True Tilda Part 25

"You stop that talk, please," threatened Tilda. "It's wicked; an'

besides, they 'aven't caught us yet. Do what I tell yer, an' stand by to bolt."

She crept to the other door, which commanded the ca.n.a.l front, unbarred it softly, and opened the upper hatch a few inches. Through this aperture, by standing on tip-toe, she could watch the meeting of the two men.

"When I call, run for yer life."

But a minute--two minutes--pa.s.sed, and the command did not come.

Arthur Miles, posted by the bolt-hole, held his breath at the sound of voices without, by the waterside. The tones of one he recognised with a shiver. They were raised, and although he could not catch the words, apparently in altercation. Forgetting orders, he tip-toed across to Tilda's elbow.

Mr. James Gavel, proprietor of Imperial Steam Roundabouts--as well as of half a dozen side-shows, including a Fat Lady and a Try-your-Strength machine--was a small man with a purplish nose and a temper kept irritable by alcohol; and to-day the Fates had conspired to rub that temper on the raw. He swore aloud, and partly believed, that ever since coming to Henley-in-Arden he was bewitched.

He had come at the instance, and upon the guarantee, of Sir Elphinstone Breward, Baronet, C.B., K.C.V.O., a local landowner, who, happening to visit Warwick on County Council business, which in its turn happened to coincide with a fair day, had been greatly struck by the t.i.tle "Imperial" painted over Mr. Gavel's show, and with soldierly promptness had engaged the whole outfit--Roundabouts, Fat Lady and all--for his forthcoming Primrose Fete.

If beside his addiction to alcohol Mr. Gavel had a weakness, it was the equally British one of worshipping a t.i.tle. Flattered by the honest baronet's invitation, he had met it almost more than half-way; and had dispatched six of his shabbiest horses to Birmingham to be repainted for the fete, and labelled "Kitchener," "Bobs," "Cecil Rhodes," "Doctor Jim," "Our Joe," and "Strathcona"--names (as he observed) altogether more up to date than the "Black Prince," "Brown Bess," "Saladin," and others they superseded.

Respect for his patron had further prompted Mr. Gavel, on the morning of the fete, to don a furred overcoat, and to swear off drink for the day.

This abstinence, laudable in itself, disastrously affected his temper, and brought him before noon into wordy conflict with his engineer.

The quarrel, suppressed for the time, flamed out afresh in the afternoon, and, unfortunately, at a moment when Sir Elphinstone, as chairman, was introducing the star orator from London. Opprobrious words had reached the ears of the company gathered on the platform, and Sir Elphinstone had interrupted his remarks about Bucking Up and Thinking Imperially to send a policeman through the crowd with instructions to stop that d.a.m.ned brawling.

If the great Napoleon may be forgiven for losing his temper when at five in the afternoon from the slope of La Belle Alliance he watched the Prussians breaking through the opposite woods, while Grouchy yet tarried, let it be pleaded in excuse for Mr. Gavel that ever since eleven a.m. he had been awaiting the arrival of his six newly-painted horses. The Birmingham decorator had pledged himself to deliver them early at Preston Bagot, and Mr. Gavel knew him for a man of his word.

He had made arrangements for their prompt conveyance to the field.

He did not doubt, but he was undeniably anxious.

Imagine, then, his feelings when at four o'clock or a little later a wagon--the wagon of his hiring--rolled into the enclosure bringing one horse only, and in place of the others a pile of tent-cloths and theatrical boxes, on which sat and smiled Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, his professional rivals.

He had been drinking ginger-ale all day, and in copious draughts.

It must be confessed that he lost his temper woefully, and so vociferously that Sir Elphinstone this time descended from the platform, and strode across the meadow to demand what the devil he meant by it.

Nor was even this the last drop in the cup of Mr. Gavel's bitterness; for the baronet, struck by Mr. Mortimer's appearance and genteel address, at once invited him to set up his tent and save the situation so desperately compromised.

Sam Bossom, perceiving that the wagon stood on ground well adapted for pitching a tent, cheerfully proceeded to unload. Mr. Gavel watched in speechless rage. Old Holly, the carrier, suggested that there was no need to give up hope of the horses. They might turn up yet before dark.

Boats came down the ca.n.a.l at all hours of the day.

"Then why couldn't you have waited and given 'em a chance?" foamed the proprietor; and commanding Holly to turn the empty wagon and follow, he strode off in the direction of the Wharf. The afternoon was hot.

His furred coat oppressed him; his shoes--of patent leather, bought ready-made--pinched his feet. On the road he came to a public-house, entered, and gulped down two "goes" of whisky. Still the wagon lagged behind. Re-emerging, he took the road again, his whole man hot within his furred coat as a teapot within a cosy.

In this temper, then, Mr. Gavel came to the wharf at Preston Bagot locks, and finding the _Success to Commerce_ moored there with a tall man apparently in charge, demanded if he came from Birmingham.

"Or thereabouts," answered the tall man, eyeing him. "From there or thereabouts. And, if I mistake not, you are the--er--person of whom I came in search."

The man's voice took Mr. Gavel somewhat aback. It did not resemble an ordinary bargee's. But at the moment he could no more check the explosion of his wrath than you can hold back a cork in the act of popping from a bottle of soda-water.

"Curse your laziness!" exploded Mr. Gavel; "and this is your notion of searching for me, is it?"

"It appears to be a pretty successful one," said Dr. Gla.s.son.

"I've discovered you, anyhow; and now I suggest to you that swearing won't help the reckoning between us."

"Oh, stow your fine talk! I've heard of sea-lawyers, and I suppose you're a ca.n.a.l specimen. Carriage was paid at the other end, and you know it. I catch you here loafing, and I'm going to dispute the bill-- which means that you'll get the sack, my friend, whether I recover the money or no. Pounds out of pocket I am by this, not to speak of reputation. Where are they? Where have you put 'em?"

"That's what I'll trouble _you_ to answer, sir."

"My hosses! . . . You don't mean to tell me--" Mr. Gavel smote his brow.

"But you said just now you were looking for me!" he cried.

"You act well, sir," said Dr. Gla.s.son sternly. "It is your profession.

But, as it happens, I have made inquiries along the ca.n.a.l, and am proof against your bl.u.s.ter. A boat, the _Success to Commerce_--a bargeman in a furred overcoat--the combination is unusual, and not (I put it to you) likely to be repeated on this short stretch of waterway. Confess, Mr.-- confess, sir, your game is up. Kidnapping is an ugly offence in this country, and, in short, I advise you without more ado to hand over the two children."

Mr. Gavel leaned back against a crane for support.

"Children? What children?" he repeated, staring.

Clearly here was some hideous blunder, and he perceived at length that the person addressing him in no way resembled a bargee.

"But--but my hosses?" he gasped.

Just then the sound of wheels fell on his ears, and both men faced about. Mr. Gavel made sure that this must be old Holly with his wagon.

But no; there came around the corner a cart with a single horse, driven by a lad; and the lad, pulling up before the store, went in, and in less than a minute reappeared staggering under a heavy burden.

"But, Hallo!" cried Mr. Gavel, pulling himself together, and striding towards the cart. "It _is_--" he began incredulously; but after a second look raised his voice in triumphant recognition and demand.

"My hosses! What are you doing with my hosses?"

"Yours, be they?" the lad answered. "Well, I'm takin' 'em to Henley, as you sent word."

"_I_ sent word?" echoed Mr. Gavel.

"_Somebody_ sent word," the lad persisted. "An' in the devil of a 'urry, 'cordin' to the child what brought it. But, as I said to mother, where's the sense in sendin' messages by children?"

"Children?"

"There was two on 'em--a boy an' a girl--"

"Ah!" interrupted Dr. Gla.s.son. "Describe them, please."

The lad scratched his head.

"Mother took the message. I was indoors, havin' tea, an' didn' see more 'n a glimpse. But here comes father," he added briskly, as again wheels were heard on the road, and old Holly drove into the yard with his belated wagon.

"You must admit, sir," said Dr. Gla.s.son, addressing Mr. Gavel, "that circ.u.mstances are beginning to look too strong for you."

"Oh, to--with circ.u.mstances!" retorted Mr. Gavel. "Mortimer's in this, for a fiver. I don't see how--I don't make head or tail of it; but the tail you've got hold of belongs to the wrong dog. Kidnapping, is it?

A couple of children you want? Suspect me, do you? Well, suspect away.

_I_ don't mind. I've got my hosses; and when we're loaded up you can climb on board the wagon, if you like, and we'll pay a call on Mortimer.

I bet he's your man; and the harder you pinch Mortimer to make him squeal, the better you'll please me."

"Arthur Miles," demanded Tilda in a harsh whisper, "what're yer doin'

'ere?"

"Listening," answered the boy simply.