A Fortnight of Folly

by Maurice Thompson; Hugh Conway

He thanked me, and then gave me a small photograph of the picture. This photograph he begged me to keep in my pocket-book, so that I might refer to it in case I met the man he wanted. I put it there, went my way, and, am sorry to say, forget all about it. Had it not been for the strange cigar in my case bringing back Carriston’s unusual request to my mind, the probabilities are that I should not have thought again of the matter. Now, by a remarkable coincidence, I was spending the night with the very man, who, so far as my memory served me, must have sat for the portrait shown me at Brand’s house.

“I wonder what I did with the photo,” I said. I turned out my letter-case. There it was, right enough! Shading it with one hand, I carefully compared it with the sleeper.

Not a doubt about it! So far as a photograph taken from a picture can go, it was the man himself. The same ragged beard, the same coarse features, the same surly look. Young Carriston was evidently a wonderful hand at knocking off a likeness. Moreover, in case I had felt any doubt in the matter, a printed note at the bottom of the photograph said that one joint was missing from a right-hand finger. Sure enough, my friend lacked that small portion of his misbegotten frame.

This discovery threw me in an ecstasy of delight. I laughed so loudly that I almost awoke the ruffian. I guessed I was going to take a glorious revenge for all the discomforts I had suffered. No one, I felt sure, could be looking for such a fellow as this to do any good to him. I was quite happy in the thought, and for the remainder of the night gloated over the idea of putting a spoke in the wheel of one who had been within an ace of causing my death. I resolved, the moment I got back to civilization, to send the desired intelligence to Brand, and hope for the best.

III.

The end of that wretched night came at last. When the welcome morning broke I found that a great change had taken place out-of-doors. The fierce snow-storm had been the farewell of the frost. The heavy rain that followed had filled the roads with slushy and rapidly-thawing snow. I managed to extort some of a breakfast from my host, then, having recompensed him according to my promise, not his deserts, started, as soon as I could, on the bare back of my unfortunate steed, for Midcombe, which place, after my night’s experience, seemed gifted with merits not its own.

I was surprised upon leaving the house to find it was of larger dimensions than, from the little I saw of it during the night, I had imagined. It was altogether a better class of residence than I had supposed. My surly friend accompanied me until he had placed me on the main road, where I could make no possible mistake. He was kind enough to promise to assist any one I might send out in getting the dog-cart once more under way. Then, with a hearty wish on my part that I might never again meet with his like, we parted.

I found my way to Midcombe without much trouble. I took off my things, had a wash, and, like a sensible man for once, went to bed. But I did not forget to send a boy straight off to the nearest telegraph station. My message to Brand was a brief one. It simply said: “Tell your friend I have found his man.” This duty done, I dismissed all speculation as to the result from my mind, and settled down to make up arrears of sleep.

I was surprised at the reply received that same evening from Brand: “We shall be with you as soon as we can get down to-morrow. Meet us at station.” From this it was clear that my friend was wanted particularly—all the better! I turned to the time-table and found that, owing to changes and delays, they could not get to C——, the nearest station to Midcombe, until three o’clock in the afternoon. I inquired about the crippled dog-cart. It had been brought in; so I left strict instructions that a shaft of some sort was to be rigged in time for me to drive over the next day and meet the doctor and his friend.

They came as promised. It was a comfort to see friends of any description, so I gave them a hearty welcome. Carriston took hold of both my hands, and shook them so warmly that I began to feel I had discovered a long-lost father of his in my friend. I had almost forgotten the young fellow’s appearance, or he looked a very different man to-day from the one I had seen when last we met. Then he was a wan, pensive, romantic, poetical-looking sort of fellow; now he seemed full of energy, vitality, and grit. Poor old Brand looked as serious as an undertaker engaged in burying his own mother.