The Incendiary Part 11

"Understand, Kennedy," said s.h.a.garach, "if Arnold is informed of this agreement, directly or indirectly, our contract is broken and I will spare no pains to lodge you where you belong."

His tone made the weakling shudder.

"Why do you desire to conceal it from Harry?" he asked, obstinately.

"Draw what inference you choose."

s.h.a.garach returned to his desk and Emily was uneasily aware that the youth whom she had seen in his office pa.s.sed her twice in the crowd while she was making her way back to the studio. But Arthur Kennedy Foxhall was too perturbed that day to practice with success even the easy arts of the professional lady-killer. His pursuit of Emily only registered on his memory a face which was to haunt him in his drug-fed dreams.

CHAPTER XIV.

GNAWING OF THE RAT'S TOOTH.

"h.e.l.lo, Bobbs," called the solitary cracksman. "Put your hear to the c.h.i.n.k and let's 'ave a palaver."

The "c.h.i.n.k" was that hollow spot in the rear of the cell, where by pressing his ear against the wall Floyd could hear communications from Dobbs, inaudible to the rest of the prisoners.

Robert wondered not a little at the persistent friendliness of the fellow. He felt conscious of lacking the touch of comradeship. He might even be called ascetic, were not the stigma precluded by his pa.s.sion for music and his love of landscape. Long botanical tramps with his uncle had given him an acute feeling for the moods of nature, and in his violin playing a deep sensibility found outlet through the practiced and sensitive fingertips. But in general he had little palate for the bouquet and effervescence of life, and was credited, therefore, with less readiness of sympathy than his cousin, who responded quickly to all fleeting impressions of pleasure.

While Harry, as adjutant of his crack cadets, was seen prancing on parade in all the bravery of gold lace, his sword hilt resting on his saddle, his mustaches twisted to the curl of an ostrich feather, a masterpiece of poise and splendor, Robert would be found in dun civilian's garb, shoulder to shoulder with the mult.i.tude on the sidewalk, studying the significance of the pageant. This strenuousness acted as a bar to popularity. Harry could count twenty friends to Robert's one. People called him by his given name at the second or third meeting. Women, in particular, circled about him like moths about a taper. But Floyd, who shunned no man's eye, sought no woman's. This may have been why the one girl to whom he had given his heart believed his nature to be of sterling gold.

There was much in the prison life to quicken the thoughts of so serious an observer, but all his attempts to record the impressions had ended in failure. He soon realized that no man can at once live and write. Our deeper experiences need to be mellowed by distance, just as we must back away to a certain focus before we can feel the sentiment of a painting. There was nothing left but to bide his time as patiently as possible, occasionally beguiling the long hours by conversation with Dobbs.

This scoundrel had an unctuous manner which was hard to resist. His quaint, infectious chuckle and preeminence in crime made him a favorite among the inmates of the ward--a popularity which he generously used to secure for Robert a certain immunity from insult. The young man could not help feeling grateful for this. Besides, the man's incurable asthma, which he attributed himself to "hexposure to cold night blarsts in the performance of perfessional duties," ent.i.tled him to sympathy. Indeed, he was often removed to the hospital for days at a time. During these intervals Robert remarked the cessation of a curious grating noise which seemed to come from his neighbor's cell.

"Blood's thicker than water, Bobbs. You and Hi are Henglish, you know. These 'ere bloomin' coves get red-'eaded over nothing. Don't catch me mutineerin' and violatin' the rules. Ho, no."

This was true. So far as outward behavior went, Dobbs was an exemplary prisoner.

"By the way, Dobbs, my name is Floyd," said Robert.

"Ho, you don't mind bein' called Bobbs, chummy. That's cute for Robert. Hi found out your name. We hall know wot you're jugged for. It's harson, eh?"

"Yes."

"'Ow did you set it?"

"I am as innocent of the charge as you are." Robert's tone was curt. He felt vexed to be the subject of discussion among this crew.

"That's just wot I told the judge, chummy, w'en ee politely hasked me if Hi 'ad anything to say. But it didn't work, chummy. Hi'm a-winkin' at you, Bobbs."

The invisible wink probably expressed incredulity, but Robert did not care to debate his own case with his neighbor.

"Hi knows it's a delicate matter, and some folks Hi wouldn't trust, neither. But Dobbs is your friend, Bobbs, and ready to prove ee's true blue. Do you know I like the sound o' them two names. Dobbs and Bobbs. Suppose we go into business together.

"DOBBS AND BOBBS "ROBS FOBS.

"'Ow's that for a partnership sign?"

Dobbs exploded in a paroxysm of laughter and coughing over his own cleverness as a rhymester. The fit was continued so long that his neighbors began to protest in their ungentle fashion.

"Say, Dobbs, get into your coffin, quick," cried one. The same whose voice sounded familiar to Robert though he was unable to place it. It was a thick, uncouth utterance, as though the speaker's natural brogue were a.s.sisted by the presence of a ball of yarn.

"'Old your bloomin' breath for Longlegs," answered Dobbs.

The pa.s.sage of the hated turnkey caused a diversion in his favor. Longlegs was a tall man of remarkably bony strength. The convicts were only collectively brave against him. When not gathered in packs they avoided his stern visage as a lone wolf slinks away from the hunter. His right name was Hawkins, but almost n.o.body within these precincts escaped a sobriquet. Warden Tapp was "the Pelican," Turnkey Gradger was "Gimp" and a particularly vile denizen went under the name of "Parson." Dobbs explained his own escape quaintly.

"You see, chummy, Dobbs his a nickname halready. You can't forshorten it no more."

The visitor who accompanied Hawkins shared the unpopularity of his escort.

"Whoop, da, da, da!"

"He's a yellow aster."

"Lend me your monocle, Cholly, and don't be wude."

But the tall, blond-bearded man with the monocle sauntered leisurely along, looking into every cell until he reached the end of the corridor. Then he turned back and stopped before Dobbs, while Hawkins clanked his keys beside him.

"If G.o.d writes a legible hand, that man's a villain," he quoted from the old-time actor; "what name do you go by?"

"Bill Dobbs."

"Hand me out that pen and ink and I'll draw your picture."

"W'ere?"

"On your thumb nail. The right one. That's it."

It seemed scarcely half a minute before Hawkins was heard exclaiming: "That's a stunning likeness."

"Take away this 'ere lookin'-gla.s.s o' mine, Longlegs, and bestow it on the poor. Wot use 'ave Hi for it w'en Hi carry my hown himage on the hend of my bloomin' thumb?"

"You've a face of great power and cunning," said the artist, "but there's one thing you lack."

"Wot's that?"

"Reverence. Some day I'll use you for a mask of Iago that I've had in mind."

"Thanks. Wot's your name, stranger?"

"Tristram March." It was our artist friend, rummaging for types in this out-of-the-way corner.

"You've a sort of a soft lip about you and a delicate horgan of hodor. But there's one thing you lack?"

"What?"

"Starch. Hi'm a-thinkin' Hi'll copy my make-up after you next time Hi play 'Amlet to the queen's Ophelia."

Tristram's good-natured laugh was the last thing Robert heard as he sauntered away.

A sculptor, friends called him if pressed for a definition. Yet in truth he had never yet executed a figure of life size, being a modern instance of talent without ambition, dispersing and dividing its strength. He modeled, painted, rhymed, composed--a many-faceted reflector of impressions; but everything he did was done by halves and the most finished of his products were only brilliant sketches. His sister Rosalie's single gift, besides her beauty (which, to be sure, entered into it as a primary element), came to her less by nature than by ardent aspiration. But critics had compared her Rosalind to a perfect rose, blown into a bulb of gla.s.s; and she was still a patient learner, standing tiptoe on the vestibule of her art, with an untold future before her.

"'Ow did Hi begin?" said the cracksman, when the confusion had subsided.

Robert was again at the c.h.i.n.k, like some penitent whispering through a grating to his father confessor. "Hi never began. Hi was born wicked. Wicked Willie they called me w'en Hi wasn't old enough to toddle halone. And 'ere's 'ow Hi earned it, Bobbs."

"How?"

"You see, my mother, who was a hinnocent woman and a Christian, took me out on 'er harms to see the lord mayor's procession, the lord mayor o' Lunnon wot 'as all the wittles to eat, you know. And w'ile they was all preoccupied admirin' 'is lordship's gold b.u.t.tons, wot was Wicked Willie a-doin' of but leanin' forward in 'is mamma's harms and pluckin' a hear-ring w'ich ee liked, hout of a grand lady's hear. 'Ow!' says the lady, w'en it 'urt; and Wicked Willie 'ad 'is 'ands slapped, w'ich Hi say ee richly deserved, seein' as 'ow ee bungled the bloomin' job."

"From the cradle up you were a thief," said Robert, sadly.

"Ho, them bantam games don't count."

"When did you first begin professionally?"

"Do you count a gunniff a perfessional in this 'ere country?"

"A gunniff? What's that?"

"Don't you know wot a gunniff is, Bobbs? W'y. Hi'm amazed. Hi'll 'ave to present chummy with a Century dictionary in sixteen volumes w'ich we'll be hable to do w'en we get out of 'ere, w'ich won't be long. Hi'm a-winkin.'"

All the time that he spoke Robert heard a low sc.r.a.ping noise, softer than the rasping he had noticed in the evenings. Apparently it was close to his ear.

"A gunniff is a juvenile inst.i.tution peculiar to our bloomin' hold Hengland."

"Leave out some of your bloomings, won't you, especially about England."

"W'y not, chummy? Ain't it in the dic? Is it a wulgar word?"

Robert did not reply, but he thought how many words as sacred and beautiful as this have been profaned to foul uses or cheapened to the vapidity of a Frenchman's "Mon Dieu."

"Hi beg your bloomin' pardon, Bobbs. If it's wulgar, Hi drop it, and with your leave Hi'll resume my hinterrupted hautobiography."

"You call yourself a gunniff?"

"Gunniff in general, but more particularly Hi was a s.n.a.t.c.her, w'ich takes precedence of the mob by reason of the difficulty of 'is duties, of the taker as well as of the blokie and the moke."

"What's the English for blokie and moke?"

"The Henglish? W'y, Hi'm amazed. Don't tell me you bilked 'em all so 'andily on settin' that 'ouse afire. Hi won't believe it of a chummy as hasks me wot a blokie and a moke is."

"I never heard the words before."

"W'y, the mokes do the sc.r.a.ppin' wen the gent 'as been relieved of 'is pocketbook, w'ich is too heavy for 'im to carry, by the willin' and accommodatin' little s.n.a.t.c.her, w'ich was me."

"You began as a pickpocket?"

"Pickpocket? Wot does that mean? Hi never 'eard that word. We were hexpress boys. Is pickpocket the bloomin' Americanese for that? Hi'm a-winkin' at you, Bobbs."

This conclusion was invariably the prelude to a burst of laughter, which was so droll and self-satisfied that it put Robert in good humor in spite of everything.

"Four of us, Bobbs, and that makes a mob. First we picked out our gent, always a hold gent or a bloomin' swell, a-standin' in the crowd. Four of us playin', rompin', friskin', about 'im, as hinnocent little fellows will, bless 'em all, w'en, hall of a sudden, one b.u.mps up against the bloomin' gent's pocket not with 'is 'ands, you know? The bloomin' gent might fancy ee was a hobject of hinterest to us if ee used 'is 'ands, w'ich ee hisn't, ho, no! That's the blokie wot does the b.u.mpin'. Ee wears a thin shirt and a huncommonly hintelligent spine w'ich can feel a 'ard lump in a gent's pocket surprisin'."

"The blokie ascertains where his purse is located?"

"And the s.n.a.t.c.her, w'ich was Wicked Willie, relieves 'im of it gently."

"How?"

"'Ow? By makin' a hopportunity. There's nothin' in this world like makin' a hopportunity for yourself, Bobbs. And if two little fellers get a-sc.r.a.ppin' and jostle a hold gent hover, and a crowd comes and the hold gent gets hinterested in separatin' the little fellers, and givin' them a moral lecture, 'ow's ee a-goin' to know w'ere 'is valuables went, unless ee reaches to present 'em with a 'alf-crown apiece, w'ich he don't."

"Is that common in London?"

"Run into the ground, Bobbs, completely wulgarized. No self-respectin' gent would bring up 'is bantams in that line nowadays. But hafterward, w'en Hi was alightin' my 'Avana cigars with the old lady's ten-pun notes, Hi always looked back on my rompin's with the mob as the beginnin's, 'umble but 'onorable, of a great and useful career."

During the talk it had seemed to Robert that the cracksman's voice was coming nearer.

"What's making that noise, Dobbs?"

"Wot noise, chummy?"

"That little sc.r.a.ping."

"You can 'ear it?"

"It's close to the c.h.i.n.k."

"That's a rat's tooth gnawin'. Hi'm a-winkin' at you, Bobbs."

"Are you cutting into the wall?"

"Look 'ere, chummy. Dobbs 'as given hall the confidence so far, and Bobbs 'as given none. 'Ow is Dobbs to know Bobbs is true blue?"

This was a puzzler. Robert did not feel prepared to abet prison-breach yet, if that was the cracksman's aim, though his own feeling toward the authorities was anything but submissive.

"Hi'm 'urt, Bobbs. Hi've a sensitive nature and a large b.u.mp of curiosity, both of w'ich is offended by my chummy's lack of confidence in me. But Hi'll prove Hi'm true blue, wotever Bobbs says. Chummies is chummies and bobbies is bobbies, there's the distinction Hi draw. Do you 'ear the tooth?"

The gnawing sound became louder at Robert's ear.