Chapter 13

The waiter obeyed hastily. Hirst, a ludicrous but pitiable figure in knee-breeches and coat, a large wig all awry and his face a mess of grease paint, clung to him, trembling.

“Now, what’s the matter?” asked Malcolm.

“I’ve seen it,” said Hirst, with a hysterical sob. “O Lord, I’ll never play the fool again, never!”

“Seen what?” said the others.

“Him—it—the ghost—anything!” said Hirst, wildly.

“Rot!” said Malcolm, uneasily.

“I was coming down the stairs,” said Hirst. “Just capering down—as I thought—it ought to do. I felt a tap—”

He broke off suddenly and peered nervously through the open door into the passage.

“I thought I saw it again,” he whispered.

“Look—at the foot of the stairs. Can you see anything?”

“No, there’s nothing there,” said Malcolm, whose own voice shook a little. “Go on. You felt a tap on your shoulder—”

“I turned round and saw it—a little wicked head and a white dead face. Pah!”

“That’s what I saw in the bar,” said George. “’Orrid it was—devilish!”

Hirst shuddered, and, still retaining his nervous grip of Malcolm’s sleeve, dropped into a chair.

“Well, it’s a most unaccountable thing,” said the dumbfounded Malcolm, turning round to the others. “It’s the last time I come to this house.”

“I leave to-morrow,” said George. “I wouldn’t go down to that bar again by myself, no, not for fifty pounds!”

“It’s talking about the thing that’s caused it, I expect,” said one of the men; “we’ve all been talking about this and having it in our minds. Practically we’ve been forming a spiritualistic circle without knowing it.”

“Hang the old gentleman!” said Malcolm, heartily. “Upon my soul, I’m half afraid to go to bed. It’s odd they should both think they saw something.”

“I saw it as plain as I see you, sir,” said George, solemnly. “P’raps if you keep your eyes turned up the passage you’ll see it for yourself.”

They followed the direction of his finger, but saw nothing, although one of them fancied that a head peeped round the corner of the wall.

“Who’ll come down to the bar?” said Malcolm, looking round.

“You can go, if you like,” said one of the others, with a faint laugh; “we’ll wait here for you.”

The stout traveller walked towards the door and took a few steps up the passage. Then he stopped. All was quite silent, and he walked slowly to the end and looked down fearfully towards the glass partition which shut off the bar. Three times he made as though to go to it; then he turned back, and, glancing over his shoulder, came hurriedly back to the room.

“Did you see it, sir?” whispered George.

“Don’t know,” said Malcolm, shortly. “I fancied I saw something, but it might have been fancy. I’m in the mood to see anything just now. How are you feeling now, sir?”

“Oh, I feel a bit better now,” said Hirst, somewhat brusquely, as all eyes were turned upon him. “I dare say you think I’m easily scared, but you didn’t see it.”

“Not at all,” said Malcolm, smiling faintly despite himself.

“I’m going to bed,” said Hirst, noticing the smile and resenting it. “Will you share my room with me, Somers?”

“I will with pleasure,” said his friend, “provided you don’t mind sleeping with the gas on full all night.”

He rose from his seat, and bidding the company a friendly good-night, left the room with his crestfallen friend. The others saw them to the foot of the stairs, and having heard their door close, returned to the coffee-room.

“Well, I suppose the bet’s off?” said the stout commercial, poking the fire and then standing with his legs apart on the hearthrug; “though, as far as I can see, I won it. I never saw a man so scared in all my life. Sort of poetic justice about it, isn’t there?”

“Never mind about poetry or justice,” said one of his listeners; “who’s going to sleep with me?”

“I will,” said Malcolm, affably.

“And I suppose we share a room together, Mr. Leek?” said the third man, turning to the fourth.

“No, thank you,” said the other, briskly; “I don’t believe in ghosts. If anything comes into my room I shall shoot it.”

“That won’t hurt a spirit, Leek,” said Malcolm, decisively.

“Well the noise’ll be like company to me,” said Leek, “and it’ll wake the house too. But if you’re nervous, sir,” he added, with a grin, to the man who had suggested sharing his room, “George’ll be only too pleased to sleep on the door-mat inside your room, I know.”

“That I will, sir,” said George, fervently; “and if you gentlemen would only come down with me to the bar to put the gas out, I could never be sufficiently grateful.”

They went out in a body, with the exception of Leek, peering carefully before them as they went. George turned the light out in the bar and they returned unmolested to the coffee-room, and, avoiding the sardonic smile of Leek, prepared to separate for the night.

“Give me the candle while you put the gas out, George,” said the traveller.

The waiter handed it to him and extinguished the gas, and at the same moment all distinctly heard a step in the passage outside. It stopped at the door, and as they watched with bated breath, the door creaked and slowly opened. Malcolm fell back open-mouthed, as a white, leering face, with sunken eyeballs and close-cropped bullet head, appeared at the opening.

For a few seconds the creature stood regarding them, blinking in a strange fashion at the candle. Then, with a sidling movement, it came a little way into the room and stood there as if bewildered.

Not a man spoke or moved, but all watched with a horrible fascination as the creature removed its dirty neckcloth and its head rolled on its shoulder. For a minute it paused, and then, holding the rag before it, moved towards Malcolm.

The candle went out suddenly with a flash and a bang. There was a smell of powder, and something writhing in the darkness on the floor. A faint, choking cough, and then silence. Malcolm was the first to speak. “Matches,” he said, in a strange voice. George struck one. Then he leapt at the gas and a burner flamed from the match. Malcolm touched the thing on the floor with his foot and found it soft. He looked at his companions. They mouthed inquiries at him, but he shook his head. He lit the candle, and, kneeling down, examined the silent thing on the floor. Then he rose swiftly, and dipping his handkerchief in the water-jug, bent down again and grimly wiped the white face. Then he sprang back with a cry of incredulous horror, pointing at it. Leek’s pistol fell to the floor and he shut out the sight with his hands, but the others, crowding forward, gazed spell-bound at the dead face of Hirst.

Before a word was spoken the door opened and Somers hastily entered the room. His eyes fell on the floor. “Good God!” he cried. “You didn’t—”

Nobody spoke.

“I told him not to,” he said, in a suffocating voice. “I told him not to. I told him—”

He leaned against the wall, deathly sick, put his arms out feebly, and fell fainting into the traveller’s arms.

THE PEACEMAKER

The harbour was crowded with fishing boats, and fresh arrivals were coming in every few minutes. Until the entrance was reached they came scudding along with every appearance of haste, but then their mainsails came tumbling down to the deck, and the boats with sufficient way left on them moved easily over the still water, and felt their way to a berth. Small boats conveyed the fish to the quay, where embryo fishermen were appraising the catch with a wisdom beyond their years.

There was a glut of whiting. So many whiting, and going so cheaply that it was enough to make them bite their tails from sheer vexation. Small flat fish which slid away from their pile were carefully looked after and coaxed back with the toe of a sea-boot, but whiting slid away unnoticed until they vanished from mortal ken in the pockets of predatory urchins.

In the small market, a short, red-faced man with a scrubby beard walked in a disparaging fashion from heap to heap, using a favourite briar in lieu of a hammer to knock down such fish as found bidders. The latter were few and wary, and turning a deaf ear to eloquence expressed opinions distasteful to an auctioneer’s ear in crude English.

The sense of the meeting being against him, the auctioneer truckled to it, and coming to another heap consisting of a selection of the most undesirable fish that swim Britannia’s realm, gazed at it indignantly. There was a titter behind him, and he voiced his wrath impetuously.

“That’s Joe Gubbs’s catch,” he bawled. “S’elp me, I’d know that man’s luck anywhere.”

He turned the fish over scornfully with his foot, and, with a severe glance at the hapless Gubbs, moved away to something more saleable.

“Where d’ye get ’em from, Gubbs?” inquired an aggravating voice. “We never get such things in our nets. I’ve never seen some o’ them things afore.”

“There’s a lot you ain’t seen, Bob Tarbut,” said Gubbs, turning upon him, “and what you do see don’t do you much good.”

“I’d be ashamed to bring home such a queer-looking lot,” jeered the other.

“They mayn’t be up to much, but there’s none on ’em would care to change faces with you, I expect,” related Gubbs.

“You leave my face alone,” said Tarbut, whose physiognomy was much used in the village for purposes of comparison.

“A skate’s handsome to you,” said Gubbs, following up his advantage.

He jumped back suddenly as the fist of the sensitive Tarbut shot suddenly out, and treading on a small fish, whirled round wildly with his hands in the air in the effort to retain his balance, and sat down heavily. The bystanders instantly separated into two groups, and two or three anxious sympathisers helped the fallen man to his feet, and indicated those parts of Tarbut’s frame which in their opinion were least adapted to offer resistance to his fist.

“Stand up,” said Gubbs, sternly, as he shook himself free from these friends.

“I am a-standin’ up!” said Tarbut, breathing hard.

The two combatants approached each other stealthily, and manœuvring round the heaps of fish, struck safely at each other over these convenient barriers.

“Get ’em in the road,” cried an excited voice, “they can’t ’urt each other here.”

A dozen kindly hands helped them there, and finding too much strategy for sport in a large ring, at the bidding of the resourceful individual who had last spoken, gradually made it smaller and smaller. Two or three small blows warmed the combatants, and they set to work in earnest. Then Gubbs, under a heavy blow from Tarbut, went to the ground and stayed there.

It was three minutes before he came thoroughly round, and then he sat up in a dazed fashion and looked round for his opponent.

“Did I kill ’im?” he inquired, in a whisper.

“No, not quite,” said one of his friends, gently.

Gubbs rubbed his eyes. “What are they patting him on the back for?” he inquired, eyeing the group who were making a fuss over Tarbut.

“’Cos he’s won,” said his friend.

Gubbs staggered to his feet.

“It’s no good,” said the landlord of the “Three Fishers,” who had run over to the scene of the fray; “you wasn’t properly trained, you know. Now, look ’ere. If you put yourself in my hands, in three weeks you can beat him holler.”

“You do as Mr. Larkins ses, Joe,” said his friend, impressively.

“I lived among prizefighters afore I come down ’ere,” said Mr. Larkins, expanding his small frame. “In three weeks’ time, Gubbs, you’ll be able to knock him silly.”

“Well, what about Tarbut? He ought to be trained too,” said one of the men. “Fair play’s fair play any day.”

“I’ll train ’im,” said an old ex-coastguardsman.

“I don’t want no training,” said Tarbut, surlily. “I’ve beat ’im, beat ’im easy.”

“Well, beat ’im again, Tarbut,” said one of his friends. “I’ll put my five bob on you. Who’ll take me?”

For the next five minutes, heedless of the assertions of both men that they wouldn’t fight any more, bets were freely taken, Tarbut, in view of his recent success, being a hot favourite.

A jarring element was introduced into the proceedings by a small, elderly man wearing a piece of blue ribbon, who, pushing his way in eagerly, inquired what it was all about. Nobody troubling to give him a correct answer, he tried to solve it for himself, and was then caught, just in the nick of time, trying to make the enemies shake hands.

“You go off to your Mother’s Meeting, Peter Morgan,” said an incensed voice.

“It’s a fight,” said the little man, raising his voice. “Oh, my friends——”

“It’s nothing o’ the kind,” said Larkins, hotly. “I’m training ’em for a race, that’s all. They’re just going to see who’s the best runner.”

Morgan, disregarding the publican, looked to others for information.

“It’s quite right,” said a bystander. “You can believe me, can’t you?”

“When’s it going to be?” asked Morgan.

“I don’t know,” said the other, turning away.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” said Morgan, warmly. “It’s bad enough to make a couple of men fight what don’t want to without telling a lot of lies about it.”

“It’s none o’ your business,” said Larkins, surlily. “Ask no questions and you’ll hear no lies. You’ll get some idea into that ’ead of yours and then go and split, and have it stopped.”

“I never told of anything in my life,” said Morgan, sharply. “My mates here know that. That ain’t my way. My way’s persuasion and example, not forcing people to do what I want.”

“There’s a purse o’ fifteen and six made up for the winner,” said Larkins, turning away and whispering the news to Gubbs. “The spot for the picnic’ll be made known later on. Them what’s in the know is respectfully asked to keep their mouths shut to save trouble all round.”

He went back to his bar, and the other men, after standing about a bit, strolled off one by one to their teas. Mr. Morgan was one of the last to leave, and went as far as Tarbut’s door with him to tell him an anecdote of a man who was struck behind the ear in a fight and killed on the spot.

A comfortable meal and a good night’s rest restored Mr. Gubbs to his wonted serenity of mind, and he awoke at six o’clock feeling determined to shake hands with Tarbut and let the matter drop. A persistent hammering at the door, which gradually got louder and louder, interfering with his meditations, he roused Mrs. Gubbs, who was sleeping peacefully, and with some asperity bade her get up and stop it.

“It’s Mr. Larkins, Joe,” said the lady, hastily withdrawing her head from the window.

Mr. Gubbs sat up in bed, and then with a mighty yawn rose, and, pushing open the casement again, gazed indignantly at the small publican, who was standing below keeping up an incessant rapping on the door with a small cane.

“Morning, Mr. Larkins, sir,” said Gubbs, sniffing at the cool morning air.

“Halloa!” said Larkins, looking up. “This won’t do, you know. You’re wasting time. You ought to be up and out by now.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Gubbs, leaning out and speaking in a low voice to defeat the intentions of Mrs. Gubbs, who was listening. “I dreamt I killed Tarbut, an’ it’s give me such a fright that I’ve resolved not to fight.”

“That’s all right,” said Larkins, briskly; “dreams always go by contraries.”

“Well there ain’t much comfort in that,” said Gubbs, who was anxious to get back to his warm bed, sharply.

“You dress and come down,” said the imperious Larkins. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself after all the trouble I’m taking on your behalf.”

Mr. Gubbs rubbed his eyes and pondered. “What’s the towel for?” he demanded, suspiciously.

“Rub you down with after you’ve bathed,” said the other.

“_Bathed?_” said Mr. Gubbs, with emphasis. “Bathed? What for?”

“Training,” replied Mr. Larkins. “Hurry up.”

“I don’t believe old Bullock’s going to make Tarbut bathe,” said Gubbs, shivering; “it’s weakening.”

“You do as you’re told,” said the autocratic Larkins. “Bullock don’t know nothing about it.”

Mr. Gubbs sighed and withdrew his head, and explaining to his astonished wife that he was going for a little stroll, gloomily dressed himself and joined his trainer below.

“Shoulders back,” said the small publican. “Head up.”

He led the way down to the beach, and, ignoring the looks of aversion which Mr. Gubbs bestowed upon the silver sea, stood by while he disrobed and picked his way painfully over the shingle to the edge of the water. It was a bright morning, but somewhat chill, and Mr. Gubbs’s breathless gaspings furnished an excellent clue to the temperature of the water.

“How do you feel?” inquired Mr. Larkins, anxiously, as he rubbed him down.

“I feel ill,” said the other, shivering.

“You’ll feel better when you’ve had your run,” said Larkins, cheerily.

“’Ad my w—w—_wot?_” inquired Mr. Gubbs, staring at him offensively, and rubbing himself furiously with the towel.

“Your run,” repeated Larkins, sternly. “You don’t want your coat. I’ll hold that. And mind, I don’t want you to go running like a steam-engine, or a runaway horse.”

“I wasn’t goin’ to,” said Gubbs.

“Just trot easy,” continued the other, “for about half a mile. Go as far as that gate over there, then rest two minutes and trot back again.”

His manner was so dictatorial that Mr. Gubbs, remembering in time his score at the “Three Fishers,” swallowed something he was going to say—and it was nearly strong enough to choke him—and set off at a strange, weird gait towards the indicated goal. He reached it at last, and after a long two minutes started back again in response to the semaphore-like appeals of the enthusiastic Larkins.

“I’ve got my work cut out for me, I can see,” said the latter, as his victim, puffing and blowing, sat down on the ground. “But I’ll soon get you in trim, and mind you keep quiet about it. I don’t want Bullock to know.”

“Why not?” demanded Mr. Gubbs.

“Because he’d train Tarbut the same way,” said Larkins, with a cunning grin.

“Well, why shouldn’t Tarbut ’ave a doing same as me?” said Mr. Gubbs, vindictively. “Why should ’e be a-laying in comfort in ’is bed while I’m catching cold bathing and killing myself running?”

“Don’t you be a fool,” said Larkins, affectionately patting him on the shoulder. “Come into my place when you have time, and I’ll put the gloves on with you a bit; and be careful what you eat, mind, else you’ll undo all the good I’ve done you.”

If it is possible for a man to expectorate sarcastically, Mr. Gubbs achieved that feat.

“Only two cups of tea with your breakfast,” continued Larkins, solemnly, “and no greens for dinner, and I’ll send you in one pint of old ale every day free gratis.”

The tensity of Mr. Gubbs’s features relaxed, and he smiled faintly as he rose and accompanied his friend back. Larkins saw him to his door, and after explaining fluently to Mrs. Gubbs that her husband was training for a race, gave her explicit instructions as to his diet, and departed.

It was a source of much joy to Mr. Larkins, though he was unable to persuade Gubbs to share in his feelings, that Tarbut’s trainer was satisfied with a less vigorous system for his man. He let Tarbut off with a cold sponging on rising, and as Tarbut had his own ideas as to what constituted a cold sponging, both parties were well pleased with each other.

The business-like nature of these proceedings was keenly appreciated by the inhabitants of the fishing quarter. Fights had happened before and doubtless would again, but they were mere rough-and-tumble affairs, and over before any proper excitement could be worked up. The purse had steadily mounted up to thirty-five shillings, and the betting varied from day to day.

Each man had his knot of supporters, and enthusiasm had reached such a pitch that Gubbs, who was naturally of a retiring disposition, had to take his matutinal tub before quite a circle of admirers. Opposition on the part of the ladies was balked by continuing to allude to the affair as a race, though Mrs. Gubbs, who got up one morning to see her man run, went home in a state of mind bordering upon stupefaction.

An uneasy feeling was caused by the anxiety of the excellent Mr. Morgan to discover the time and place of meeting. No information was afforded him, and as he had indignantly denied any intention of giving the alarm, the gentlemen interested were much exercised as to the reasons for his curiosity.

The battle was fixed for a Saturday evening, the two trainers, after much wordy warfare, having selected a site which Mr. Larkins insisted had been made purposely by Nature with a view to affairs of the kind. Lofty cliffs hid it from view, and the ground itself consisted of turf so soft and spongy that Larkins predicted that Tarbut would bounce up from it like an indiarubber ball. The principals expressed themselves as satisfied, though their niggardliness in the matter of thanks for the trouble which had been taken over the arrangements formed food for conversation for the trainers all the way home.

The boats got in early on Friday afternoon with their fish. The catch was small and soon disposed of, and then the attentive trainers, rescuing their men from admirers, who were feeling their arms and putting leading questions as to their wind and state of mind, sent them indoors with concise instructions as to how they were to spend the last evening. Larkins officiously sent his man off for a short, sharp walk after his tea, and later on, going to the quay, found that Bullock had given his man the same instructions.

“Don’t you go worrying of ’em, mind,” said Larkins sternly to the group, “an’ let ’em have an easy time of it to-morrow in the boats. Both of ’em,” he added, generously.

“Spoke like a Briton, Mr. Larkins,” said an old fisherman.

“What I want is fair play and no favour,” said Mr. Larkins; “it’s to be a genuine sporting affair. No bad blood or anything of that kind. After the little affair, all what go to see it are welcome to one drink at my expense.”

“It’s time my man was back,” said Bullock, looking up the road which led over the cliffs. “I told him to go just as far as the ground and back.”

“Old Peter Morgan’s gone down to the place too, I think,” piped a small lad in huge boots. “I saw ’im following of Tarbut.”

The landlord of the “Three Fishers” started uneasily. “It’s on my mind,” he said, in a melancholy voice, “that that blessed old teetotaller’ll have the thing stopped. He’ll tell the police or something.”

“No he won’t,” said the old fisherman who had spoken before. “Me an’ Peter was boys together, an’ he’s never done anything o’ that sort in his life. Before old Peter got religious there was nothing he liked better than to see a fight, or to take part in one either, an’ it’s my opinion he’d like to see this one, only he don’t like to say so.”

“Well, he won’t,” said Larkins, grimly; “it may be as you say, but we’re not going to take any risks.”

Conversation became general, and in view of the nearness of the event, animated, but still the two gladiators failed to put in an appearance.

“He’s overdoing it, that’s what he is,” said Mr. Larkins, referring to the ardent Gubbs. “You can ’ave a man too willing. He’ll go and knock hisself up.”

The small boy came up, his big boots clattering over the stones, and, shading his eyes with his hands, looked up the road. The other men, following his gaze, saw three men advancing lovingly arm-in-arm towards them.

“It—it can’t be old Morgan with ’em?” said Mr. Larkins.

“It is, though,” said the old fisherman, peering through screwed-up eyes. “They’ve made it up through old Peter, that’s wot they’ve done. He’s been talking at ’em and getting at ’em, and now there won’t be no fight.”

His disappointed auditors groaned in chorus. “Won’t there,” said Larkins, savagely. “Ho—won’t there—— You don’t think me and my friend Bullock here are going to slave three weeks for nothing, do you?”

“There won’t be no fight,” repeated the old man. “Look how loving they are! All three of ’em as close together as sweethearts.”

The advancing trio certainly bore out the old man’s words to the letter. Mr. Peter Morgan was in the centre, and appeared to be half-embracing his companions.