Читать книгу King of the Air; Or, To Morocco on an Aeroplane - Herbert Strang - Страница 5

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One spring day, rather more than six years after the meeting of Mr. Greatorex and Tom Dorrell by Five Oaks Bridge, a shabby pony cart was jogging along the road that led from the little railway station of Midfont, through the sleepy village of the same name, to Midfont House, the rural retreat to which Mr. Greatorex betook himself from his business in the great manufacturing town of Burlingham some dozen miles away. The sole occupant of the cart was a large florid man of about forty-five, who eyed the surroundings curiously through heavy gold-rimmed spectacles, the sluggish pony he drove requiring little attention.

His costume, no less than his spectacles, was strangely out of keeping with the cart. That would have been a fit setting for a farm-hand, or a carrier, or some other wearer of fustian. But its present occupant was attired in a well-cut grey frock-coat, silk lined, a glossy silk hat, a lilac-coloured necktie in which flashed a diamond pin, and trousers of large check pattern. His hands were gloved in brown kid; between his teeth he held a long cigar.

He looked about him with intention. Unfenced fields stretched on either side of the road. Every now and again the driver would pull up, stand on the seat, and throw a searching glance around. Then, muttering under his breath words that were certainly strange to that part of the English midlands, he would drive on again, looking to right and left as before.

By and by he came to a part of the road where a long wooden fence on the right-hand side indicated an enclosure. To this the driver gave his whole attention, and when the fence was broken by a wide wooden gate, within which a carriage drive ran past a little lodge and between hedges of evergreen, he pulled up, alighted from the cart, and, leading the pony by the nose, went to the gate and gave the bell-pull a vigorous tug. It might have been noticed that he walked a little lame.

In response to his summons a man came to the gate—a young man, thin, clean-shaven, with a slight cast in one eye. He was bareheaded, wore a red waistcoat over a flannel shirt, and brown corduroy breeches, supported by a leather belt and somewhat creased above brown leggings.

“So!” said the driver of the pony cart, as the lodgekeeper rested his arms on the second bar of the gate and looked at him. “Zis, my goot friend, is Midfont House?”

“You’ve got it right, guv’nor.”

“So! Zen I ask, is Mr. Thomas Dorrell at home?”

“Nice day, guv’nor.”

“I zank you, yes, it is not bad. Mr. Thomas Dorrell——”

“No; my name’s Timothy Ball—T. B. on my collars.”

“I zank you. Mr. Thomas Dorrell——”

“This ’ere place belongs to Mr. John Greatorex, Esquire, J.P., and he ain’t at home, bein’ engaged in trying a bad case of stealin’ lamb and mint-sauce not a many miles from ’ere.”

“My goot friend, I do not mind; I like it. I come not to see Mr. Greatorex, I come to see Mr. Thomas Dorrell——”

“Now, look ’ere, guv’nor, we’ve had chaps ’ere before with cheap watches and dear books and thingummies of all sorts, and I tell you straight, we don’t encourage ’em; in fact, I’ve got strict orders from Mr. Greatorex, J.P., to set the dog on any such that won’t take no for an answer.”

“My goot friend, you mistake. Vizout doubt I carry, some days, books, editions de luxe, and vatches and ozer zinks, but to-day—no, no. Look, here is my carte——”

“And a rum-lookin’ ramshackle turn-out it is,” quoth Timothy, ignoring the piece of pasteboard and eyeing the vehicle disdainfully. “I wonder you ain’t ashamed to come out in a ‘at like that, togged up to the nines, quite a torf, and your pony as looks as if he ain’t had a currycomb on his hide for a month o’ Sundays.”

“Ah, you mistake me all ze time. Ze bony, he is not mine; I hire him to bring me to Midfont House. Here is my carte, my friend. Take it to Mr. Thomas Dorrell, viz gompliments. He do not know my name, so! But he know ze name of ze firma I rebresent, and he vill like to see me, I know zat, because he place large orders, vair large, viz our gompany; he is vat you call a gustomer, you understand.”

Timothy Ball looked doubtfully at the visitor, and at the card he offered to him.

“There’s customers, and rum customers,” he said.

“Rum!” interrupted the stranger. “If Mr. Dorrell like rum, we can subbly any quantity, in cask or bottle, at rock-bottom price.”

Timothy sniggered and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Rum ain’t the word for it,” he said. “’Tis downright bloomin’ funny, that’s what it is. Well, guv’nor, hold hard a bit; I’ll just ’phone through to Mr. Dorrell and tell him you’re here. ’Ow do you say your name?”

“Schwab! Hildebrand Schwab, rebresentative of ze Schlagintwert Gombany of Düsseldorf.”

“Can’t say all that; telephone won’t stand it. Wait a bit while I try Swob.”

He rang up and put his ear to the receiver.

“Are you there? That you, Mr. Dorrell?... There’s a man here ... a man ... a gentleman to see you, name Swib ... Swob! So he said, sir.... Travels for rum, by what I can make out——”

“No! no!” cried Schwab; but Timothy glared him into silence.

“Said you wouldn’t know him, sir, but you’re a customer of his firm.... No, sir, not rum.... Can’t say it, sir.... Very well, sir (glancing at the card): S C H L A G I N T W.... You’ve got it, sir.... He didn’t say, sir.... Very well, sir.”

“Mr. Dorrell wants to know what you’ve come for.”

“Vill you be so kind as permit me to speak to him myself?”

“No; your trotter might run away.... Yes, sir, one minute.... Now, out with it, Mr. Swob; Mr. Dorrell’s busy.”

“Zen tell him I come from Düsseldorf on behalf of my firma to pay zeir respects and gompliments to zeir valued gustomer and to zay zat ve shall be alvays most pleased to subbly anyzink vatefer zat Mr. Dorrell vants in quickest possible tempo egzept our Number Six Photographic Sensitizer vich require fortnight notice——”

“Arf a mo!... Yes, sir, but there’s such a lot of it I can’t get hold of it all.... No, sir, not walk; the gentleman’s rather lame, sir; came in a pony cart.... Very well, sir.”

“Mr. Dorrell says he’ll be here in a few minutes if you’ll wait.”

“Vy certainly. I can get no train for two hour. I vait in ze house?”

“No, Mr. Dorrell ain’t in the house. He’ll come here. We always interview rum customers at the gate.”

“No, no, no; not rum, my friend; and Mr. Dorrell is ze gustomer. He buy of us; at least, he order; Mr. Greatorex pay.”

“Well, it don’t matter to you, I s’pose, so long as you get your money? Mr. Greatorex’s money is good enough for me, anyway. Paid for that topping cigar of yours, didn’t it?”

“I have not ze honour to know Mr. Greatorex; but I have here a price list of cigars, and if——”

“Here’s Mr. Dorrell.”

“Vere? I see him not.”

“Well, he’s big enough, though he ain’t as broad as he’s long: that gentleman in the blue clothes comin’ down the path.”

“Zat Mr. Dorrell! Vy—he is a boy! Himmel!”

“Rum, ain’t it? S’pose you never was a boy, Mr. Swob.”

A tall loose-limbed young fellow had come into the drive from a side path, and was walking with great strides towards the gate. He was bareheaded; his black hair tumbled over a brow unusually high and broad. No other feature was noticeable except his eyes, which were large, deep blue in colour, and shot with a strange glow. He was dressed in a loose suit of what appeared to be blue alpaca, which was plentifully bestained.

By this time Timothy had opened the gate and given admittance to the visitor. Tom Dorrell came up, held out his hand, and said in quick decisive tones—

“How d’you do, Mr.——?”

“Schwab, sir—Hildebrand Schwab, rebresentative of ze firma Schlagintwert, all orders punctually eggzecuted.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Very busy, you know; if you had given me notice——”

“Ach! I come on ze hop, sir.”

Tom smiled.

“Well, glad to see you, anyway. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Sir, zat is vat I ask you. You give orders, first class, for our Photographic Sensitizer Preparation Number Six; but my firma zink you do not know, perhaps, zat zey do many ozer zinks beside Photographic Sensitizer Preparation Number Six. Vy, zere is nozink vat ve do not do, nozink at all. Ve can supply anyzink—soft goots, musical boxes, hair oil——”

“I know, I know,” said Tom. “I have your price list.”

“But not ze new vun—revise and correck carte,” returned Schwab, pulling from his pocket a bulky volume in red paper cover. “Viz gompliments!”

“Thanks! Now, I am very busy——”

“Shust so! Business are business! Not for ze vorld vould I stand in ze light. Only bermit me shust vun vord. Ze orders you give for Photographic Sensitizer Preparation Number Six, vy, zey are immense, colossal; and you pay on ze nail. My firma get no such orders novere, and zey are surprise, because Number Six is new zink; it is not long zat it is on ze market. Vy zen come so large orders from so little place? Zey zink zere are business to be done; zerefore am I here.”

“Well, you can’t expect the merits of the stuff to be known all at once.”

“Shust so. Zerefore I come! Schlagintwert say: ‘Mr. Dorrell use a great lot of P.S.P. No. 6; zerefore muss it be vair goot; go and see Mr. Dorrell; perhaps he be so kind to give testimonial—zat vill be goot business.’”

“Afraid I can’t do that. You see, I don’t use it in photography, and that is what you advertise it for.”

“But ve vill advertise it for anyzink you please!”

“My use of it is secret at present.”

“Zen ve vill buy ze secret! Ve are vair rich firma.”

“But it wouldn’t be a secret then.”

“Zat is true, but it vould be business. Zere vill be patent rights, perhaps; vell, ve buy zem; ve buy anyzink zat is goot business.”

“No, I haven’t taken out a patent. It is very good of you, Mr. Schwab, if at any time——”

“Ach! Vat you call any time!—zat is no time. Now, now is ze time. I am in zis country only few days. I go soon to Morocco for business. I suffer egstremely from sea-illness, but for business I go anyvere. Zink how it vould console me in ze Bay of Biscay to know zat I had done goot business for Schlagintwert—and for you, Mr. Dorrell.”

“Sorry. Really I can’t say any more, Mr. Schwab. I must go; look me up again, if you like, when you get back from Morocco.”

Recognizing that Tom was not to be drawn, the German swallowed his disappointment, took leave in most expansive terms, and was soon jogging back in the direction from which he had come. But finding, on arriving at the station, that he had an hour to wait for his train, he introduced himself to the station-master and tactfully led the conversation to Midfont House and its owner, Mr. Greatorex. What he learnt in the course of it was something to the following effect.

Some years before, Mr. Greatorex had discovered a taste for mechanics in the son of the village smith at Barton Abbas, twenty miles away. He had put the boy to a good school, often had him at Midfont House in the holidays, and paid his fees at the university in the neighbouring town, where the boy took honours in mechanics and engineering at a very early age. Then, about a year before this time, Mr. Greatorex had fenced in a large piece of waste ground on his estate, erected a workshop in the middle of it, and given it up entirely to young Dorrell, who was now apparently a permanent inmate of his house. What went on in the workshop the station-master did not know. The enclosure was kept strictly private; nobody outside the family was ever allowed to pass its borders. The station-master believed that young Dorrell was inventing a motor-car; it was said that Mr. Greatorex’s interest in him dated from the day when the boy had repaired some trifling mishap which had befallen his car on the road.

The effect of this information on Herr Schwab was greater than the station-master ever knew. When the train came in, the German got into it; but he alighted at the next station two miles off, and trudged back over the road until he once more stood at the gate of Midfont House. It was now dark. Schwab did not this time pull the bell. He walked on past the gate for a good quarter of a mile, then halted at a large heap of stones collected for mending the road.

There were no wayfarers at this late hour; nobody saw how this big figure in the frock-coat employed himself. He filled his glossy hat with flints from the heap, carried it to the foot of the fence, and emptied it there, returning for another hatful. After an hour’s patient work a pile of stones stood some three feet high against the fence. Mopping his damp brow, dusting the inside of his hat, and replacing it on his head, Schwab mounted the pile, clambered over the fence, and dropped down somewhat heavily on the other side. Not till that moment had he given a thought to the means of getting back; and looking up at the fence, the top of which was quite beyond his reach, he uttered a low guttural exclamation of dismay. But the die was cast! Consumed by his curiosity to learn more about this mysterious workshop, in the way of business, he had come thus far, and as there was apparently no going back he decided to make his way forward.

He found himself in an extensive meadow, bordered by trees. No habitation was in sight. The moon threw a little light on the scene, and, after walking for some minutes over the grass, he perceived a long low oblong building which, as he drew nearer, he saw was built of wood, with no windows in the walls, but having fanlights in the sloping roof. There was but one door.

“Ich hoffe dass die Thur nicht verriegelt ist!” he muttered as, glancing apprehensively round, he approached to try the handle. He was not conscious of anything improper in this nocturnal enterprise: was it not all in the way of business?

He came to the door, and grasped the handle....

When he recovered consciousness he found himself on his back on the grass. In his right hand there was a feeling as if it had been burnt to the bone. With many sighs and groans he rose, sought for his hat, and, turning his back on the workshop, limped sadly towards the fence. His whole body tingled with the electric shock. Bitterly he lamented his unhappy zeal for business. What an abominable device for protecting the premises! And there was that terrible fence to be climbed, or he would have to remain all night in the field, assuredly to be discovered in the morning and suspected of felonious intent. He remembered that Timothy Ball had spoken of his master as a magistrate, and saw himself already, frock-coat, silk hat and all, in a felon’s cell.

Shaken to the core he came to the fence, and spent a weary hour in groping up and down, trying to find an outlet. At length, when he had almost given up hope, and was trying to steel his soul against the exposure of the morrow, he reached a tree whose branches overhung the fence. It was more than thirty years since, as a boy, he had climbed a tree in sport; who could have foreseen that now, a man of bulk, he would be forced to attempt the feat in the interests of business? And his right hand was so desperately painful! Luckily the trunk was gnarled and a branch hung low. He tried to heave himself up, and his hat fell off. He picked it up and shied it impatiently over the fence. Then he tried again, and felt in the extremity of despair when he heard the oosh of tearing silk. Alas! for his new frock-coat! But he was at least safely on the bough. He worked himself along it, dreading lest it should snap, and conscious of the inconvenience of fourteen stone. Happily he was now on the right side of the fence. He dropped, and alighted in a bed of nettles. He got up, found his hat, mechanically brushed it with his sleeve, and set it on his head.

“Ach! Ich unglücklicher!” he sighed as he set off up the road.