Ambrotox and Limping Dick Part 37

"Well, 'tain't noah business o' mine," said the porter.

"'Ow much to make it yourn, sonny?"

"Ah doan't rightly knaw."

"Won't be less'n a dollar, mate--see?"

The porter saw.

d.i.c.k thrust notes into his hand.

"Get us three firsts to King's Crawss, and 'ave a label ready to smudge on the winder, w'ile me an' my girl gets 'im through to the platform, nice and cushy."

Supported on each side, with flaccid legs just able to move in turn, Melchard was guided to a bench some way down the platform, and seated between two bolstering forms to which the contact was disgusting.

Fortunately they had the up-platform to themselves.

The train was late, and the long minutes held each more of anxiety than the last.

The porter came with the tickets.

"'Eere's 'opeless 'Arry," said d.i.c.k, going to meet him.

"Wi't'yoong spark in thot trim," said the porter, pocketing a tip of weight to gratify without astounding, "Ah'd'a' pushed onto Lunnon wi'

'im in t'car."

"Not if you'd borrered it, Mr. 'Opeless. She belongs to a Mr. Mills o'

Melborough--Na-ow! _Melchard_ o' Millsborough. 'E's one o' them there painful dentisters."

A sound like a smothered sneeze, followed by a syncopated gurgle, coming from behind him, warned d.i.c.k to tone down the comic relief.

"You get the car run into cover, and keep an eye on 'er till that there Pluck-'em-W'ile-yer-Wait comes a sorrowing arter 'er. Tell 'im my address is No. 5, John Street, London, and I'll settle for the bit o'

damage. There's no need to bring 'is young lordship in. There's plenty o' wailin' an' gnashin' comin' to 'im, any'ow."

In a sad-coloured notebook, with a stump of dirty pencil, the porter solemnly noted that cla.s.sic address.

"An' that's more trouble for _you_, so 'ere's a few more bits o' wot we takes it for."

Four minutes late, the train rumbled in.

With less difficulty than it had taken to extract him from the car, d.i.c.k and the porter got Melchard into the corner of a first-cla.s.s compartment of the last carriage on the train--behind the guard's van even, being the London "slip," the porter told them as he slapped his "engaged"

label on the window.

The guard was on the point of waving his flag when the staccato rush of a motor-cycle sounded hideously outside the little station.

"Get in," said d.i.c.k to Amaryllis.

The guard called to the porter:

"Can't keep 'er. Five minutes behind already," and let his green signal flutter.

d.i.c.k followed Amaryllis and closed the door.

And even as the engine made its first slow movement, there came a rush of heavy feet on the wooden flooring of the booking-office, and two men in motor-cycling rig made a determined dash at the train.

The station-master, eager for unpleasing duty, emerged shouting:

"Stand back!"

But the porter would not see nor hear him, and opened the door of the compartment immediately in front of that which his label had reserved.

The runners scrambled in.

d.i.c.k had been careful not to show his face until the door--the next, it seemed--was banged shut. But a rapid glance at that very moment showed him that it was indeed from the next compartment that came the half-crown which the porter caught as it fell.

d.i.c.k settled back into his seat with the consciousness that the part.i.tion against which he leaned was poor protection from a revolver-bullet.

CHAPTER XXIII.

FALLING OUT.

"Is it they?" asked Amaryllis

"Two to one on," he answered.

"Next compartment?"

"Yes."

"Did they see us get in?"

"No."

"Then how can they know?"

"They saw the car outside, and the porter shutting this door. If they hadn't, they'd have bundled in right opposite the entrance, instead of running down the train," reasoned d.i.c.k.

"Will they try to come in here, then?" she asked.

"There's no corridor," said d.i.c.k.

"But outside? There was a murder--I read about it----"

"Take it easy, little wonder," he answered, with a smile which made of his patronage a tribute. "I haven't got this far to crack in the last lap. I'm thinking out a pretty story for the _Sunday Magazine_; so no murders, please. They make me nervous. We're all right for a bit--next station's fifteen miles ahead. They're getting their wind next door, and talking it over."