Читать книгу Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

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FOR the use of Mr. Augustus Tibbetts, Lieutenant of Houssas, and called by all and sundry “Bones,” a hut had at one time been erected. It was a large hut, and in many ways a handsome hut, and would have accommodated 999 young officers out of a thousand. There was even a shower-bath operating from a lofty barrel. But the interests of Bones were multifarious. His hobbies were many. They came and went, and in their passing left on the shelves, in the cupboards and under the table and bed, distinct evidence of their existence. As the scientist may, by the examination of geological strata, trace the history of the world, so might an expert delving into the expensive litter of his hutment, follow Bones from the Devonian eras (represented by a passionate search for rare and remarkable stamps) through Cretaceous, Tertiary, and Quarternary strata of study and recreation.

Another hut had been added to store his collection, and on its native-built shelves reposed old wireless sets that did not work and never had worked, volumes of self-improvers, piles of literature, thousands of samples ranging from linoleum to breakfast foods, boxes of scientific and quasi-scientific instruments (he took a correspondence course in mountain railway construction, although there were no mountains nearer than Sierra Leone), and rolls of electric flexes.

“What an infernal junk shop!” said Hamilton appalled.

He had come over to make a few caustic remarks about the key of the store-house which, as usual when Bones had its temporary custody, had been left all night in the door, thereby offering temptation to Hamilton’s Houssas, who were loyal but dishonest.

“To your unscientific eyes, my dear old captain and comrade, yes,” said Bones quietly. “To my shrewd old optics, no. Everything there has its value, its raison d’être—which is a French expression that is Greek to you, dear old Ham—its—its requirability.”

“What is this?” asked Hamilton, picking up a queer-looking object.

“That,” said Bones without hesitation, “is an instrument used in wireless—it would take too long to explain, Ham. Unless you’ve got a groundin’ in science, dear old ignoramus, any explanation would he undecipherable—”

“Unintelligible is the word you want,” said Hamilton, and read with difficulty the words stamped upon the steel side of the instrument. “’Robinson’s Patent Safety Razor Strop’—you don’t mean ’wireless’—you mean ‘hairless.’

“I wish to good gracious heavens you wouldn’t mess things about,” said Bones testily, as he fixed his monocle and glared at the unoffending strop.

“The truth is, Bones,” said Hamilton when he reached the open and had drawn in long draughts of air with offensive ostentation, “you ought to burn all that rubbish. You’ll be breeding disease of some kind.”

Bones closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows.

“I am fightin’ disease, dear old layman,” he said gravely, and, going back to the hut, returned with a large wooden box. Holding this in the cross of his arm, he opened the lid and disclosed, lying between layers of cottonwood, a number of long, narrow, wooden cases.

“Good Lord,” gasped Hamilton in dismay. “Are you going to do it?”

Bones nodded even more gravely.

“When did this come—Sanders told me nothing about it?”

A faint and pitying smile dawned on the angular face of Bones.

“There are some things which our revered old excellency never tells anybody,” he said gently. “You have surprised our secret, dear old Ham—may I ask you, as a man of honour an’ sensibility, dear old Peepin’ Tom, not to mention the fact that I have told you? I trust you.”

Hamilton went back to the residency, and, in defiance of the demand for secrecy, mentioned his discovery.

Mr. Commissioner Sanders looked up from his work. “Vaccination lymph? Oh yes, it came this morning, and I sent it over to Bones. We may not want it, but Administration is worried about the outbreak in the French territory, and it may be necessary to inoculate the border people. Bones had better take charge—they can’t spare a doctor from H.Q.”

“God bless the lad!” said Hamilton in great relief. “I was afraid that I should be the goat.”

Sanders nibbled the end of his penholder. “Bones has imagination, and I think he will want it when he comes to tackle the Lesser Isisi folk.”

“He certainly is a ready liar,” admitted Hamilton.

Government departments have a mania for labelling any man who occupies, temporarily or permanently, a post under their directions. There is this sense in the practice—an official so labelled may be easily identified by the most obtuse of clerks, He may occupy a separate drawer in a filing cabinet, and to him, by reason of his labelling, may be attached responsibilities which fall within the designation they have found for him, Sanders received a wire from head-quarters—the wire had been working without interruption for a month owing to the elephants, who have a playful habit of uprooting the poles, moving inland for the breeding season, and the message ran:

“NO. 79174. ADMINISTRATION H. RE YOUR WIRE NO. 531 T. LT. A. TIBBETTS, KING’S HOUSSAS, IS APPOINTED TEMPORARY HEALTH OFFICER AND SANITARY INSPECTOR YOUR TERRITORIES, WITH ADDITIONAL PAY THREE SHILLINGS PER DIEM AS FROM 4TH INSTANT UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. HE WILL INDENT AND REPORT UNDER LETTERS H.O. AND S.I. ACKNOWLEDGE.”

Sanders duly acknowledged and communicated the momentous news to his subordinate. Bones received the intelligence very gravely.

“Of course, dear old excellency, I shall do my best,” he said seriously. “The responsibility is simply fearful.”

Thereafter, to use Hamilton’s own expressive language, life became simply Hell.

At breakfast, Bones invariably came late, smelling strongly of disinfectant, his manner subdued, his tone severely professional.

“Good morning, excellency... Ham—Ham!”

“What the devil’s the matter with you?” demanded the startled Ham.

“Have you washed your hands, dear old officer?”

“That’s sunburn, you jackass!”

Bones shook his head. “Use a weak solution of carbolic acid, dear old infectious one,” he murmured. “Can’t be too careful in these days.”

He invariably carried a sheet of white paper, which he laid on the chair before he sat down, and he insisted upon a cup of boiling-hot water being placed on the table so that he might sterilise his fork and knife.

When, one morning, Sanders came into breakfast and found the dining-room reeking with carbolic, he struck.

“Bones, I appreciate your conscientious efforts on behalf of hygiene, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather die of disease than endure this stink?”

“Microbes, dear old excellency,” murmured Bones. “This is stuff that makes naughty old Mike go red in the face.”

“I prefer that he remains pale,” said Sanders, and called his orderly to open the windows.

More annoying was the practice which Bones initiated of inspecting his superiors’ sleeping quarters. Hamilton found him in his bedroom with a tape-measure and a look of profound distress.

“Ham, old fugg-wallah, this won’t do at all!” said Bones, shaking his head reprovingly. “Bless my jolly old life and soul, you’d be dead if I hadn’t come in! How many cubic feet do you think you’ve got?”

“I’ve got two feet,” answered the exasperated Hamilton, “and if you’re not out of this room in three twinks, I’m going to use one of them!”

“And what’s all this?” Bones stirred a heap of clothing with the end of his stick. “Trousers, dear old thing, coats an’ hats—don’t get peevish, Ham. Us medical lads—”

“‘Us’” sneered Hamilton. “You illiterate hound! Get out!”

It is very trying to be brought into daily and hourly contact with a man who smelt alternately of lysol and naphthaline. It was maddening to find dinner delayed because Bones had strolled into the kitchen and had condemned the cooking arrangements; but the culmination of his infamy came when he invented a new filter that turned the drinking water a deep, rich pink that made it taste of iron filings.

“Can’t you telegraph to head-quarters and have him reduced to the ranks, sir?” asked Hamilton savagely, after he had found crystals of pure carbolic acid in his shaving mug. “I’m being sanitised to death!”

Happily a tax-collecting tour was due, and Sanders was not sorry. Bones, of course, ordered the thorough fumigation of the Zaire, and for three days after the little steamer started on her voyage, the unhappy crew breathed sulphur fumes and drank sulphur water and ate sulphurated rice.

Bones came down to the quay, a strange and awesome spectacle; a thin veil of antiseptic gauze hung from the edges of his helmet like a curtain, and on his hands were odorous gloves.

“Hail to the bride!” snarled Hamilton from the bridge. “Where’s your orange blossom, Birdie?”

“I order you to keep away from the Ochori,” cried Bones in a muffled voice, “There’s measles there—drink nothing but Lithia water...”

Hamilton replied offensively.