd eyes observing Whitworth closely. "That man came to murder me, not to rob you," he said, at length.

"Good God, man! What are you talking about?"

"What I believe to be the truth. Can you get to-morrow off, and come home to my place with me—that is, if you're game for a man hunt."

"Rather! But I say—are you sure?"

"Well, er—reasonably. The solution I have in mind seems to satisfy most of the conditions of the problem; we are up in the clouds somewhere, beyond all rules. The only methods for such problems are trial and error. Will you come?"

"You bet, but I must get a change of togs, first. What time do you want to go?"

"Oh, in the afternoon some time. You can slip over to your digs in the morning, and you might bring your man, Hiscocks, if you can. I'll get Bounce."

So it was settled, and at half-past three on Monday afternoon, a select-party of four got into a third-class carriage en route for Chilcombe. Carstairs explained the situation. "We're going to catch a burglar, that's all, but I want to keep him myself, that's why I don't want the police brought into it. I hope that they'll come into action later for a double bag."

Bounce and the ex-marine nodded and asked no questions. They were trained that way, but Whitworth leaned forward and spoke. "I say, it's a ghastly business you know, that—that thing was half an animal, I'll swear it, he didn't speak a word, only gave an animal sort of snarl, and his eyes as he looked into my face were the eyes of a wild beast." He gave a little shudder. "By God, we ought to kill it on sight."

"We can't do that, you know, but we can stun it. You saw that man who was killed at the vicarage before, Bounce?"

"Yes, sir; mangled 'e was."

"I know. I saw Donovan." Carstairs puffed at his pipe. "Must be as strong as an elephant. We'd better stun him for a start."

They arrived at Chilcombe and Bounce and Hiscocks put up at the village inn, while Carstairs took Whitworth home. It was a merry gathering that night at the vicarage; Stanley Carstairs was there, and the Bevengtons came in. Whitworth was as lively as a cricket, he kept the whole company continually on the smile with his humour and endless anecdotes of his navvies and other people he had met. Jack Carstairs lay back in his chair and listened with a steady smile. He was watching Bessie Bevengton and Whitworth and was rather glad he'd brought the little man home.

It was after eleven when the party broke up, and Jack took Whitworth to his bedroom. "Here you are," he said, handing him a heavy cudgel. "I'll meet you in the hall in half an hour's time."

"Alright. I say, jolly evening. Who's that girl? Is she—engaged?"

"Oh, no, one of the best, too. We've been chums since we were kids, so I know."

The little man whirled his cudgel round his head thereby seriously endangering the furniture. "We'll flatten that beast out," he said, with extraordinary fervour.

Carstairs laughed. "In half an hour," he said, and went to his room. He turned the gas full on and stood by the window for some minutes with the blind up, in full view of the lawn and shrubbery below. The sky was quite clear, and a full moon was climbing up behind the distant Cotswold Hills. The beauty of the night enchanted him, this was his home, and many memories thronged his brain as he gazed out at the old familiar landscape silvered over with the soft, romantic light of the moon. For a moment he forgot his mission, but a rustle of leaves among the evergreens below and the hoot of an owl quite close at hand, brought him back from the dim and distant past to the pressing, urgent present. He pulled down the blind, picked up a book, and lay on the bed reading for half an hour; then he got up, lighted a bull's-eye dark lantern, turned out the gas, and crept softly downstairs; a dark figure was sitting quietly on one of the hall chairs, a big stick across its knees. It was Whitworth. "This way," Carstairs said, softly, and together they climbed quietly out of the back kitchen window; they stood in the shadow of the wall for a minute and looked round. The lawn was flooded with the soft moonlight, and the big chestnut tree cast a shadow over the clump of laurel bushes near where they stood. Silently they flitted across the narrow strip of moonlight and disappeared into the dense shadow of the evergreens. A hand stretched out in the darkness and touched Carstairs on the arm.

"Is that you, Bounce?" he whispered, very low.

"Yes, sir; nothing in sight yet."

"Alright. Get along a bit further where you can see my window. Is Hiscocks there?" Something that seemed part of the wall murmured, "Yes, sir."

"This way then." Carstairs moved forward and stepped on a dry twig which snapped with a report loud enough to wake the dead, so it seemed to their tensed nerves. Bounce stepped to the front. "I can see," he whispered, "used to the dark at sea." They moved round the shrubbery in single file, very slowly, till they came to a point where they could see the bedroom window, full in the moonlight, just missed by the shade of the big chestnut tree.

They stood there for half an hour, peering out from the darkness into the moonlight. Suddenly they heard something stirring in the big tree, and next instant Whitworth gripped Carstairs by the arm. "Good God! Did you see that?" Something, a man or an animal, had shot out from the high branches of the tree, and landed on the sill of Carstairs' bedroom window. They stood there motionless, gazing at the thing on the window ledge, astonished, paralysed; all except Bounce. For one second only was he held motionless, the next he was on the lawn throwing his heavy stick at the window sill. The thing turned as the stick struck it, and looking down, snarled like an angry dog; next minute it sprang on to the tree again and disappeared, from sight. That broke the spell, and they all ran out. "Don't shout!" Carstairs whispered, hoarsely.

Before they were there the thing was down the tree and racing across the grass on all fours. They saw Bounce fling himself on to it, and the next thing was an indistinguishable tangle whirling about the lawn. As they raced up the little sailor sprang clear and lashed out with his fist. The thing stood erect, and they saw it was a hunchbacked man. He rushed at Bounce who stepped aside. "Stand back!" he commanded the others in a hoarse whisper. "I'll tackle 'im."

He closed in and they heard the dull thud of a body blow as the hunchback reeled back. He charged again, snarling angrily. And again they heard a thud as Bounce's bony knuckles came in contact with the man's deformed breast bone.

Hiscocks raised his stick and rushed forward, but the sailor motioned him back. They circled round each other in the moonlight, while the other three stood silently by. The weirdness of it seemed to have cast a spell over all of them. They saw the sailor step in, they heard a gasping pant, and next minute the hunchback dropped limply to the ground. At once Bounce bent over him, and pulling some cord from his pocket tied up his wrists and ankles in his masterly, definite manner. "Quick," he whispered, "'e's such a funny built bloke, I couldn't get at 'im afore." He stood up and putting his hand to his mouth sucked it and spat. "Bit me, 'e did," he observed.

"That's nasty."

"Yes! Any'ow now we'll pack 'im up. 'Ave you got the sack, sir?"

Next day, at half-past two in the afternoon, Carstairs called at Darwen's office in London. As soon as they were alone, he produced a revolver.

"We captured a bit of property of yours last night, Darwen."

"Ha! Is that so?" He sat down calmly in his chair, toying with an ebony ruler, watching Carstairs carefully, and smiling all the time.

"Put that ruler down; it's no use, your man has gone back on you. I'll give you twenty-four hours to corpse yourself, however you like, otherwise I put the police on you. Before I leave this office I want a written confession."

The brilliant eyes sparkled with amusement. "Dear old Carstairs! It's not bad for a first attempt, but you were not built for a liar. It needs practice, Carstairs! Constant practice. That man is dumb. I cut his tongue before I utilized him for these little missions. Ha! Ha! I'm always willing to learn from the experience of others. Old Donovan was bowled out by a tongue, I removed it; swotted up the literature on the subject, and removed it myself; the human body is a fascinating machine, better than greasy engines. What's the next move, old chap?" His smile was the most charming he had ever worn.

Carstairs toyed with the revolver, keeping his eye on him all the time. "I think," he said, at length, "that as a duty to civilization I ought to wipe you out here and now."

"My dear chap, how absurd! What's civilization done for you? Nothing! Yes, by Jove, it has though, a service of a negative value. Civilization has made you a poor man! As a savage, you would have been a chief! Don't make yourself a bigger ass than nature intended, Carstairs, old chap! If I go, you go too, and there's the girl, eh? The girl we scrapped over. The girl who kissed you on the cheek; I saw her do it, and you blushed like a kid. She'd be left all alone. Now let's talk this matter over quietly."

Carstairs looked him steadily in the eyes, toying meanwhile with the revolver. "Do you know," he said, "that that girl is your sister?"

HE LOOKED ROUND, TO MEET THE GRIM GREY EYES OF CARSTAIRS

Darwen doubled up with sudden laughter; in the intensity of it he almost rolled into the fireplace. A sudden click pulled him up; he looked round solemnly to meet the grim, grey eye of Carstairs gazing at him along the revolver barrel; he had cocked it with his thumb.

"Damn it! You're not going to assassinate me, old chap."

"Come away from that poker! This is a six shot, a Colt's forty-four, and every shot means a dead man. With it cocked as I have it, I can't miss at this distance."

"By God, old chap, I'm proud of you. You're a credit to my up-bringing! Impossible as it may seem you are becoming day by day less and less of the fool that you look."

"I tell you again that girl is your sister."

"Well, what the devil am I to do! You won't let me laugh."

"Then you don't believe it?"

He spread out his hands in a deprecating gesture. "My dear Carstairs!"

Carstairs was thoughtful. "No! I suppose I shouldn't believe it myself," he said. "The man's dead, I have no proof except my word. Your mater might——"

"Leave the mater out of it, Carstairs."

"Ye-es. I think so too. You're not fit to live anyway, and you know my life won't be much to me as long as you're alive."

"Quite so. Quite so. Still there's no need to get personal over it. There is not room for you and I on this little globe. That's it in a nutshell, isn't it? One has to be eliminated, that's obvious; I'm a generous sort of chap, but I can't oblige you in this. I'm in love, yes, by God, in real love for the first and only time. I want that girl, also you want her! We have fought with fists, and you won, but that is not the finish. I'm a sportsman; I'll go back a hundred years with you and we'll fight a duel, eh? A fair and square duel—to a finish."

Carstairs considered, watching him all the time. "What with?" he asked.

"Anything you like. I suggest rifles, magazine rifles, to make a clean and engineering job of it."

"Well, I may as well tell you that rifle shooting has been my hobby for the past two years."

"Noble savage! I won the Gascoign Cup myself."

"Alright, I'll take it at that. Where shall it be?"

"Oh, France! of course. We'll cross to-morrow, and open at a thousand yards. We'll stalk each other among the sand hills, just below Havre there. How's that for real sport, eh?" He looked at Carstairs' steady, thoughtful face with genuine admiration. "By God, Carstairs, you're one of the best! The best. It's a pity we crossed. I suppose you're not prepared to give up the girl?"

"Only to a better man, not to a blasted sweep like you."

"No, quite so! I should never under any circumstances fight you with sledge hammers, Carstairs. We'll cross to-morrow, or this evening then. I think the Havre boats only go at night. Shall we go round to Cook's together and book now? Then we'll buy a couple of rifles." He was like a school boy at the prospect of a holiday, the sporting spirit had bitten very deeply into him. "Come on, old chap," he said, in the height of good humour, and they went out together. They had dinner together and journeyed to Southampton together. Carstairs, his hand on the revolver in his coat pocket, never for one minute taking his eyes off him. They got aboard the little steamer, and she cleared the dock at midnight. They paced the deck together, watching the receding lights of the town; the sky was sprayed and flecked with numberless little clouds, the moonlight shining through the cracks, and ever and anon breaking out into full power between the larger gaps.

As they walked together, and the Solent widened out into the broad English Channel and the Island faded from view, Darwen grew strangely pensive and poetical.

"By Jove, there's nothing like the sea, you know! the sea, by moonlight! Look at that!"

They stood together at the rail, and gazed out over the tossing, tumbling waste of waters, Carstairs still watchful, still suspecting treachery at any minute. Darwen stood silently for some moments, then he burst forth into poetry.

"Weary of myself and sick of asking
What I am, and what I ought to be,
At this vessel's prow I stand which bears me
Forwards, forwards o'er the star-lit sea.

And a look of passionate desire
O'er the sea and to the stars I send.
Ye who from my childhood up have calmed me,
Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

'Ah,' once more I cried, 'Ye stars, ye waters,
On my heart your mighty charm renew;
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,
Feel my soul becoming vast like you!'

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of Heaven,
Over the lit sea's unquiet way,
In the rustling night air came the answer:
Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they."

"Do you hear that, Carstairs."

"Yes, I like it."

"Ah, I always knew you had a soul somewhere, deep down the abysmal depth of that great carcase of yours. Listen! I'll finish it.

'Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they?'

'Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
Undistracted by the sights they see,
These demand not that the things without them
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

And with the joys the stars perform their shining,
And the sea its long moon-silvered roll;
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
All the fever of some differing soul.'

Mark that, Carstairs.

'All the fever of some differing soul.'"

"Yes. It's good."

"That is so. It goes on:—

Bounded by themselves, and unregardful
In what state God's other works may be,
In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
These attain the mighty life you see.

A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear.
'Resolve to be thyself; and know that he
Who finds himself, loses his misery!'"

He had spoken softly and slowly, but quite distinctly; the silver cadence of his rich, cultured voice died away, and they stood together in silence for some minutes.

"In my opinion, Carstairs, that's one of the finest things in the English language. When I read that, it seemed to express exactly what I had been vaguely feeling for years past. It contains the germs, the kernel, of all the philosophy in the world. 'Resolve to be thyself.' Ye gods, think of that! Define 'yourself,' Carstairs! A German professor would fill six volumes and then not do the job. Matthew Arnold does it in one.

'Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
Undistracted by the sights they see,
In their own tasks all their powers pouring.'

There you are. Take that to heart, Carstairs. God knows how much energy you've dissipated uselessly, in thoughts on other people, hopes and fears. Lord! I've been as happy as a bird all my life. That's true religion, Carstairs. I should like to have a talk with your guv'nor on that. He's a sound man, your guv'nor, but with a weakness for worrying over other people's troubles. I never do, or very seldom. 'Keep fit, and answer the impulses of your reason.' That's my motto."

Carstairs said nothing, but watched him closely. He continued. "I say 'I never worry over other people's troubles,' you're the only man I've ever worried over; honestly, Carstairs, you appeal to me exceedingly. I've often wondered whether you're before your time or after, there is much of the noble savage about you. I regard you with awe, yet you can think. You use steam, and coal, and electricity; but you totally disregard men and women. This little globe is just a box of bricks, you and I are part of them—everything fits in—your duty here below is to look after yourself, to fill your little niche efficiently."

Carstairs spoke. "You do that best by considering carefully your true relation to other people, the real interdependence of every one, and the lubrication of sentiment. As an engineer you must know that only the truth endures."

"By Jove, that's true. 'Because right is right,' etc. As an individual you would shine, your conception of the truth is very exact and your ability to act up to it high. As an engineer you are good, but this is the age of states and municipalities, of diplomacy and intrigue; when men are judged for what they say, and not for what they do. Had my lot been cast among companies, instead of municipalities, I should have had to entirely alter my tactics. You can talk to a man and smile at him till you're blue in the face, but if he sees that your work don't pan out into tangible dividends, you've got to go. Municipalities don't put much on dividends, they like a smile and a loud voice. If socialism comes to pass, your type will die out and my type will flourish."

"God forbid."

"My dear chap, happiness is a condition of the mind, not of the body. I bet I've made more people happy by my smile, than you have by your work. Socialists are of two classes; wise men and fools (the same as everybody else), the wise men want to develop and get a good price for their natural powers of persuasion, the fools are sentimental idiots who propose to do away with misery by doing away with individuals and the slums. By Jove! the slums are about the happiest places, slum-bred people never commit suicide, when they feel depressed, they go in for murder, a much more healthy occupation. Garden mould is rotten-looking stuff, but the worms enjoy it, and if you take 'em out and put 'em in nice, clean cotton wool, they'll kick the bucket, and if there were no worms, there'd be no men, you know. At the present time, England is overflowing with people who want to put the worms in cotton wool. It's a question of religion; they have forsaken their Gods. I suppose there are some Christians in England, I haven't met them, probably they could be counted on the fingers of one hand. England is a pagan country still; your guv'nor is one of the best men I've met, but he's a pure pagan: I'd give a hundred to one in quids that if I slapped him on the right cheek, he'd instantly plug me in the left eye—and his entire congregation, also his Bishop, would back him up. The Englishman worships Thor, the magnified man with the sledge hammer; I'm a Dago, I worship those brainy old chaps who lived in the Pantheon; they took life easily in the sun, and hadn't a moral amongst them; I've rather a contempt for Thor, he never showed any great brain capacity, but simply slogged around blindly with a sledge hammer. It's a question of my Gods versus your Gods: A man's religion is what he bases the conduct of his life on, not which church he attends on Sunday: our stars were in opposition from the start, Carstairs, and the moving finger of Fate is approaching very rapidly to a blot—the elimination of a unit, with large-bore magazine rifles—and I don't think it'll be me."

He paused and gazed out over the sea.

Carstairs, watching him closely, was lost in admiration of the beauty of his profile silhouetted against the moon.

"The whole blooming world," he continued, "seems to be slopping over with a sticky sort of sentiment. The centre of gravity of civilization is becoming too high, it'll topple over presently. We have a new God 'The people' and the people are those thick-headed fools one passes in the street: the artizan, who makes things by the 'piece' (cheap and nasty), because he can't be trusted to act on the square otherwise; he gets more than his whack of the good things of life, and puts the surplus into beer and baccy; his 'missus' would like to keep a servant, and objects to bringing up kids. Then there's the middle class man, brought up with the ideas and the ambitions of an aristocrat, the physique of a clerk, and the ability of a navvy; his recreation is suicide: and the aristocrats, I suppose, are those wishy-washy young men, all nose and no chin, who loaf about the West End, and die of ennui. All due to excessive sentiment! Sentiment is far more dangerous than drink or drugs: in exceedingly small doses it adds to the flavour of life. Sentiment will get you out of a job quick enough, but it'll never damn well get you into one. You're my best friend, I honestly like you and admire you, but to-morrow I'm going to shoot you, afterwards I shall be intensely sorry—for precisely five minutes. Hullo! Who the devil is this?" His voice changed to a note of anger.

Carstairs turned and saw something crawling, creeping, sidling cautiously along the deck, like a dog that knows he's done wrong. It was the hunchback. He got close up to Darwen, crouching down, and held up his hands to view; the moon shone out suddenly from behind a cloud, and they saw in the sudden burst of light that the flesh was riven from hands and wrists as though they had been wrenched through something which was too small for them.

Darwen looked at him a moment, then, stooping down, struck him across the face with his flat hand. "You failed, and I have no use for failures; as an intelligence department Sam failed—and he's gone; as an executive, you have failed, too. What use are you?"

Carstairs listened spellbound.

The hunchback gave a piteous moan and looked up in Darwen's face with a singular, dog-like, appealing look. He stooped and struck him again in the face. "You're a fool, I tell you, a useless fool."

With a sudden bound the thing leaped on to the railing and over into the sea.

Carstairs sprang to the side, Darwen was looking over like an eager boy. "By Jove!" he said, "the poor devil can't swim a stroke." He vaulted lightly on to the top of the broad handrail and stood for one second balancing with the graceful ease of the practised gymnast, then he dived after him. "Stop the ship, Carstairs," he said, as he went. A sailor on the poop threw a life belt overboard, and raised the alarm. The ship was turned about, and went round in a circle three times, but nothing was to be seen of either of them, so she turned to her course again.

Carstairs leaned long over the side, gazing into the dark water swirling past. A great big "Why?" confronted him. "Why? Why? Why?" he asked himself, and the answer was locked away, with many another mystery, deep down in the depth of the water at his feet.

For the rest of the night he paced the deck. Next day he gave all the information he could to the authorities: the other passenger, they said, must have been a stowaway, Carstairs thought so too. He took the train to Calais, and returned as quickly as possible to break the news to Darwen's mother.

She had been up all night and was very haggard. "Where's Charlie?" she asked, as soon as she saw him.

"He's had an accident——"

"He's dead!" she screamed, seizing him by the hand and looking into his eyes. "Dead! Dead! I knew it."

"I'm afraid he is."

"Oh, my God! My God! Tell me, how was it?"

"We were going to Havre, he and I; he jumped overboard in the night to rescue a stowaway."

She drew herself up with pride, the bleared eyes shone with an unnatural light. "There! He was a sportsman to the last! He played wing three-quarter for England when he was nineteen, and the same year he scored fifty-six against the M.C.C. I was so proud, he was so handsome! And now he's gone! Oh, my boy, my boy, my lovely boy! Oh God, take me too." She fell forward on her face.

Carstairs picked her up and threw water over her; he called a servant, and hurried out for a doctor.

She was dead—quite dead—her heart, the doctor said.

Carstairs went away and hurried north, he was a day overdue as it was. He explained the matter as much as he could to the hard-headed ex-fitter.

"Ay!" the latter said, shaking his head, and there was a world of sympathy in that shake of the head. "It's a bad business, lad, a bad business." He had a commercial head equal to the best in the world, this man, but his heart was exactly in the right place, too. He broached the subject then to Carstairs that he was going to retire, and offered him a much more important position in the firm, which ultimately led (with the great success of his many patents) to a partnership.

For six months or so he was kept hard at the grindstone, external affairs troubled him not at all; he heard that Bessie Bevengton was engaged to Whitworth, who had got a good appointment on the staff of Sir Donald Cox of Westminster; Bounce never ceased to marvel at the manner in which the hunchback had broken out of the double lashing he had put round his wrists; his brother Stephen had got a picture hung in the academy: all these things seemed to affect Jack Carstairs like vague unimportant rumours, for he knew, in his soul, that the girl was his, waiting for him, and he wanted to go and fetch her: only, sometimes, in the early morning, when the atmosphere outside was some ten or fifteen degrees below freezing point, and he wallowed in his cold bath, breathing deeply and steadily through the nose, then with the exhilarating reaction of his blood as he briskly wiped down with a rough towel, these whispers from an external world would find an echo in his brain. "By Jove, I must write and congratulate old Whitworth," or "Jolly glad Stephen's done something at last."

Then he got a spell, and went to London. He stayed with his artist brother.

"We'll go to the opera, and hear the new singer," the latter said on their first evening together.

"Who is she?" Jack asked.

"Madame Edith D'Arcy, daughter of the late Sir Thomas D'Arcy, you know. She's wonderful. Perfect statue, and a marvellous voice."

"Let us go by all means. Do you know her to speak to?"

"Well, not exactly. She's a protégée of Lady Cleeve's, you know."

"Is that so?"

Before the performance was half over, Jack surprised his brother by getting up and leaving his seat.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To see Edith."

"Who?"

"Madame Edith D'Arcy. I'm going to marry her."

"Good Lord!"

"That's what I think, too; she's been dodging me for years." Carstairs was quite confident, his income for the year had totalled considerably nearer £4000, than the £400 stipulated by the autocratic old aristocrat.

He sent up his card and was admitted to her dressing-room. She was dressed in magnificent robes for the part she was taking; he looked at her for some moments, in silence, fascinated; she had attained the full perfection of her beauty, and it was exceeding rare; her eyes looked into his with a wondrous light. Still in silence he stepped up close and took her hand, then, much to his own astonishment, his great shoulders bent forward, and he kissed the back of her fingers; he had never imagined himself doing such a thing, it was quite spontaneous. He raised his head and looked into her eyes. "You are my queen," he said, with a smile, and then he took her in his arms and kissed her on the lips.

"So you've come," she said, "you've been a long time—I—I wanted to do something."

"Ye-es! That is the external—paradox, I imagine," he answered, gazing steadily into the depths of her eyes. They were silent for some minutes. The full tide of his deep, strong nature set to this beautiful woman; the splendid purpose of life tingled in his blood and shone out through his eyes as he gazed into hers. Only men like Carstairs feel such a tide. He felt that this was the summit of his life. "The world was made for you and me," he said.

"There's the call," she answered, suddenly releasing herself. "I must go."

He stepped to the door and stood with his back to it, the big bulk of him nearly filled it. "No! By Jove, you won't! Not this time."

"But I must," she said, "the manager will be frantic."

"Show me the manager, and I'll flatten him out."

"Please let me go."

"Not till you promise to marry me to-morrow."

"To-morrow! I can't."

"Alright, then, I'll burn this place down," he produced a box of matches from his pocket.

"Don't be silly. Let me go, please."

"Never again!" He held a lighted match in his hand. "I'm willing to compromise; will you name the day?"

"This time next year."

"Absurd!" He held the match to some drapery stuff near, and watched it slowly kindle. "I'll give you till this time next month."

"Two months?" she pleaded.

"Alright," he said, crumpling up the cloth in his hands. He produced her mother's ring from his waistcoat pocket, and slipped it on her finger. "That's sealed then. What's the price of the curtain?"

"Five pounds," she said, as she disappeared through the door.

"Dirt cheap," he answered. "I'd buy a hundred at the same price." And the audience, who were competent to judge, said that Madame Edith D'Arcy had never sung as she sang that night.

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