CHAPTER XXII

A FISHERMAN AND HIS CATCH

The fisherman was discontented.

The reasons for his discontent were not plain to the eye. There had been as good a fly water as anyone could want; there had been enough breeze to ruffle the surface, enough cloud to prevent glare; he had picked just the right flies from his book to suit the river, and the fish rose freely to them. He was carrying home as fine a dish of trout as any man could wish for, and had scrupulously thrown back everything under ten and a half inches. But even these things did not please him. He sucked hard at his cold pipe, and bit at fate as he tramped on inn-wards through the gathering dusk.

He came to a cross-roads once, and abused the Welsh authorities for not putting up a sign-post for his guidance. The district was new to him; indeed he had come there for that reason: he wanted to be alone for these last days in England. He had fished his way up stream all day, and instead of following the water windings back again, was making his return journey by road. And here, it appeared, were three roads to choose from. But he was a man of resource. He depicted mentally a map of the country, found the newly risen North star, and got his bearings, and then trudged on again with confidence among towering mountains.

It was night now, moonless, chill, and dark, and the mountains hung on either side like great walls of blackness. The road was white and faintly visible. But for all that he had presently to pull up sharply to avoid an obstruction. "Hullo," he said, "a motor car." And then aloud, "Anybody here?"

A grumbling voice answered him from the ditch. "Yes, I'm the driver, and I'm here bathing my confounded wrist."

"Had a smash? Can I help? What is it? Bone broken?"

"No, only a bad sprain"--the man peered at Carter through the dusk and added "sir."

"Your car seems to be standing up all right on her four wheels. How did you get pitched out?"

"Oh, it wasn't that sort of an accident. She was misfiring badly, and then she stopped. When I tried to start her again, she back-fired on me and I thought my arm had gone. It's the jet in the carburetter that's choked, I believe, but I can't take the thing down with one hand."

"I could," Carter thought, and remembered certain episodes with his own first motor boat in Africa. But he did not mention this aloud. "Owner gone for help?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. But there's none round here. At least there's no such thing as a mechanic within twenty miles. A hay-motor and a tow to the nearest barn is the best one can expect."

"Where's your tool kit?"

"But do you understand motors, sir?" the man asked doubtfully.

"I had to. Just unship a light, and hold it with your sound hand so that I can see what I'm about. That's the ticket. You're sure it's the carburetter? Tried your spark and all four plugs?"

"Yes, sir, both the magneto and high tension. That's all right. She's getting no gas; that's the trouble. It's the gasolene feed that's choked somewhere. I saw the fellow that filled us up this morning pour in from a red-rusty tin before I could stop him, and it'll be a flake of oxide from that jammed in the carburetter nozzle. If you could take it down for us, sir, I'm sure it would be a very great favor."

"Wait a bit. Before we begin to pull the car to pieces, suppose we just make sure of one or two other things. Got a stick or anything to sound your gasolene tank with?"

"Oh, that's all right. We haven't run sixty miles since I put in eight gallons."

But Carter straightened out a length of copper wire, unscrewed the cap, and sounded the tank. He pulled out the wire and examined it at the lamp. He wiped it carefully and tried a second time.

"Moses!" said the driver, "dry as a bone. Now, who's been playing pranks here? Must have been some of that nasty Welsh crowd that was hanging round whilst we was having lunch."

"Why, there's the union underneath the tank half unscrewed. That would account for the leak, anyway. Here, hold the lamp. Not too close. Yes, and the vibration has cracked the feed pipe. There's a gap I can get my finger nail into. Now, first of all, have you got any spare gasolene?"

"Yes, sir. Two tins."

"Good. Then it's worth while mending this feed pipe. I suppose you haven't a soldering iron?"

"Afraid not, sir. There's rubber solution----"

"Which gasolene melts. Here, let's go through your stock. Ah, here's a tube of seccotine. Now I'll show you a conjuring trick. If we give the crack three coats of that, and let each dry well before the next is put on--Good Lord! Kate!"

Miss O'Neill came up out of the darkness and bowed. "It's really very good of you, Mr. Carter, to trouble over my car."

"I didn't know it was yours. I didn't know you were in this neighborhood. In fact I did not know where you were."

Kate shrugged her shoulders. "Didn't some sapient person once record that coincidences were the commonest things in life? A minute ago I didn't know whether you were in England, or West Africa, or Grand Canary; and you didn't know or care whether I was alive or dead; and here we meet in the dark on an unnamed roadside in Wales. It's just one of those ordinary, every-day, impossible coincidences, which the vogue of motor cars is making a little more common than usual. I'm glad you're letting business differences sink for the moment."

"I didn't know it was your car."

"Or you'd have bitten off your hand sooner than have touched it?"

He laughed rather dryly. "I'm afraid I should have yielded to the temptation of meddling. You see, internal combustion engines are rather a fad of mine."

"Excellent reason. How long is this ingenious repair going to take?"

"H'm; three coats of seccotine--have to allow each twenty minutes to dry--call it an hour. After that I think if we couple up the union, and put in the spare gasolene your man says he's got, you should go sailing off without a hitch. By the way, I didn't know you motored."

"I'm full of unpleasant surprises."

"Yes, Cascaes, for instance."

"Well, why shouldn't I open up an O'Neill and Craven agency in Las Palmas, pray?"

"No reason whatever. I wasn't referring to Cascaes' business abilities."

"Wagner," said Miss O'Neill to her man, "there's a farm about a mile down this road where they'll bandage up your wrist, and make you some sort of a sling. Don't be away longer than you can help. Mr. Carter and I will look after the car till you get back."

"Thank you'm," said the driver, and marched off into the night. They stared after him till the sound of his footfalls on the hard road died away, and then said Miss O'Neill, "Why doesn't Mr. Cascaes answer when I cable?"

"You can hardly expect me to overlook the work of your Las Palm as agency."

"Don't quibble. Do you know why he is silent?"

"I can make a guess."

"Well, go on."

"He's probably too busy picking aloe thorns out of his carcass to find time for writing cables."

"Oh, so you threw him into an aloe hedge, did you? What did Laura say to that?"

"Well, as she knew nothing about it, she naturally did not comment."

"I see; and did Mr. Cascaes object?"

"Not obtrusively. He took the best licking I ever gave to man or dog without a whimper, and when I tossed him amongst those aloe hooks, he lay there just as he fell."

"Ah," said Kate, and drew a long breath.

"Keen on motoring?" Carter asked after a pause.

"I am, yes."

"I'm taking a light four-cylinder back to the Islands with me."

"Let me see, I promised you a wedding present, didn't I? Let me know when it's for, and what you'll have. By the way, talking of coincidences, I was motoring in the Yorkshire dales a week or so ago, and coming down out of Wensleydale into Wharfedale, we dropped down over a perfectly terrific piece of road that cost me a back tire. Well, unluckily we'd used up the only other spare cover on the car already, so the only thing left was to go slowly on the rim on into the village below and wire for another.

"Such a dear old village it was, of gray stone houses, tucked away under the gray limestone hills, with all the gardens as bright with flowers as you find them in a story-book. The parson saw us when we came in from skating down that awful hill, and when he saw me afterwards strolling round looking at the flowers, he very nicely asked me to go in and look at his roses. A splendid old man he was, and such gorgeous roses. He likes big blooms, and he snips off the superfluous buds on the sly, and Mrs. Parson likes lots of blooms to cut at and to give away, and she's always on the watch after him to see he doesn't steal those buds. I met her, too, and they took me in and gave me tea.

"They'd some Okky war horns on the wall of their draw-ing-room, and I told them I'd a very fine one on mine, and so naturally we got to talking 'Coast.' They've a son out there--or to be more accurate, they had, because he seems to be in England now--and they're a good deal troubled about him. He keeps on making excuses instead of going to see them. Mrs. Parson, who by the way is a perfect dear, said they were afraid he had done something foolish and was shy about coming home----"

"Well?" said Carter.

"Oh, I'm pretty certain the prodigal would have no trouble with her."

"But the Parson? He said nothing about providing veal, I suppose?"

"He did not. To be precise he confined his conversation to roses, and the dale, and a very charming old gentleman he was."

"As you may guess," said Carter savagely, "I don't thank you for going to inspect my people like that."

"I don't recollect," said Miss O'Neill with much sweetness, "ever asking you to thank me. By accident I stumble across some delightful people; I have the opportunity of enjoying their society, and for the sake of seeing more of them I lived in the village for three whole days. They've asked me to go and stay with them next summer, and I'm going. I don't see how that can annoy you, as you've given up going near them."

"I think that crack in the gasolene pipe will stand another coat of seccotine now," said Carter, and moved the lamp and knelt once more in the dusty road.

"It seems a pity," said Miss O'Neill musingly.

"I don't see what business it is of yours anyway," Carter snapped.

"Oh, but surely it's my car that you're so kindly working at. And I do think it's a pity you should have all that trouble with that nasty, smelling, sticky seccotine, when it will all have to be scratched off to-morrow, and the hole soldered up."

Carter laughed in spite of his rage. "You didn't mean that in the least, but I'll own up you drew me smartly enough. It is a pity--I mean the other thing--I love the dale, and I'm about as fond as a man can be of my people. But when you're in love with a girl, and you've promised to marry her, well, other things have to slide."

"Ah, love," said Kate thoughtfully. "I wonder what being in love is really like? I must try it some day as an experience. It seems to alter one's obligations. I should like you to hear my friend the Parson on obligations."

"I can tell you his creed in the matter as he taught it to me as far back as I can remember. The rule, according to him, is: First, keep your word; second, go on keeping it; third, don't let any other considerations whatever interfere with your keeping it."

"Spartan, simple, admirable," said Kate, and then could have bitten out her tongue for sending the words past her lips. She took Carter's hand impulsively enough, and, "I beg your pardon for that," she said. "I may think you're a fool, but I know you are also the most honorable man alive."