Читать книгу The Luck of Colin Charteris - Arthur Owens Cooke - Страница 6

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Colin felt far from cheerful as, on a raw and disagreeable January morning, he walked down Piccadilly from the Circus and turned into Bond Street on an errand for his mother.

“You might just call and pay this little bill of Madame Jacqueline’s for me,” she had said to him as he was leaving Meadowgrange the previous day; “it’s only thirty shillings, and for you to pay in cash will save a cheque and penny stamp. Twopence saved is twopence gained, you know.”

The glow of generous feeling with which Colin had volunteered to sacrifice his career in the army for the sake of his parents and Meadowgrange had now died down into a dogged determination to carry out his purpose. He had no intention of drawing back, nor the slightest wish to do so. He had done the right thing, and was glad to have done it; he was a younger son, and it was fit that he should sacrifice himself. But the probable consequences of his decision now loomed close before him, and they were not too attractive.

His interview with his Uncle Hamilton had taken place an hour ago, and had been even less delightful than he had schooled himself to expect. Alexander Hamilton, stout, red-faced, plethoric, and extremely difficult to realize as the half-brother of Colin’s dainty girlish-looking mother, had received him in his private room at the bank. He had apologized in a cool, offhand way for being unable to “put up” the boy during his stay in London. His wife and daughter were spending the winter on the Riviera, and the house in Grosvenor Square was closed, the banker living meanwhile at his club.

Mr. Hamilton had put Colin through a pretty searching examination with regard to his capabilities. He had raised his bushy eyebrows at the boy’s handwriting, saying with emphasis that it would have to be improved before he was “much good” inside a bank; and had failed to exhibit any enthusiasm over his attainments in French and German.

“Yes, yes, a foreign language may no doubt be sometimes an advantage to a banker; but you won’t be going over as our Paris manager just yet, you know,” and he laughed huskily at his own joke. “Well, I can say no more than this at present: that I’ll think it over and will see what can be done. I’ll see. You’re not staying long?”

Colin replied that he was going home the following day.

“Quite right; nothing to keep you here. I’d ask you to have dinner with me at the club to-night, but I am dining with a friend. Well, I think that is all there is to say just now; that I will think the matter over and will let your father know. Meanwhile you can’t do any harm in trying to write a better hand.” And Colin found himself dismissed.

So, as he turned up Bond Street, the boy’s thoughts were not less gloomy than the raw and foggy air. The cold indifference of his uncle’s reception; the hushed voices of the clerks; the close warm atmosphere and general sense of airlessness within the bank—all seemed to stifle him, accustomed as he was to the comparatively free and jovial life of home and school. How should he ever live in such a place, he asked himself? Still, if his uncle offered to receive him, he would go; he had no doubt of that.

He paid his mother’s bill and then strolled back towards Piccadilly. Close to the foot of Bond Street, on the right-hand side, there is a large confectioner’s, of which the window display struck Colin as particularly attractive. He examined the various trays of sweets with some interest. What about a box of chocolates for Dido? She, poor kid, would have to learn economy like all the rest of them. Still, just for once.

There was a shining Rolls-Royce car drawn up before the door, and Colin, while still hesitating, glanced at it in a casual way, sufficiently to notice that there was a little girl inside. She was about Dido’s age, or perhaps slightly older, but very different from his little sister with her dark-brown eyes and thick, close-cropped brown hair; this girl was pink and white, with fair hair floating in a flood upon her shoulders, and a pair of large blue eyes. Upon her lap she held a small fox-terrier puppy, on whose glossy head the child was rubbing her round dimpled chin. Looking up, her eyes caught Colin’s, and she almost smiled.

Colin turned again to the window, and a moment later heard the child greet a middle-aged gentleman who emerged from the shop and entered the car. He had a shrewd but pleasant face, thick-growing grey hair, and keen blue eyes. He gave an order to the chauffeur in a slightly nasal tone, and the big car moved slowly off. As it did so there came a shrill childish cry of terror or dismay.

The puppy, attracted by another dog on the pavement, had escaped from the arms of his small mistress and leaped through the open window. Now, terrified and panic-stricken at the bustle around him, he was running wildly in the middle of the crowded street, with every chance of having his career cut short by some item of the stream of traffic.

The hoof of a horse grazed his ribs and threw him yelling on his back. A bicycle missed him by a hair’s-breadth, and the narrowness of the escape sent him flying towards an omnibus wheel. Colin saw clearly that another instant would most likely bring about his end. Almost unconsciously the boy had sprung across the pavement, reached the street, and dived into the traffic, bent on rescuing the frightened dog.

The chauffeur of a swift electric brougham jammed the brakes on hard and did no more than leave a streak of Bond Street mud on Colin’s sleeve. The fast-trotting pony of a butcher’s cart sat down upon its haunches in obedience to a tug of its young driver’s reins. The carman of a two-horse dray slanted his team across the road, and gave his views of Colin’s conduct with fluency and vigour. There were confusion, shouting, cries. Twice the puppy, wholly unaware of the boy’s kind intentions, managed to elude his grasp.

But Colin persevered. He had a wide experience of a football scrum, knew twenty different methods of evading tackling, and at least as many ways of picking up—and sticking to—a wet and slippery ball. The dog was making a fresh bolt of terror when a hand descended on him, gripped him, held him fast. Then Colin’s foot slipped and he fell; a moment later he discovered himself sitting in the middle of the street, looking up into the astonished and obviously disapproving faces of a pair of brougham-horses.

He was on his feet next moment, still retaining a firm grasp upon the dog; dodged the dignified approach of an irate policeman, and then looked about him for the car. It stood beside the pavement a few yards away, and its elderly occupant was now approaching with no small anxiety upon his kindly face.

“Say now, young gentleman, that was a real risky thing to do; you couldn’t hope to play that game in Broadway and come back alive, and a man’s life weighs heavily against a dog’s, a fifty-dollar thoroughbred though he may be. But all the same I thank you very heartily, and so does Maisie here. It was a real kind thing to do. I guess you’re sore some, eh? No? Well, anyway you’ll be the smarter for a little grooming; step right in.”

He laid a friendly hand on Colin’s arm and tried to lead him towards the car. But all young Charteris’s instincts as a Briton and a public-schoolboy rose in arms against the thought of any recompense for such a simple act. A little crowd had gathered, and he was in haste to disappear. He again assured the American—as he obviously was—that he was not at all hurt, nor even muddy—a wholly inaccurate statement—and that he was in “rather a hurry”.

“Well, we’d have liked to thank you better, sure,” said the gentleman; “but we won’t keep you if you’ve got a date.” He shook hands heartily and Colin raised his hat to Maisie’s smiling face. The car glided off, and Colin entered the confectioner’s to make his purchase.

He gave a very mild account of the affair when he reached home; some allusion to it was necessary owing to the sharpness of his mother’s eyes in noting a mudstain on his overcoat. A little dog had run away and he had caught it; that was all. Colin had little taste for seeing himself exposed to public view—even the view of his own family—in the rôle of a hero.

Crossways Farm, the largest of the three which formed the greater portion of the Meadowgrange estate, was tenanted by a farmer whose ancestors had been for several generations on the place. The land was mostly pasture, and the family had long devoted much energy and skill to the rearing of pure-bred Hereford cattle. The Crossways herd was famous, and not a year passed without valuable animals fetching high prices, frequently for export abroad.

Mr. Henry Barnett, the present tenant of the farm, was a shrewd, practical, and rigidly upright man. He had paid several visits to the United States, and often entertained foreign buyers and agents in his very comfortable home. The farmer, about sixty years of age, was short, inclined to stoutness, and wore old-fashioned mutton-chop whiskers.

A few days after his return from London, Colin said:

“I think I’ll go and look up Crossways, Pater, eh?”

“Do, by all means,” replied his father.

Colin strolled off across the lawn, up the Monks’ Walk—an avenue of limes—and a few minutes later passed the great wrought-iron gates of the big red-brick Georgian house which was the Barnetts’ home. He was about to ring when he caught sight of Mr. Barnett in a fold-yard that adjoined the garden wall.

“Why, that you, Mr. Colin?” cried the farmer in a hearty tone. “Come in.”

“Weren’t you just going round the yards?” asked Colin, for the farmer had been walking from the house.

“Well, yes, I was; just going to have a look at someone that I’ve got to part with soon.”

“Who’s that?”

“Sir Benjamin; I’ve sold him. Your old friend Sir Benjamin goes out to the Argentine next month. Bit of a journey, eh? but he is in good order and he’ll stand it right enough. Come in and have a look at him; a picture, isn’t he?”

While Mr. Barnett talked, Colin and he had crossed the yard to a long range of boxes; the door of one of these was opened and they stepped inside. A friendly bellow greeted them, and as they entered the box a massively-built bull, standing knee-deep in golden straw, moved a step towards them.

Sir Benjamin, the great two-year-old Hereford bull, was, as his owner had said, indeed a picture, with his broad back level as a dining-table, his sleek well-filled sides, close curly coat, and short strong horns. There was the usual ring passed through the gristle of his nose, but he was not secured in any way; for, treated with unvarying kindness during his two years of life, the bull was gentle and sweet-tempered as a child.

The great beast nuzzled at his master’s arm, and blew a snorting breath at Colin, whom he seemed to recognize. Colin adored these cattle of his native county. Born and brought up in constant touch with them, he had not, even as a child, known such a thing as fear, and now he fondled the great animal, until the farmer said:

“Well, it is time I took my nooning—bread and cheese and cider, and you’ll have a snack with me. How is the major and your mother and the little lady? All quite well?”

Colin was ushered into the oak-panelled dining-room, hung with paintings of the Crossways cattle, many of the pictures a full century old. They all displayed their bovine “sitters” either in remarkably green pastures or in the seclusion of immaculately clean boxes. But Colin knew them all by heart; what caught his eye at once was someone seated at a table by the window, writing fast. The writer laid his pen down and turned round as Mr. Barnett and the boy came in. He looked at Colin, with surprise at first, and then with obvious pleasure on his genial face. It was the gentleman of Bond Street—he of the Rolls-Royce car, the pretty child, and truant dog.

“Why, why! the world’s a small place, isn’t it?” exclaimed the stranger, jumping up and taking Colin’s hand in a firm friendly grasp. “Who would have guessed that we should meet down here?” And Colin found himself introduced by the farmer to Mr. Dickson.

“Of Noo York,” put in that gentleman. “Well, well, I’m glad to meet you once more, anyway. Often done business with our friend here, and I’d promised to run down and stay a day or two. Got here last night and leave again to-morrow afternoon. This is the kind of spot that does me good; none of our Noo York hustle; peace and quiet, cattle and green fields.”

Cider and bread and cheese were brought, and Mr. Dickson did full justice to the simple fare. Rather to Colin’s confusion the Bond Street story was related at length for the farmer’s edification, and Mr. Barnett, with whom Colin had always been a prime favourite, heard it with obvious satisfaction.

“Ah, Mr. Colin wouldn’t think about the risk if he could save a horse or dog from trouble; I know quite enough of him for that,” he said.

Maisie, it seemed, had not accompanied her father, but was staying with other friends. Mr. Dickson explained that, though not an expert in cattle, he was connected with a syndicate which had extensive interests in the trade. In this connection he had several times met Mr. Barnett in the States.

The conversation prolonged itself for some time after Mr. Barnett had gone out again, the American being seemingly much pleased with Colin’s company. At luncheon the boy recounted his unexpected meeting.

“Your friend seems to be a rather interesting person,” said his father; “we might ask him in to dinner. Barnett must come with him—if he will.”

An informal invitation was sent up to the farm an hour later. The farmer excused himself, but the American accepted readily.

He proved himself a very entertaining guest; a thorough man of the world, widely travelled, and full of interesting information. There was an obvious friendliness about him, a frank simplicity of manner, and a rather old-world courtesy, which put his entertainers instantly at ease.

In the course of conversation it came out that his syndicate had lately bought a cattle ranch or hacienda in the north of Mexico, and that some pure-bred Herefords were being tried upon the range.

“I knew, of course, that our cattle go out to the States, the Argentine, and elsewhere,” said the major, “but I did not know that Mexico was a great place for them. I know there are big haciendas in the north.”

“Why, Major, Mexico’s the country of the cattle range. It’s there that ranching started—all our ranching words have got a Spanish twist. Take Chihuahua for instance; there you’ll find the very finest ranching land in all the world; dry, out of the wet season; but with proper irrigation it will equal anything the world can show. Mind you, their ways are out of date; but we are out to change all that. Our syndicate has clean bought out this native rancher—haciendado, as they call him—and now owns three hundred square miles of first-grade horse and cattle ground.”

“Three hundred square miles in a single property!” said Colin in surprise.

“Our boundary’s ten miles by thirty,” said his friend; “a quarter of a million acres, more or less. That’s not large either, for the state of Chihuahua; one or two million acres is a common holding, and there are some ranges of ten times that size.”

“What head of stock have you upon a range like that, sir?” Colin asked.

“At present about fifteen thousand head of cattle, with two or three thousand horses. We reckon fifteen acres will support a beast; but better irrigation will enable us to run more stock.”

“What sort of life is it out there for ranching hands?” asked Major Charteris.

“A little lonely, perhaps. A fine life all the same; for any man who rides, who cares for stock, and likes the open air and freedom, it’s all right. Just now what we want there especially are men who’ve got the knack of ‘bossing’ men.”

The visitor took leave soon after dinner, saying that they kept early hours at the farm. Colin proposed to walk across with him, an offer the American accepted with alacrity.

“And what’s your future occupation, Mr. Colin, if I’m not intruding?” asked Mr. Dickson, as they went down the drive.

Colin hesitated; but there was something so friendly about his companion that he decided to be frank.

“Well, sir, I was to have gone into the cavalry, like my father; but—things have rather altered, and I may have to take work in a bank.”

“Not much to your taste, perhaps?”

“Not much, sir, I must say.”

“Ride well?” inquired Mr. Dickson.

“Oh, well, you see, I’ve ridden since I was a kid.”

“Health good? You look as though it were.”

“Oh yes, I’m never ill!”

The American nodded, but said nothing more, and a few minutes later the pair parted.

Soon after ten the following morning, Major Charteris, coming from the stable-yard, met Mr. Dickson making for the door.

“Come in,” said the major, as the two shook hands.

“Well, Major, if it’s all the same to you I’d rather be outside. I’m country raised, and don’t get all the air I’d like in town. That’s a fine avenue of trees you have there; couldn’t we walk up and down?”

“By all means,” replied the major, and then led the way to the Monks’ Walk.

“Now,” said the American, “I’m quite aware I’m going to butt right in where you may say I have no right to be. I’m going to take my chances all the same. I want to talk about your son.”

“I’ve no objection to his being the subject of your conversation,” said the major, with a smile.

“Ah, but you may not care so much for what I’ve got to say; still I’ll get down to brass tacks straight. I understand from him that he is at a bit of a loose end. Well now, I want him to go out to Mexico and take on work at this new range of ours—the Hacienda of the Star.

“Now let me have my say right out before you turn the proposition down,” continued the American. “You’ve some fair notion as to what such work will be. Some fifteen thousand head of cattle, with about three thousand horses, running loose upon three hundred miles of land. We keep our eyes skinned on them all the time. Each day and all day—sometimes all night too—vaqueros are upon the range to look them up. These chaps are mostly Mexicans or Indians, but we have some fellows from the States as well.

“I want to try some English hands. You’ll likely ask me why. I’ll tell you; we Americans—I’m one and I admit it—don’t get on so well with native races, half-breed folks or coloured men, as English fellows seem to do. It’s perhaps a question of geography to some extent; we’ve always had our troubles with the Indians, with the niggers in the South; perhaps that’s the reason that a prejudice against all coloured folks is in our blood. Another thing no doubt is that the native won’t be hustled, and the American has ‘hustle’ in him all the time. That, sir, is why I want to get some Britishers upon our range.”

“You won’t think that I look a gift horse in the mouth,” said Major Charteris, “if, without committing Colin, I inquire what would be his prospects if he did go out.”

“Not much for the first year, though he’d have better pay than what we call the ‘greasers’ get. I’d give him twenty dollars monthly and all found. He’d do a lot of cowboy work; he’d be on horseback, helping with the overlooking, branding, rounding-up. But I would like for him to take a real interest in the job; to study greasers and their ways, pick up the way to manage them. Then, if he cares to stick to it, he’ll not be long before he’s drawing better pay.

“Now, Major, don’t you run away with any notion that I’m simply trying to do your boy a kindness. I am grateful to him, certainly, for picking up my little daughter’s dog, and I’d be glad to do him a good turn. But I’m a business man; I want your boy because I think he’ll suit our work. I think so just because he did that very thing: we like men who can see what wants doing in a moment and who’ll do it on the jump. And we want men who will get on well with other men. I’ve heard about your son from Mr. Barnett; heard how he is with animals and how he is with men. I’m satisfied that he’s a man I want. Out in the States I should have gone to the boy first; our lads consider they’ve the right to fix things for themselves. But here in England, why, I come to you.”

“I’m grateful to you, both for the offer and for bringing it to me. I’m just a little startled, but I’d like to hear what Colin says himself. You seem to think the prospects good in Mexico; but is not the political horizon just a little cloudy, eh?”

“I don’t deny there has been talk of trouble, but I feel sure things will settle down; I wouldn’t ask your boy to go out there unless I did. Diaz is growing old, but he’s a strong man still. That meeting between him and Taft upon the frontier some weeks back looks well. I don’t know just what they fixed up together, but the very fact that they did meet has had a good effect. As long as Taft and Diaz keep good friends, why, any malcontents will do a heap of thinking before starting to make trouble there.”

After some further conversation, Major Charteris said:

“And when should you want Colin to decide?”

“I’d like to know before I sail for Noo York Tuesday week; and if he comes I’d like him to come soon. Now I’ll not keep you longer. You just put the thing before your boy as I have put it before you. Good-bye.” And Mr. Dickson walked with quick steps towards the farm.

Half an hour later Colin was in possession of the American’s unexpected offer.

“Well, Colin, what d’you say? The state of Chihuahua’s a long way off. I don’t know what your mother’ll think.”

“I shall hate leaving you and Mother—Dido too,” said Colin; “and yet somehow—it seems rather that I’m meant to go.”

“Meant! In what way?”

“Well, look here, Pater. I see Uncle Hamilton; it’s pretty clear that he’s not really pining for me in the bank, though perhaps he’d take me at a pinch. The question is what sort of job I’d make of banking, eh? Then Mother sends me into Bond Street, and I run against this Mr. Dickson in a funny way. He seems to like the little that he’s seen of me and knows about me; I dare say old Barnett’s stuffed him up with quite a lot of rot. But I do think I can get on with outdoor working-men, and I can ride all right. To tell the truth, I’ve got a feeling that I ought to go.”

“Well, Coll, you’ve given up your prospects in the army for the sake of others; I don’t feel that we’ve a right to hinder you from choosing what you like. I rather like this Mr. Dickson; he has got the air of being ‘straight’. He’s asked me to refer to various London men about him, and seems quite well known upon this side. Well, we must talk about it to your mother and see what she says.”

“I think she’ll give in, Pater, when she sees I really want to go. And with a chap like Mr. Dickson at my back, why, it may turn out something quite first-rate. You never know.”