Read Ebook: The Cruise of the Scandal and other stories by Bridges Victor

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Ebook has 1580 lines and 44251 words, and 32 pages

imes by the manager, but never on Friday or Saturday; on those days Blackmore went away early to play golf. He could take five hundred pounds on Thursday night, and, if he won, replace the same notes on Saturday morning. If he lost--well, there would be a headline for the papers, and another vacancy for a head clerk in the bank. It was stealing, of course; sophistry had no place in his mental equipment. Up till now he had never done a dishonourable action. The terrible example of his father, and an instinctive dislike to anything underhand, had kept him straight. For a moment he hesitated--then suddenly some words he had read in a book a few evenings before flashed into his mind. He repeated them with a sort of desperate mockery:

He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dare not put it to the touch, To win or lose it all.

Yes--Yes. That was best. "To win or lose it all." He whispered the last line over again; and knew that he had decided.

"You have made a mistake," said Steele, "and you will know it in another twenty minutes. Did you put much on?"

Barton smiled. "Not enough to get excited about."

"I stuck a quid on 'Kildonen,' so I shall be a bit sick if he goes down."

"Yes, that's a good deal to lose," said Barton calmly.

"I have to go around now to see Johnstone and Driver for Blackmore. I shall be back in about half an hour, and I will bring a paper in with me. You will be sorry you did not take my tip when you see the result--'Kildonen' first, 'Mountain Lady' nowhere. Lucky for you you didn't plunge."

"It would have been rather foolish, wouldn't it?"

"You look a bit off colour to-day, somehow," said Steele, tying up some deeds which he was taking to the lawyers.

"I didn't sleep much last night. I expect I want my holiday."

"Like the rest of us. Two weeks in the year are no good to any one. Well, so long! Prepare for a disappointment when you see the paper."

"I am quite ready," answered Barton.

His fellow clerk laughed, and picking up his parcel of deeds, passed out of the office. As the swing-door closed behind him, Barton suddenly realized that they might never meet again. Steele had been one of his few friends--a pleasant good-natured fellow, who had always treated him with a faint touch of deference; an unconscious tribute that some young men are always ready to pay to a stronger or keener intelligence than their own. Steele would be sorry if things went wrong. He was, perhaps, the only one who would think of him in future with anything but contempt.

Some customers came in, and he got up to attend to them mechanically, adding up the amounts, or paying out what was required, without the least hesitation or inaccuracy. He was scarcely conscious of what he was doing; it was like a strange dream. He felt as if he was looking on at the tragedy of his own life. How long had it been? Twenty-two hours! He laughed to himself. What fool invented the clock? Last night alone had been a lifetime. There had been no time to-day. It had drifted past in a dull trance. After hours of torture he had waked to a state of mental exhaustion, in which thought at last was numbed and powerless.

Five minutes more! A tradesman was talking to him about the weather, as he examined the endorsements on the cheques, and counted silver and gold into little separate piles. "Yes, it was beautiful: a regular summer day. It made one want to be outside, instead of being stuffed up in an office. However, business was business, of course." A quarter past. God--how the moments dragged! They were lining up, perhaps. They might even have started. In a quarter of an hour he might be dead. How those chattering fools would start if they knew!

There was a sudden lull in the work. Four or five customers went out almost together, and for a little while the office was empty. A strange apathy settled down like a mist over Barton's mind. It was all over now. The paper would be out in a few minutes.

He went on writing, slowly, correctly. He felt as though he were being stifled. Suddenly, in the distance, he heard the shrill cry of a paper boy: "Winner, paiper; Cup winner!" Something seemed to snap in his brain. A deadly calm succeeded the formless emotions that had been racking him. He laid down his pen, and getting up from his seat, walked to the cashier's desk.

"I'm going out for a moment, Mr. Furze," he said.

The cashier nodded. "Don't be longer than you can help. We shall be busy again in a minute."

"I shall be back almost immediately," answered Barton.

"Paiper, sir; winner, sir!" He held one out and Barton took it, giving him a shilling.

"You can keep the change," he said.

He crossed the road to a public-house opposite, and, going into the saloon bar, ordered a glass of brandy. A man who was sitting in the corner saw the newspaper in his hand.

"What's won the Cup, guv'nor?" he asked.

"'Kildonen,'" answered Barton. "You can have the paper if you like. I have done with it." He found himself speaking in a perfectly level, disinterested voice.

Mixing a little water with the brandy, he drank it off, and walked back to the office. As he again crossed the road, a man raced past him on a motor-bicycle with a huge pile of newspapers strapped behind him. The Fleet Street edition was evidently down now; he could hear the boy's shouting higher and higher up the road. He hesitated a moment; it would be rather interesting to see if "Mountain Lady" had been in the first three. Then he shrugged his shoulders, and walked on. After all, what did it matter?

There were no customers in the office. He passed through the side door into the small anteroom where the staff kept their coats and hats. From here a staircase led down into the strong-room. He knew that, if he shut the iron door below, the sound of the shot could scarcely reach the bank. It was more pleasant to die without being interrupted.

He walked downstairs quickly, and turned on the electric light that illuminated the big safe. Taking out his revolver, he tested the trigger before putting in a couple of cartridges.

Now everything was ready. There was no time to lose, for Furze would probably be sending down for him in a minute. He felt sorry for the clerk who would come to fetch him. He caught hold of the big, brass handle, and was just swinging the heavy metal slab into its place, when he heard the door open and someone running down the stairs. For an instant he faltered, and then, slipping the revolver into his pocket, pushed back the door.

"Barton! Barton!" It was Steele's voice. He rushed into the safe with a paper in his hand. "Isn't it too rotten?" he exclaimed, flinging it down on the slab.

"I should have thought you would have been pleased," answered Barton wearily.

"Oh, I am glad for your sake, of course; but, under the circumstances, it's a bit rough on me, damn it all."

"What do you mean?" Barton cried hoarsely.

"Haven't you heard?" shouted Steele. "Kildonen's' disqualified--look!" He thrust the paper into Barton's hands.

With a savage effort the latter choked back a deadly faintness that almost overpowered him, and through the dim mist that swam before his eyes, read the lines that Steele pointed out:

MANCHESTER CUP

KILDONEN 4.1 1 Mountain Lady 20.1 2 Rose Crown 7.4 3 Sir Charles 11.2 0 Also ran, Barcup and Flagstaff.

"Kildonen" was disqualified for bumping, and the race awarded to "Mountain Lady."

The paper slipped from Barton's fingers. If Steele had not caught him he would have fallen himself.

"What's the matter, old chap? Are you ill? I never thought you would take it like this. You hadn't much on, had you? Let me get you a glass of water." The astonished clerk helped Barton to a stone slab, where he sat for a minute with his eyes shut.

Then he opened them and smiled. "I am all right now, Steele. I--I have been feeling a bit ill this afternoon."

The Ordeal by Water

When I pushed open the door of the restaurant, the first person I saw was Tommy. He was lunching with another man, and, as usual, conversing with such vigorous cheerfulness that he failed to notice my arrival. I walked up to him, and laid my hand on his shoulder.

"Hallo, Tommy," I said. "I thought you were in Timbuctoo."

He spun round.

"Well, I'm jiggered!" he cried. Then, with that artless directness that so endears him to strangers, he added impetuously, "What the dickens are you doing in this God-forsaken place?"

An eminent Bristolian at the next table snorted audibly.

"I was just going to ask you the same question," I replied, "only in rather more tactful language. I'm here on business."

"Sit down," said Tommy, clutching me by the wrist and dragging me into a vacant chair. "This is Mortimer--Jimmy Mortimer, of the Gold Coast. We're motoring, and you've got to join us."

"May I have some lunch first?" I asked, bowing politely to Mr. Mortimer.

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