Mr. Arnold, therefore, was provided with some sacks of Sphagnum moss in which to stow his finds. These sacks he registered among his personal baggage. At Waterloo, however, the station-master demurred. Moss, said he, must travel by goods train. Arnold had not allowed himself time to spare. The Royal mail steamer would leave within an hour of his arrival at Southampton; to go without his moss was useless; and a pig-headed official refused to pass it! Mr. Arnold does not profess to be meek. He remonstrated with so much energy that the station-master fled the scene. There was just time enough to load up the article in dispute and jump into a carriage, helped by a friendly stranger.
The stranger had showed his friendliness before that. Standing at the open door, he supported Arnold’s cause with singular warmth and vociferation. The latter was grateful, of course, and when he learned that his ally was a fellow-passenger to Caracas he expressed the hope that they might share a cabin. There was no difficulty about that. In short, they chummed.
This young man announced himself as Mr. Thompson, a traveller in the hardware line, but he showed an intelligent curiosity about things in general—about orchids, for instance, when he learned that such was Arnold’s business. Would it be possible for an ignoramus to make a few pounds that way?—how should he set about it?—which is the class of article most in demand just now, and where is it found? Before the voyage ended, that traveller in the hardware line knew as much about Masdevallia Tovarensis as Arnold could tell him. He bade goodbye aboard ship, for pressing business obliged him to start up country forthwith.
Late in the afternoon Arnold, who was to stay some days at Caracas, met his agent on the Plaza. ‘By the bye,’ said that gentleman, ‘are you aware that Mr. Blank started this morning in the direction of Tovar?’
Now Mr. Blank was a man of substance who began orchid-growing as an amateur, but of late had turned professional.
‘Bless me!’ cried Arnold, ‘is he here?’
The agent stared. ‘Why, as I understood, he travelled in the same ship with you.’
Arnold seized him by the wrist, while in his mind’s eye he reviewed all the passengers; they were not many. The only one who could possibly be Mr. Blank was—Mr. Thompson!
‘Get me a horse, sir!’ he sputtered. ‘Which way has the villain gone? And a guide—with another horse! I’ll pay anything! I’ll go with you to hire them! Come along!’ Ten minutes afterwards he was on the track, full gallop, stopping only at the hotel to get his pistol.
At a roadside posada, fifteen miles beyond, Mr. Blank was supping in peace. The door opened. Arnold stalked in. He was in that mood of intensest passion when a man’s actions are stiff though he trembles—all his muscles rigid with the effort of self-restraint.