When they reached Cliff Farm Sergeant Westaway found another problem to engage his attention. A number of Ashlingsea people had been impelled by curiosity to take a hand in the pumping operations, until tiring of that mechanical labour, they had distributed themselves around the farm, strolling about, gazing vacantly at the farm buildings, or peering through the windows of the house. Constable Heather, who had been sent up with the fishermen in order that constituted authority might be represented in the pumping proceedings, frankly admitted to his superior officer that he had been unable to keep the curious spectators away from the scene.
On hearing this, Sergeant Westaway jumped from the vehicle, and strode into the farmyard with a stern authority which had never been weakened by convivial friendship at The Black-Horned Sheep. It says much for the inherent rural respect for law and order that he was able to turn out the intruders in less than five minutes, although the majority of them lingered reluctantly outside the front fence, and watched the proceedings from a distance.
The two fishermen whom Constable Heather had engaged for the task of emptying the well had, with the ingenuity which distinguishes those who make their living on the sea, reduced the undertaking to its simplest elements. A light trench had been dug on that side of the well where the ground had a gentle slope, and, following the lie of the land, had been continued until it connected with one of the main drains of the farm. Therefore, all that remained for the two fishermen to do was to man the pump in turns till the well was empty, the water pouring steadily into the improvised trench and so reaching the main drain, which was carrying the water away to the ditch beside the road. The originator of this plan was an elderly man with a round red face, a moist eye, and an argumentative manner. As the originator of the labour-saving device, he had exercised the right of superior intelligence to relegate to his companion most of the hard labour of carrying it out.
“You see,” he said to Inspector Murchison, who happened to be nearest to him, “Tom here”—he indicated his assistant—“wanted to dig a long trench to yon hedge and carry the water out into the valley, but I says ‘What’s the use of going to all that trouble when it can be done a quicker way?’ I says to Tom, ‘Let’s put a bit of gumption into it and empty it the easiest way. For once the water’s out of the well, it don’t matter a dump where it runs, for it’s no good to nobody.’”
“Very true,” said Inspector Murchison, who believed in being polite to everybody.
“‘Therefore,’ says I to Tom, ‘it stands to reason that the quickest way to empty the well, and the way with least trouble to ourselves, will be to cut from here to that there drain there.’”
“How much longer will you be emptying it?” demanded Detective Gillett, approaching the well and interrupting the flow of the old man’s eloquence.
“That depends, sir, on what water there’s in it.”
This reply was too philosophical to appeal to the practical minded detective. He declared with some sharpness that the sooner it was emptied the better it would be for everybody.
“We are getting towards the bottom now, sir,” said the man at the pump, who interpreted the detective’s words as a promise that beer would make its appearance when the water had gone. “It ain’t a very deep well, not more than fourteen feet at most, and I should say another half hour—maybe more—would see the end of this here job.”