Kitabı oku: «The Tale of Timber Town», sayfa 8

CHAPTER XIV

The Robbery of the Mails

The night was pitch dark; the wind had gone to rest, and not a ripple stirred the face of the black waters.

“Ahoy! there.”

“Comin’, comin’. I’ve only bin waitin’, this ’arf hour.”

The man standing at the horse’s head ran round to the back of his “express” – a vehicle not unlike a square tray on four wheels – and, letting down the tail-board, pulled out a number of mail-bags.

With two of these under each arm, he made his way to the wooden steps which led down to the water’s edge, and the men in the boat heard the shuffling and scraping of his feet, as he felt with his boot for the topmost step; his hands being fully occupied in holding the bags.

Slowly, step by step, he stumped down to the water, where willing hands took his burden and stowed it in the bottom of the boat.

“Four,” said the carrier. “One more lot, and that lets me out.”

As he reached the top of the wharf, on his return journey, the bright lamps of his express dazzled his eyes, and somebody cannoned against him at the back of the trap.

“Now, then! Who’re yer shovin’ up agin?”

“All right, my man. I’m not stealing any of the bags.”

The express-man recognised the voice.

“Is that you, Mr. Crookenden? Beg pardon, sir.”

“Come, come, get the mail aboard. My men don’t want to be out in the boat all night.”

The man carried down his last load of bags, and returned, panting.

“There’s only the paper to be signed,” he said, “and then they can clear.”

“Give me the form.”

The man handed a piece of paper to the mail-contractor.

“How many bags?”

“Eight.”

By the light of the lamps Crookenden signed the paper, and handed it back to the carrier, who mounted to his seat, and drove away.

The merchant went to the edge of the wharf.

“All right, down there?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied a gruff voice.

“Then cast off.”

There was the noise of oars, and a dark object upon the waters vanished into the night.

“Good-night!”

“Good-night,” answered the gruff voice faintly, and Crookenden turned his steps towards home.

“That’s all serene,” said the owner of the gruff voice, whose modulations had suddenly assumed their accustomed timbre – the rather rasping articulation of the goldsmith.

“Couldn’t have fallen out better if I’d arranged it myself. Lay to! belay! you lazy lubbers, forrard – or whatever is the correct nautical expression to make her jump. Put your backs into it, and there’ll be five pounds apiece for you in the morning.”

“Alla right, boss; we ze boys to pulla. Rocka Codda, you asleep zere? – you maka Macaroni do alla ze work.”

“Pull yerself, you lazy Dago. Anyone w’d think you was rowing the bloomin’ boat by yourself. Why, man, I’m pulling you round every dozen strokes. The skipper, aft there, is steerin’ all he knows agin me.”

The truth was that Benjamin’s manipulation of the tiller was extraordinary and erratic, and it was not until the boat was well past the wharves that he mastered its mysteries.

The tide was ebbing, and when the boat was in the stream her speed doubled, and there was no need for using the oars. Swiftly and silently she drifted past the lights on the quay and the ghostly houses which stood beside the water.

The Pilot’s system of beacons was so perfect that with their aid a tyro such as Tresco found no difficulty in steering his course out of the harbour.

Outside in the bay, the lights of two vessels could be seen: those of the plague-ship and of the steamer which, unable to get into the port in the teeth of the tide, was waiting for the mails.

But Tresco pointed his boat’s nose straight for the long beach which fringed the end of the bay.

The rowers had seen the mail-bags put aboard the boat, and they now wondered why they did not go straight to the steamer.

“Hi! boss. The mail-steamer lies to starboard: that’s her lights behind the barque’s.”

“Right, my man,” replied Tresco; “but I have a little business ashore here, before we pull out to her.”

The boat was now nearing the beach. As soon as her keel touched the sand, Tresco jumped into the water and, ordering the fishermen to do the same, the boat was quickly pulled high and dry.

“Take out the bags,” commanded the pseudo-skipper.

The men demurred.

“Why you do this? Santa Maria! is alla these mail go back to town?”

“There’s the steamer —out there!” exclaimed Rock Cod. “A man’d think – ”

But he was cut short.

“You saw Mr. Crookenden put the bags aboard. He’s the contractor – I’m only acting under his instructions. Do you wish to remain fishermen all your lives, or would you rather die rich?”

“We know the value of dollars, you may bet that,” answered Rock Cod.

“Then lend a hand and get these bags ashore. And you, Macaroni, collect driftwood for a fire.”

When the mail-bags were all landed, Benjamin took a lantern from the boat, lit it, and walked up the beach to where the fishermen stood, nonplussed and wondering.

“Your feet must be wet, Macaroni.”

“Si, signor.”

“Wet feet are bad, not to say dangerous. Go down to the boat, and you’ll find a bottle of rum and a pannikin. Bring them here, and we’ll have a dram all round.”

Tresco placed the lantern on the sand, and waited.

“You see, Rock Cod, there are some things in this world that cut both ways. To do a great good we must do a little wrong – that’s not quite my own phrase, though it expresses my sentiments – but in anything you do, never do it by halves.”

“I ain’t ’ad no schoolin’ meself,” answered the fisherman. “I don’t take much account of books; but when there’s a drop o’ rum handy, I’m with you.”

The Italian came up the beach with the liquor.

“Here’s what’ll put us all in good nick,” said Tresco, as he drew the cork of the bottle, and poured some of the spirit into the pannikin. “Here’s luck,” and he drank his dram at a draught.

He generously replenished the cup, and handed it to Rock Cod.

“Well, cap’n,” said that puzzled barnacle, “there’s things I don’t understand, but here’s fun.” He took his liquor at a gulp, and passed the pannikin to his mate.

It took the Italian no time to catch the drift that matters were taking.

“You expecta make me drunk, eh, signor? You steala ze mail an’ carry him away, eh? Alla right, you try.”

“Now, look here,” said Tresco; “it’s this way. These bags want re-sorting – and I’m going to do it. If in the sorting I come across anything of importance, that’s my business. If, on the other hand, you happen across anything that you require, but which seems thrown away on other folks, that’s your business. If you don’t like the bargain, you can both go and sit in the boat.”

Neither man moved. It was evident that Crookenden had chosen his tools circumspectly.

“Very good,” said Tresco, “you have the run of your fingers over this mail when I have re-sorted it, provided you keep your heads shut when you get back to town. Is it a bargain?”

He held out his hand.

Rock Cod was the first to take it. He said: —

“It’s a bargain, boss.”

Macaroni followed suit. “Alla right,” he said. “I reef in alonga you an’ Rocka Codda. I no spik.”

So the compact was made.

Seizing the nearest bag, Tresco cut its fastenings, and emptied its contents on the sand.

“Now, as I pass them over to you,” said he, seating himself beside the heap of letters, “you can open such as you think were meant for you, but got misdirected by mistake to persons of no account. But burn ’em afterwards.”

He put a match to the driftwood collected by the Italian. “Those that don’t interest you, gentlemen, be good enough to put back into the bag.”

His hands were quick, his eyes were quicker. He knew well what to look for. As he glanced at the letters, he threw them over to his accomplices, till in a short time there was in front of them a bigger pile of correspondence than had been delivered to them previously in the course of their conjoint lives.

The goldsmith seldom opened a letter, and then only when he was in doubt as to whether or not it was posted by the Jewish merchant. The fishermen opened at random the missives in front of them, in the hope of finding they knew not what, but always in disappointment and disgust.

At length, however, the Italian gave a cry of joy. “I have heem. Whata zat, Rocka Codda?” He held a bank-note before his mate’s eyes. “Zat five pound, my boy. Soon I get some more, eh? Alla right.”

Tresco put a letter into the breast-pocket of his coat. It’s envelope bore on its back the printed legend, “Joseph Varnhagen, General Merchant, Timber Town.”

So the ransacking of the outgoing mail went forward. Now another bag was opened, but, as it contained nothing else but newspapers and small packages, the goldsmith desired to leave it intact. But not so his accomplices. They therein saw the chief source of their payment. Insisting on their right under the bargain, the sand in front of them was soon strewn with litter.

Tresco, in the meantime, had directed his attention to another bag, which contained nothing but correspondence, and evidently he had found what he was most earnestly in search of, for he frequently expressed his delight as he happened across some document which he thrust into his bosom.

In this way the mail was soon rummaged, and without waiting for the other two men to finish their search, the goldsmith began to reseal the bags. First, he took from his pocket the counterfeit matrix which had cost him so much labour to fashion. Next, he took some string, similar to that which he had previously cut, and with it he retied the necks of the bags he had opened. With the help of a lighted match, he covered the knotted strings, first of one bag and then of another, with melted sealing-wax, which he impressed with the counterfeit seal.

His companions watched the process with such interest that, forgetting for a time their search amongst the chattels of other people, they gave their whole attention to the process of resealing the bags.

“Very ’andy with his fingers, ain’t ’e, Macaroni? – even if ’e is a bit un’andy in a boat.” Confederacy in crime had bred a familiarity which brought the goldsmith down to the level of his co-operators.

All the bags were now sealed up, excepting the one which the fishermen had last ravaged, and the contents of which lay scattered on the sand.

“This one will be considerably smaller than it useter was,” remarked Tresco, as he replaced the unopened packets in the bag.

“Hi! stoppa!” cried Macaroni, “Rocka Codda an’ me wanta finish him.”

“And leave me to hand in an empty bag? Most sapient Macaroni, under your own guidance you would not keep out of gaol a fortnight: Nature did not equip you for a career in crime.”

Tresco deftly sealed up the last bag, and then said, “Chuck all the odds and ends into the fire, and be careful not to leave a scrap unburned: then we will drink to our continued success.”

The fire blazed up fiercely as the torn packages, envelopes, and letters were thrown upon its embers. The goldsmith groped about, and examined the sand for the least vestige of paper which might form a clue to their crime, but when he was satisfied that everything had been picked up, he returned to the fire, and watched the bright flames as they leapt heavenwards.

His comrades were dividing their spoil.

“I think, boss,” said Rock Cod, “the best of the catch must ha’ fell to your share: me and my mate don’t seem to have mor’n ten pound between us, not countin’ truck worth p’r’aps another five.”

“So far as I am concerned, my man,” – Tresco used the unction of tone and the dignity of manner that he loved so well – “I am but an agent. I take nothing except a few letters, some of which I have not even opened.”

The Italian burst out laughing. “You ze boss? You conducta ze holy show, eh? Alla right. But you take nuzzing. Rocka Codda an’ Macaroni get ten pound, fifteen pound; an’ you get nuzzing.”

“Information is what I get,” said Tresco. “But, then, information is the soul of business. Information is sometimes more valuable than a gold-mine. Therefore, in getting, get information: it will help you to untold wealth. My object, you see, is knowledge, for which I hunger and thirst. I search for it by night as well as by day. Therefore, gentlemen, before we quit the scene of our midnight labours, let us drink to the acquisition of knowledge.”

Rock Cod and Macaroni did not know what he meant, but they drank rum from the pannikin with the greatest good-will. After which, Benjamin scattered the embers of the fire, which quickly died out, and then the three men shoved the boat off and pulled towards the lights of the steamer.

On board the barque Captain Sartoris paced the poop-deck in solitude. Bored to death with the monotony of life in quarantine, the smallest event was to him a matter of interest. He had marked the fire on the beach, and had even noticed the figures which had moved about it. How many men there were he could not tell, but after the fire went out, and a boat passed to starboard of the barque and made for the steamer which lay outside her, he remarked to himself that it was very late at night for a boat to be pulling from the shore. But at that moment a head was put out of the companion, and a voice called him in pidgin English to go down. He went below, and stood beside the sick captain, whose mind was wandering, and whose spirit was restless in its lodging. He watched the gasping form, and marked the nervous fingers as they clutched at the counterpane as hour after hour went by, till just as the dawn was breaking a quietness stole over the attenuated form, and with a slight tremour the spirit broke from its imprisonment, and death lay before Sartoris in the bunk. Then he went on deck, and breathed the pure air of the morning.

CHAPTER XV

Dealing Mostly with Money

Pilot Summerhayes stood in his garden, with that look on his face which a guilty schoolboy wears when the eye of his master is upon him.

In his hand he held a letter, at which he glanced furtively, as if he feared to be caught in the act of reading, although the only eyes that possibly could have detected him were those of two sparrows that were discussing the purple berries of the Portuguese laurel which grew near by.

“‘I enclose the usual half-yearly allowance of £250.’” The Pilot was reading from the letter. “Damnation take him and his allowance!” ejaculated the irascible old sailor, which was a strange anathema to hurl at the giver of so substantial a sum of money. “I suppose he thinks to make me beholden to him: I suppose he thinks me as poor as a church-rat, and, therefore, I’m to be thankful for mercies received —his mercies – and say what a benefactor he is, what a generous brother. Bah! it makes me sicker than ever to think of him.” He glanced at the letter, and read, “‘Hoping that this small sum is sufficient for yourself and my very dear niece, to whom I ask to be most kindly remembered, I remain your affectionate brother, Silas Summerhayes.’” A most brotherly epistle, containing filial expressions, and indicating a bountiful spirit; and yet upon reading it the Pilot swore deep and dreadful oaths which cannot be recorded.

Every six months, for at least fifteen years, he had received a similar letter, expressing in the same affectionate terms the love of his brother Silas, which was accentuated by a like draft for £250, and yet the Pilot had persistently cursed the receipt of each letter.

There was a footstep on the verandah behind him. With a start the old man thrust the epistle and draft into his pocket, and stood, with a look on his face as black as thunder, confronting almost defiantly his charming daughter.

“Have you got your letters, father? I heard the postman’s knock.” As she spoke, Rose looked rather anxiously at her frowning parent. “Good news, I hope – the English mail arrived last night.”

“I daresay it did, my gal,” growled the Pilot. “But I don’t see what you and me have to do with England, seeing we’ve quit it these fifteen years.”

“But we were born there! Surely people should think affectionately of their native country.”

“But we won’t die there, please God – at least, I won’t, if I can help it. You’ll not need to, I hope. We’re colonials: this is our country.”

The girl turned to go indoors, but, a sudden impulse seizing her, she put her arms around the old man’s neck, and kissed his weather-beaten cheek.

“What’s been troubling you, father? I’ll drive the worry away.” She held his rough hand in hers, and waited for him to speak.

“You’re a good gal, Rosebud; you’re a great comfort. But, Lord bless me, you’re as sensitive as a young fawn. There’s nothing the matter with me, except when now and again I get a fit of the blues; but you’ve drove ’em away, da’rter; you’ve drove ’em clean away. Now, just you run in and attend to your house; and leave me to go into town, where I’ve a bit of business to attend to – there’s a good gal.” He kissed his daughter’s smooth, white forehead, and she ran indoors, smiling and happy.

The Pilot resettled the peaked cap on his head, stumped down the garden-path, and passed out of his gate and along the road. His steps led him to the main street of the town, where he entered the Kangaroo Bank, the glass doors of which swung noiselessly behind him, and he stood in front of the exquisite clerk of Semitic origin, who dealt out and received over the broad counter the enormous wealth of the opulent institution.

“Good morning, Captain Summerhayes.”

“’Mornin’,” said the Pilot, as he fumbled in the inside pocket of his coat.

At length he drew out the draft and handed it to the clerk, who turned it over, and said, “Please endorse it.”

The old sailor took a pen, and with infinite care wrote his name on the back of the document.

When the clerk was satisfied that everything was in order, he said, “Two-hundred-and-fifty pounds. How will you take it, Captain?”

“I don’t want to take it,” answered the Pilot gruffly. “I’ll put it along with the other.”

“You wish to deposit it?” said the clerk. “Certainly. You’ll need a form.”

He drew a printed slip from a box on the counter, and filled it in. “Sign here, please,” he said, indicating with his finger the place of signature.

“No, no,” said the old man, evidently annoyed. “You’ve made it out in my name. It should be in my da’rter’s, like all the rest have been.” The clerk made the necessary alteration, and the Pilot signed.

“If you call in this afternoon, I’ll give you the deposit receipt,” said the clerk.

“Now, really, young man, an’t that a bit slow? D’you think I’ve got nothing better to do than to dodge up and down from the port, waitin’ for your precious receipts?”

The clerk looked surprised that anyone should question his dictum for one moment, but he immediately handed the signed form to a neighbouring clerk for transmission to the manager, or to some functionary only one degree less omnipotent.

“And while we’re waiting,” said the Pilot, “I’d be much obliged if you’d show me the book where you keep the record of all the monies I’ve put into your bank.”

The clerk conferred with another clerk, who went off somewhere and returned with a heavy tome, which he placed with a bang on the counter.

The Jew turned over the broad leaves with a great rustling. “This inspection of our books is purely optional with us, Captain, but with an old customer like yourself we waive our prerogative.”

“Very han’some of you, very han’some indeed. How does she stand?”

The clerk ran his fingers down a long column of figures, and said, “There are a number of deposits in Miss Rose’s name. Shall I read the amounts?”

“I’ve got the receipts in my strong-box. All I want is the total.”

“Ten thousand, five hundred pounds,” said the clerk.

“And there’s this here new lot,” said the Pilot.

“Ten thousand, seven hundred and fifty altogether.”

The Pilot drew the heavy account book towards him, and verified the clerk’s statements. Then he made a note of the sum total, and said, “I’ll take that last receipt now, if it’s ready.”

The clerk reached over to a table, where the paper had been placed by a fellow clerk, and handed it to the gruff old sailor.

“Thank you,” said Pilot Summerhayes. “Now I can verify the whole caboodle at my leisure, though I hate figures as the devil hates holy water.” He placed the receipt in his inside pocket and buttoned up his coat. “Good-day,” he said, as he turned to go.

“I wish you good morning, Captain.”

The Pilot glanced back; his face wearing a look of amusement, as though he thought the clerk’s effusiveness was too good to be true. Then he nodded, gave a little chuckle, and walked out through the swinging, glass doors.

The Jew watched the bulky sailor as he moved slowly, like a ship leaving port in heavy weather, with many a lurch and much tacking against an adverse wind. By the expression on the Semitic face you might have thought that Isaac Zahn was beholding some new and interesting object of natural history, instead of a ponderous and grumpy old sailor, who seemed to doubt somewhat the bona fides of the Kangaroo Bank. But the truth was that the young man was dazzled by the personality of one who might command such wealth; it had suddenly dawned on his calculating mind that a large sum of money was standing in the name of Rose Summerhayes; he realised with the clearness of a revelation that there were other fish than Rachel Varnhagen in the sea of matrimony.

The witching hour of lunch was near at hand. Isaac glanced at the clock, the hands of which pointed to five minutes to twelve. As soon as the clock above the Post Office sounded the hour, he left the counter, which was immediately occupied by another clerk, and going to a little room in the rear of the big building, he titivated his person before a small looking-glass that hung on the wall, and then, putting on his immaculate hat, he turned his back upon the cares of business for one hour.

His steps led him not in the direction of his victuals, but towards the warehouse of Joseph Varnhagen. There was no hurry in his gait; he sauntered down the street, his eyes observing everything, and with a look of patronising good humour on his dark face, as though he would say, “Really, you people are most amusing. Your style’s awful, but I put up with it because you know no better.”

He reached the door of Varnhagen’s store in precisely the same frame of mind. The grimy, match-lined walls of the merchant’s untidy office, the litter of odds and ends upon the floor, the antiquated safe which stood in one corner, all aroused his pity and contempt.

The old Jew came waddling from the back of the store, his body ovoid, his bald head perspiring with the exertion he had put himself to in moving a chest of tea.

“Well, my noble, vat you want to-day?” he asked, as he waddled to his office-table, and placed upon it a packet of tea, intended for a sample.

“I just looked round to see how you were bobbing up.”

“Bobbin’ up, vas it? I don’t bob up much better for seein’ you. Good cracious! I vas almost dead, with Packett ill with fever or sometings from that ship outside, and me doin’ all his vork and mine as well. Don’t stand round in my vay, ven you see I’m pizzy!” Young Isaac leisurely took a seat by the safe, lighted a cigarette, and looked on amusedly at the merchant’s flurry.

“You try to do too much,” he said. “You’re too anxious to save wages. What you want is a partner to keep your books, a young man with energy who will look after your interests – and his own. You’re just wearing yourself to skin and bone; soon you’ll go into a decline, and drop off the hooks.”

“Eh? Vat? A decline you call it? Me? Do I look like it?”

The fat little man stood upright, and patted his rotund person.

“It’s the wear and tear of mind that I fear will be fatal to you. You have brain-tire written large over every feature. I think you ought to see a doctor and get a nerve tonic. This fear of dying a pauper is rapidly killing you, and who then will fill your shoes?”

“My poy, there is one thing certain —you won’t. I got too much sense. I know a smart feller when I see him, and you’re altogetter too slow to please me.”

“The really energetic man is the one who works with his brains, and leaves others to work with their hands.”

“Oh! that’s it, eh? Qvite a young Solomon! Vell, I do both.”

“And you lose money in consequence.”

“I losing money?”

“Yes, you. You’re dropping behind fast. Crookenden and Co. are outstripping you in every line.”

“Perhaps you see my books. Perhaps you see theirs.”

“I see their accounts at the bank. I know what their turn-over is; I know yours. You’re not in it.”

“But they lose their cargo – the ship goes down.”

“But they get the insurance, and send forward new orders and make arrangements with us for the consignors to draw on them. Why, they’re running rings round you.”

“Vell, how can I help it? My mail never come – I don’t know vat my beobles are doing. But I send orders, too.”

“For how much?”

“Dat’s my pizz’ness.”

“And this is mine.” The clerk took a sheet of paper from his pocket.

“I don’t want to know your pizz’ness.”

“But you’d like to know C. and Co.’s.”

“Qvite right. But you know it – perhaps you know the Devil’s pizz’ness, too.”

Young Zahn laughed.

“I wish I did,” he said.

“Vell, young mans, you’re getting pretty near it; you’re getting on that vay.”

“That’s why it would be wise to take me into your business.”

“I dare say; but all you vant is to marry my taughter Rachel.”

“I want to marry her, that’s true, but there are plenty of fish in the sea.”

“And there are plenty other pizz’ness besides mine. You haf my answer.”

The bank-clerk got up. “What I propose is for your good as well as mine. I don’t want to ruin you; I want to see you prosper.”

“You ruin me? How do you do that? If I change my bank, how do you affect me?”

“But you would have to pay off your overdraft first.”

“That vill be ven the manager pleases – but as for his puppy clerk, dressed like a voman’s tailor, get out of this!”

The young man stood, smiling, by the door; but old Varnhagen, enacting again the little drama of Luther and the Devil, hurled the big office ink-pot at the scheming Isaac with full force.

The clerk ducked his head and ran, but the missile had struck him under the chin, and his immaculate person was bespattered from shirt-collar to mouse-coloured spats with violet copying-ink. In this deplorable state he was forced to pass through the streets, a spectacle for tittering shop-girls and laughing tradesmen, that he might gain the seclusion of his single room, which lay somewhere in the back premises of the Kangaroo Bank.