Kitabı oku: «The Tale of Timber Town», sayfa 18

CHAPTER XXXIII

The Gold League Washes Up

The amalgamated “claims,” worked upon an economical and extensive scale, had promised from the outset to render enormous returns to the members of the Gold League.

Throughout the canvas town which had sprung up on the diggings, the news that the “toffs” were to divide their profits had created the widest interest, and in every calico shanty and in every six-by-eight tent the organising genius of the “field,” Mr. Jack Scarlett, was the subject of conversation.

Such topsy-turvy habitations as the stores and dwellings of Canvas Town never were seen. The main street, if the thoroughfare where all the business of the mushroom township was transacted could be dignified with such a name, was a snare to the pedestrian and an impossibility to vehicles, which, however, were as yet unknown on the “field.”

The “Cafe de Paris” possessed no windows in its canvas walls, and its solitary chimney was an erection of corrugated iron, surmounted by a tin chimney-pot. “The Golden Reef,” where spirituous liquors were to be had at exorbitant prices, was of a more palatial character, as it had a front of painted wood, in which there hung a real door furnished with a lock, though the sides of the building were formed of rough logs, taken in their natural state from the “bush.” The calico structure which bore in large stencilled letters the name of The Kangaroo Bank, was evidently closed during the absence of the Manager, for, pinned to the cotton of the front wall, was a piece of paper, on which was written in pencil the following notice: – “During the temporary absence of the Manager, customers of the Bank are requested to leave their gold with Mr. Figgiss, of the Imperial Dining Rooms, whose receipts will be duly acknowledged by the Bank. Isaac Zahn, Manager.” Upon reading the notice, would-be customers of the wealthy institution had only to turn round in order to see Mr. Figgiss himself standing in the door of his place of business. He was a tall, red-bearded, pugnacious-looking man, with an expansive, hairy chest, which was visible beneath the unbuttoned front of his Crimean shirt. The Imperial Dining Rooms, if not spacious, were yet remarkable, for upon their calico sides it was announced in letters of rainbow tints that curries and stews were always ready, that grilled steaks and chops were to be had on Tuesdays and Fridays, and roast pork and “duff” on Sundays.

But further along the street, where tree-stumps still remained and the pedestrian traversed water-worn ruts which reached to his knee, the true glory of Canvas Town stood upon a small elevation, overlooking the river. This was the office of the Timber Town Gold League. It was felt by every digger on the “field” that here was a structure which should serve as a model. Its sides were made of heavy slabs of wood, which bore marks of the adze and axe; its floor, raised some four feet from the ground, was of sawn planks – unheard-of luxury – and in the cellars below were stored the goods of the affluent company. Approaching the door by a short flight of steps, admittance was gained to a set of small offices, beyond which lay a spacious room, which, at the time when the reader is ushered into it, is filled with bearded men dressed in corduroy, or blue dungaree, copper-fastened, trousers and flannel shirts; men with mud on their boots and on their clothes, and an air of ruffianism pervading them generally. And yet this is the Timber Town Gold League, the aristocratic members of which are assembled for the purpose of dividing the proceeds of their first “wash-up.”

On an upturned whisky-case, before a big table composed of boards roughly nailed together and resting on trestles, sits the Manager of the League, Mr. Jack Scarlett, and before him lie the proceeds of the “wash-up.”

The room is full of tobacco-smoke, and the hubbub of many voices drowns the thin voice of the League’s Secretary, who sits beside the Manager and calls for silence.

But Jack is on his feet and, above the many voices, roars, “Order!”

“Quiet.”

“Sit down.”

“Stop that row.”

“Order for the boss of the League.”

Before long all is still, and the lucky owners of the gold which lies in bags upon the table, listen eagerly for the announcement of the returns.

“Gentlemen,” – Scarlett’s face wears a pleasant smile, which betokens a pleasant duty – “as some of you are aware, the result of our first wash-up is a record for the colony. It totals 18,000 oz., and this, at the current price of Bush Robin gold – which I ascertained in Timber Town during my last visit – gives us a return of £69,750.”

Here Jack is interrupted by tremendous cheering.

“Of this sum,” he continues, when he can get a hearing, “your Committee suggests the setting aside, for the payment of liabilities and current expenses, the sum of £9750, which leaves £60,000 to be divided amongst the members of the League.”

Upon this announcement being made, an uproar ensues, an uproar of unrestrained jubilation which shakes the shingle roof, and the noise of which reaches far down the street of Canvas Town and across the flats, where clay-stained diggers pause amid their dirt-heaps to remark in lurid language that the toffs are having “an almighty spree over their blanky wash-up.”

“I rise to make a propothition,” says a long, thin, young Gold Leaguer, with a yellow beard and a slight lisp. “I rise to suggest that we send down to Reiley’s for all hith bottled beer, and drink the health of our noble selves.”

The motion is seconded by every man in the room rising to his feet and cheering.

Six stalwart Leaguers immediately go to wait upon the proprietor of The Golden Reef, and whilst they are transacting their business their mates sing songs, the choruses of which float through the open windows over the adjacent country. The dirt-stained owners of the Hatters’ Folly claim hear the members of the League asking to be “wrapped up in an old stable jacket,” and those working in the Four Brothers’ claim learn the truth about “the place where the old horse died.”

At length the forage-party arrives with the liquor, and there follows the unholy sound of the drawing of corks.

By this time all Canvas Town has learnt what business is going forward in “the Toffs’ Shanty,” and from both sides of the river the diggers begin to assemble in anticipation of a “spree.” Across the scarred, disfigured valley, over the mullock-heaps, from every calico tent, from out of every shaft, from the edge of the dark forest itself, bearded men, toil-stained but smiling, bent on festivity, collect in Canvas Town’s one ramshackle street.

Between the calico shanties and along the miry, uneven ways, men stand in groups, their conversation all of the luck of “the toffs.” But around the Office of the Gold League the crowd is greatest, and the cheers of the members are echoed by the diggers outside.

Bill the Prospector and Moonlight are on guard at the door, for though they have no interest in the League’s claims, as owners of the two richest patches on the field they stand hand-in-glove with the leaders of that strong combination. Inside, Scarlett has risen to his feet, amid prolonged cheering.

“We have not decided yet, gentlemen,” he says, “whether we shall take our dividends in gold or in cheques; and this causes me to allude to a most disagreeable matter. It is well known that the agent of the Kangaroo Bank has been robbed of a considerable amount of gold and perhaps murdered, on his way between this field and Timber Town.”

Suddenly the room is filled with groans, deep and sepulchral, which are immediately repeated by the growing crowd outside.

“Evidently,” continues Jack, “it is not safe for a man to travel with gold on his person; I therefore wish to propose that payments be made by cheque, and that all members not absolutely needed on the claims form themselves into an escort to convey the gold to Timber Town. And when we adjourn, I suggest that a meeting of all diggers on the field be called for the purpose of forming a vigilance committee, for the detection and suppression of crime on the diggings.”

He sits down amid renewed cheering. This has barely subsided and the long, thin young man, who appears to be a person of importance in the League, has risen to speak, when a considerable disturbance occurs outside.

During Scarlett’s speech four mounted constables have wended their way through the groups of diggers standing in the street. They dismount in front of the League’s Office, and ascend the steps, at the top of which they come into violent altercation with Moonlight and the Prospector. These are immediately ordered in the Queen’s name to stand aside, and the four blue-coated men walk into the meeting.

The tall, thin, young man, catching sight of the intruders, pauses in his speech, and says, “What the deyvil!” but the constables walk straight to the improvised table, and their leader, laying his hand on Scarlett’s shoulder, say, “John Richard Scarlett, you are charged with the murder of Isaac Zahn. I arrest you in the Queen’s name.”

For half a minute there rests on the assembly a silence that can be felt. Then there bursts a roar of indignation from fifty throats. In a moment the constables have closed round their prisoner, and with drawn revolvers they stand ready to resist interference.

Not many of “the toffs” are armed, but such as are quickly draw their weapons, and it only needs a single shot to start a fight which must end disastrously for the Law, when Scarlett’s voice rings out, “Stand back, you fellows! For God’s sake, don’t fire! This thing is a mistake which will be more quickly cleared up before a Magistrate than by bloodshed.”

Expostulating, but obedient to his wish, his friends one by one lower their weapons.

“I know nothing of a mistake,” says the Sergeant, as he takes a piece of paper from his pocket. “But here’s the warrant, which any gentleman present is at liberty to see. We are but carrying out our duty.”

The handcuffs are now on Scarlett’s wrists, and his captors lead him slowly through the crowded room.

“Let me speak.” Filled with emotion which he can hardly suppress, Jack’s voice almost seems to choke him. “Let me speak before you take me away.”

“Not a word,” retorts the Sergeant. “You shall say all you want to the Magistrate.”

“Men,” cries Scarlett, as he is hustled through the door, “I am innocent, I swear.” But he has no time to say more. He is hurried down the steps; he is quickly placed on a spare horse; the constables spring into their saddles, and ere the great concourse of diggers can grasp what is happening, Jack is conducted at a trot through the town of canvas, along the track which leads to Timber Town, and is soon out of sight.

CHAPTER XXXIV

The Goldsmith Comes to Town the Third Time

The flash digger put his elbows on the table, and leered at Gentle Annie who sat, radiant, at the other side of the board.

“You must have made quite a pile.”

“My dear, it’s never wise to tell a woman all you know or all you’ve got. But I don’t mind telling you this much: I had luck, or I wouldn’t be able to satisfy your little whims.”

He put his hand into his breast pocket, and drew out a plush-covered case.

“You asked for the biggest diamond in Timber Town, and here it is.”

He opened the case, and took out a gold ring, in which was set a stone, fully a carat-and-a-half in weight. Gentle Annie’s eyes glittered almost as brightly as the facets of the diamond.

“Dear little jewels for our dear girls.” The flash digger held up the brilliant between his finger and thumb. “That bit of carbon cost me £30.”

He passed the ring to the girl, who eagerly tried it, first on one finger, then on another.

“Lovely!” she exclaimed: then, as the sudden suspicion struck her, she asked, “You’re sure it’s real?”

“Well, I’ll be – .” But he restrained himself. “My dear, if it’s shnein, the bargain’s off.”

Gentle Annie had risen, and was scratching with the stone the glass of a picture-frame which held a gaudy chromo-lithograph.

As she did so, the digger rose, and encircled her waist with his arm.

“Well, are you satisfied?”

“Quite,” she replied, with a laugh. “It bites like a glazier’s diamond.”

“Then give me a kiss.”

The girl made a pretence of trying to get away, but quickly gave in, and turned her lips to the digger’s hawk-like face, and kissed his cheek.

“That’s right,” he said; “that’s as it should be. Mind you: I’m boss here while I stay; I’m the proprietor of the bloomin’ show. All other blokes must stop outside.”

His arm still encircled her waist, and she, regarding him through half-closed, indulgent eyes, leaned her weight against him, when a low cough startled both of them.

The door slowly opened, and upon the threshold stood a dark figure which, advancing towards the light, turned into a man, big, broad, and stern.

“No, no,” said the flash digger, calm, cool, and collected, while the girl tried to assume a posture of aloofness. “You must get out, mister. I’m boss of this show. No one’s allowed here without an invite from me. So, out you go.”

But, to his astonishment, the intruder, without saying a word, quietly took a seat, and began to cut himself a pipeful of tobacco from a black plug which he drew nonchalantly from his pocket.

“Make no mistake,” said the flash digger, striking a dramatic attitude. “I’m not the man to give an order a second time. Out you get, or I’ll drill a hole clean through you.”

“One minute.” The stranger shut the blade of his knife, which he placed deliberately in his pocket. “One minute. Do me the kindness to lower that pistol, and stand where I can see your face more plainly. I’ve no intention of resisting – unfortunately I left my shooting-iron behind.”

As the digger did not move, the stranger jerked his head now forward, now back, now to this side, now to that, peering at the man who held his life in his hand.

“Yes, it’s as I thought,” he said. “I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you before, on two or three occasions. There’s no need for you an’ me to quarrel. If we’re not exactly pals, we’re something even closer.”

“You’re wasting valuable time, and risking your life for no reason whatever,” said the digger. “You’d better be quick.”

“Oh, I’m going,” said the intruder. “Set your mind at rest about that. I was only trying to think where I had met you – it was in a cave. You and your mates knew enough to come in out of the rain. You had made a nice little haul, a very nice little haul.”

A look of the utmost perplexity came over the face of the flash digger, and this was followed by a look of consternation. His arm had fallen to his side, and he was saying slowly, “Who the deuce are you? How the deuce d’you know where I’ve been?” when the man who sat before him suddenly pulled his hand from under the table and covered his aggressor with a revolver.

“One move,” said Tresco – the reader will have recognised that the goldsmith had come to town – “one move, Mr. Carnac, and you’re as dead as the murdered men on the hill.”

The tension on Gentle Annie’s nerves, which during this scene had been strung to the highest pitch, had now become too great to be borne silently.

“Don’t, don’t!” she cried. “For God’s sake, for my sake, stop! stop!”

“Don’t be frightened, my dear,” said the goldsmith, without taking his eye off his rival and antagonist. “If there’s to be trouble between this man and me, you can’t make or mar it. Now, mister, kindly drop your revolver on the floor.”

The man did as he was bid, and the heavy falling of iron sounded loud through the otherwise silent room.

“Right turn. Quick march.” Tresco rose slowly, still covering his man. “Open the door for him, my dear!”

“It’s a trap! I’m trapped by the woman,” cried Carnac, glaring awfully at Gentle Annie. “You slut, give me back my ring.”

“Walk straight out, mister,” said the goldsmith, quietly, “and don’t call the lady names, or you’ll repent it. She happens to be my particular friend. And let me tell you before you go, that the one thing that will save you from the hangman’s noose is that you don’t set foot inside this door again. D’you hear?”

“Yes,” said the robber.

“You understand my meaning?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then let him out, Annie.”

The door swung open, Carnac walked slowly into the night, and Tresco and Gentle Annie were alone.

The goldsmith heaved a sigh of relief. “Haaaah! Close thing, very close; but Benjamin was just one too many for him. You see, brains will come out on top. Kindly bolt the door, my dear.”

He picked up Carnac’s revolver, placed it on the table, sat down, wiped his brow, and again gave vent to another sigh of relief.

“My dear, it’s brought on my usual complaint – desperate thirst. Phaugh! a low-lived man, and in this house, too! In the house of my little woman, curse him!”

Gentle Annie placed a glass and a bottle before him, and the goldsmith drank.

“What’s that about a ring, my dear? Did I understand he had given you a ring?”

The girl took the precious diamond from her finger, and handed it to Tresco.

“Why, it’s my own work – I recognise the setting; I remember the stone. Thirty pounds that ring is worth; thirty pounds, if a penny. Did he steal it, or buy it, I wonder?”

“Bought it, he said.”

“If so, he’s not mean, anyway. I tell you what I’ll do – I’ll buy it back from you. It’s not right you should be defiled by wearing such a man’s ring.”

“He shall have it back – I’ll give it him.”

“No, my dear. What he has given, he has given. Thirty pounds.”

From his pocket he drew a small linen bag, from which he took eight or ten small nuggets. These he balanced in his palm.

“Seven ounces,” he said, contemplatively. “Say eight, to give you good value. That’s it, my dear.” With a bump he placed the gold on the table. “This ring is now mine. The work is of the best; never did I take more care or pride in my craft than when I set that stone. But it has been in the hands of a vile fellow; it is polluted.”

He rose from his chair, placed the jewel on the hearthstone, and fiercely ground the precious stone beneath his iron-shod heel, and flung the crushed and distorted gold setting into the fire.

“That you should have been so much as touched by such a man, is a thing not to be forgotten quickly.”

He drank the rest of his liquor at a breath.

“I must go, my dear. I must go.”

“What! won’t you stop? I want you to stay a little longer.”

“Nothing would please me better. But that man is one of a gang. If I stop here, he may bring seven other devils worse than himself, and the last end of Benjamin will be worse than the first. I should be waylaid and killed. And that would be unfortunate.”

“Do you suppose they will come here when you have gone?”

“No fear of that, after what I’ve told him. That man will shun this house as if it was his grave. Well, good night.”

He took Gentle Annie’s face between his hands. Then he held her at arms’ length, and gazed steadfastly into her face. And, the next moment, he was gone.

The girl turned the nuggets over and over with a listless finger. “Men, men,” she murmured, “how madly jealous – and when there is so little need. As if I care for one a pennyworth more than another.”

CHAPTER XXXV

Bail

The Pilot of Timber Town sat in his dining-room in the many-gabled house; Captain Sartoris sat opposite him, and both looked as miserable as men could possibly look.

“It’s a bad business, a terrible bad business,” said Captain Summerhayes, “to be charged with robbery and cold-blooded murder. I was in the Court. I heard the Resident Magistrate commit him to the Supreme Court. ‘Your Worship,’ says Jack, ‘on what evidence do you commit me? I own that I was on the road to Canvas Town, but there is nothing wrong in that: there is no evidence against me.’ An’ no more there is. I stake all I’ve got on his innocence; I stake my life on it.”

“Same here, same here, Summerhayes,” said Sartoris. “But I don’t see how that helps him. I don’t see it helps him worth tuppence. He’s still in the lock-up.”

“It helps ’im this much,” said the old Pilot: “he can be bailed out, can’t he? – and we’re the men to do it.”

“We’d need to be made o’ money, man. Ten thousand pound wouldn’t bail ’im.”

“We’ll see, we’ll see. Rosebud, my gal!” The Pilot’s gruff voice thundered through the house. “We’ll put it to the test, Sartoris; we’ll put it to the test.”

Rose Summerhayes hurried from the kitchen; the sleeves of her blouse tucked up, and her hands and arms covered with flour.

“What is it, father?”

“Young Scarlett’s in prison,” growled the Pilot, “and there he’s likely to stay till the sitting of the Supreme Court.”

The pink in Rose’s pretty face turned as white as the flour she had been kneading. “Have they found him guilty, father?”

“Not exactly that, my gal, but it looks black for the lad, as black as the pit.”

“But he’s not guilty!” cried the girl. “Nothing will persuade me to believe that.”

“We must bail him out,” said her father. “Bring me my deed-box.”

Rose rustled from the room, and presently returned with a square, japanned, tin box, which bore her father’s initials upon its lid.

The Pilot took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and quickly unlocked the box.

Upon the bare, polished table he placed a number of Bank deposit receipts.

“I can’t do it,” he said; “no more can Sartoris. But you can, my gal. Just add up these amounts, Cap’n, while I explain.” He handed the receipts to Sartoris.

“It isn’t often I’ve mentioned your uncle to you, Rosebud. But he’s a rich man, more than ordinary rich, my dear. Ever since you were a little dot, so high, he’s sent me money as reg’lar as the clock. I’ve never asked ’im for it, mind ye; and, what’s more, I’ve never spent a penny of it. I wouldn’t touch it, because I don’t bear him any love whatever. Before you was born, my gal, he did me a most unforgivable wrong, an’ he thinks money will wipe it out. But it won’t: no, no, it won’t. Howsomever, I banked all that money in your name, as it kept coming in; and there it’s been piling up, till I don’t really know how much there mayn’t be. What’s the total, Sartoris? Give us the total, man.”

But the Captain had forgotten his calculation, in open-mouthed astonishment.

“’Arf-a-minute, ’arf-a-minute,” he said, quickly giving his attention to the papers which lay before him. “Fifteen hundred and two thousand is three thousand, five hundred; and thirteen hundred is four thousand, eight hundred; and seven hundred and seventy-five is – Why, there’s more money here than ever I saw in a skipper’s house before. I’ll need a pencil and a bit o’ paper, Miss Rose. There’s a mint o’ money – as much as would bail out a duke.”

Supplied with stationery, he slowly made his calculation; the Pilot watching him unconcernedly, and Rose checking the amounts one by one.

At last he found his total, and drew a line under it.

“Well, what is it?” asked the Pilot.

“I make it ten thousand, seven hundred and seventy-five pound,” he said. “Goodness, girl, here’s all this money! – and you baking and scrubbing as if you was a servant. Summerhayes,” he added, turning upon the Pilot, “I think you’ve been doing an injustice, sir; a gross injustice.”

“Personally,” replied the Pilot, “I don’t intend to receive a pennyworth o’ benefit from that money. If the gal likes to be a lady now, there’s nothing to stop her; but I don’t share in the spending o’ that money, not in a penny of it. Of that I’m determined.”

“You’re a contumacious, cantankerous old barnacle,” retorted Sartoris, “that’s what you are. It’d serve you right if your daughter was to cut the painter and cast you adrift, and leave you to sink or swim.”

“We can very well settle that point by and by, Sartoris. The present question is, Shall we bail out young Scarlett, or not? I put it to you, Rosebud. Here’s all this money – what are you going to do with it? If you go bail for Scarlett and he runs away, you’ll lose it. If he stands his trial, then you’ll get it all back and have the knowledge, I believe, that you helped an innocent man. Which will you do?”

“I couldn’t hesitate,” replied Rose. “I’m sure Mr. Scarlett wouldn’t commit such a dreadful crime as that he’s charged with. I – I – feel,” her breath caught in her throat, and she gave vent to something very like a sob, “I should be glad to do anything to get him out of prison.”

“Quite right, quite right!” thundered the old Pilot. “There speaks my gal, Sartoris; there speaks my dar’ter, Rosebud!” Rising from his chair, he kissed her heartily, and stood, regarding her with pride and pleasure.

“My dear young lady,” said Sartoris, as he took Rose’s hand in his, and warmly pressed it, “it does you great honour. Young Mr. Scarlett an’ me was shipmates; we was wrecked together. I know that lad better than I know my own brother – and, I say, you may safely back your opinion of him to any amount.”

“Get my hat, gal,” said the Pilot. “We’ll be going.”

And so, after she had hastily performed her toilet, Rose walked into town, with the two old sea-dogs as an escort.

First, they went to the Kangaroo Bank, where the Pilot placed the sheaf of deposit receipts on the manager’s table, and said, “It comes to something over ten thousand pound, sir. What we want to know is, will you allow my dar’ter to draw five or ten thousand, and no questions asked?”

“Ah – really,” said Mr. Tomkinson, “it would be most unusual. These deposits are made for a term, and the rule of the bank is that they can’t be drawn against.”

“Then what is the good of all this money to my gal, if she can’t use it?”

“She can draw it as it falls due.”

“But suppose that don’t suit? Suppose my dar’ter wants it at once, what then?”

The manager rubbed his chin: that was his only reply.

“These bits o’ paper are supposed to be as good as gold,” continued the Pilot, rustling the receipts as they lay upon the table, “ain’t they?”

“Better,” said the manager, “in some ways much better.”

“Indeed,” retorted the Pilot. “Then what’s the good o’ them, if nothing can be done with ’em?”

“For the matter o’ that, Summerhayes,” said Sartoris, “if this gen’leman don’t quite like to trust himself in the matter, there’s plenty outside will take them there bits o’ paper as security, and be glad to get ’em. I’ve seen the thing done, Summerhayes, though I can’t say I’ve done it myself, never having had enough money to deposit in a bank.”

“Ah – well,” said the banker, “of course it can be managed, but you would lose the interest.”

“The interests be – be – the interest be hanged!” exclaimed the Pilot.

“But the young lady must act under no compulsion, sir.” Mr. Tomkinson spoke with a dignity worthy of the great institution which he represented. “She must do it of her own free will.”

“Ask her,” said the Pilot.

The manager looked at Rose, who said, “I want to draw seven thousand pounds of this money,” but she felt as though she was speaking in a dream, so unreal did the situation seem to her.

“The best way for your daughter to act,” said the manager, turning to the Pilot, “will be for her to sign seven thousand pounds’ worth of these receipts over to the bank, and to open in her own name an account, on which she can draw to the amount specified.”

“Very good,” said the Pilot, “that would suit; but why couldn’t you say so at first, instead o’ boxing the compass?”

The business was soon concluded, and Rose, for the first time in her life, drew a cheque, which was for nothing less than £7000.

“This is a large sum,” said the manager, “a large sum to take in a lump.”

“Isn’t it her own money she’s taking?” said the Pilot. “I’m her father, and I don’t see anything wrong about it.”

“But there her credit ceases,” said the manager.

“Let it cease,” said the Pilot.

The cheque was cashed at the counter, and Rose walked out of the bank with a mighty sheaf of notes in her hand.

For safety’s sake, the Pilot relieved her of some of her wealth, and Captain Sartoris relieved her of the rest, and thus the three walked briskly towards the Red Tape Office. Here, with difficulty and much climbing up and down stairs and traversing of corridors, they found the room of the District Judge, who was, in his minor capacity, likewise the Resident Magistrate.

He was a man of benign countenance, who, after the customary greetings and explanations had been made, politely asked them to be seated. This invitation the Pilot neglected to comply with, but, advancing to the table behind which the Judge sat, he said,

“I believe you have locked up a young man of the name of Scarlett.”

“That’s so,” said the Judge.

“Well, he’s a friend o’ mine,” said the Pilot, “a partic’lar friend.”

“Indeed,” said the Judge, smiling kindly. “I’m glad that Mr. Scarlett is not without friends.”

“I’ve a great respect for the Law,” continued the Pilot. “I always had, but that don’t make me feel less anxious to help a friend o’ mine that’s got into its clutches.”

The Judge continued to smile at the Pilot from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. “I can quite believe it,” he said.

“Cap’n Sartoris,” said the Pilot, in his gruffest manner. “Stand up, sir!”

Sartoris stood.

“Scarlett was your shipmate, Cap’n?” continued the Pilot.

“Certainly he was,” answered Sartoris.

“And he was my very good friend, sir,” added Summerhayes, turning to the Judge.

“So you have said,” said the Judge.

“Well, we’ve come to bail him out,” said the Pilot; “that’s what has brought us here. How much will it take, Judge?”

“A – really – this is very sudden,” replied the Judge. “Er – this is – ah – most unusual. In fact, I might say that this is quite an unparalleled case.”

“We’re plain, sea-faring men,” said Sartoris, who felt he was bound to back up the Pilot, and to say something; “law isn’t our strong point.”

“Would you consider a matter o’ five thousand pound might do it?” asked the Pilot.

The old Judge leaned over his table, and took up a book.

“Bail?” he said. “Page 249. Listen to this. ‘On charges of murder, it is the uniform practice of Justices not to admit the person charged to bail; although in point of law, they may have power to do so.’ That is from The Justice of the Peace – it seems perfectly plain.”

“You may give bail, but you make a practice of refusing it,” commented the Pilot. “Might I suggest that you set an example to the other Justices, an’ come out strong in the matter o’ bail? If you’ve got power to make the lot of a well-known citizen a little happier, why not use it? Hand over them notes, Sartoris.”