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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
"May I have some lunch first?" I asked, bowing politely to Mr. Mortimer.
"Why, of course," said Tommy cheerfully. "You're feeding with us. Here, waiter, waiter, get this gentleman some lunch."
"Look here," he added, as the waiter slid off to fulfil the order, "do you know anything about salmon fishing?"
"In theory," I said, "I know everything. Why?"
"Because as soon as you've finished we're going to take you up to Hereford, for a couple of days on the best salmon river in England."
I turned to Mortimer.
"Much laager," I said, "has made him mad."
Tommy chuckled.
"I'm not joking. I've got two miles of the finest private fishing on the Wye from Saturday to Monday, and a bungalow chucked in."
Mortimer nodded his head.
"That's right," he added.
I gazed at Tommy in mingled amazement and admiration.
"My dear Tommy," I said, "no one appreciates your powers of acquisition more than I do, but how the devil did you manage it?"
Tommy lit a cigar with some contentment.
"It was a reward for a kind action," he explained. "The place belongs to an old boy called Quinn--Sir Cuthbert Quinn. I ran across him last week in a country lane near Bedford, trying to find out what was the matter with his car. He'd been trying for some time. Well, I hopped out and put things straight--it was only a choked jet, but he was so grateful that he insisted on my coming back to lunch with him. While we were lunching, we got on the subject of salmon fishing. I happened to say how keen I was, and then he trotted out the fact that he owned an island with a bungalow on it and two miles of the best fishing above Symonds Yat. 'Would you like a week-end there?' he said. 'I should,' said I, 'very much.' Well, to cut a long yarn short, he handed me over the key, and told me I could come up for a couple of days and bring another rod with me. I couldn't think of any one else at the time, so I wired for Mortimer."
"Thanks," said Mortimer drily.
"Well, as you've got Mortimer," I observed, "you can't take me."
"Oh, that's all right," put in Mortimer; "I don't fish. I've only come for the charm of Tommy's conversation."
"I haven't got a rod," I objected.
"How are we going to manage about grub?" I asked.
Mortimer laughed.
"The car's stuffed with it," he said, "especially drink."
That decided me.
"I'll come," I said, "but you'll have to call for my traps. I'm staying up in Clifton, so it's all on the way."
"Good!" cried Tommy. "You buck up and finish your lunch, while we go round to the garage and get the car."
The car, when it arrived, proved to be a 12-14 De Dion which had apparently been a stranger to the sunny land of France for many strenuous years. In colour it had once been green.
"Not much to look at," said Tommy apologetically; "but she goes--eh, Mortimer?"
"She would if I had her," admitted Mortimer, "for what she'd fetch."
Knowing, however, of Tommy's amazing genius for coaxing motion out of discarded scrap-iron, I got in behind without a qualm. With a fanfare on the horn, we slid out of the garage, and then, clanking like an ironmonger's shop in an earthquake, pounded bravely up Park Street at a surprising velocity.
It only took me about five minutes to cast my week-end trappings into a Gladstone bag and square accounts with the worthy lady at whose house I had been staying. Then off we thundered again through the peaceful respectabilities of Clifton and Redland, out on to the far-flung road that wanders northwards up the Severn Valley.
If the Zeitgeist had any particular purpose when it tossed Tommy's atoms together, it must have been the production of a super-chauffeur. Amazingly erratic as he is in other things, his driving and handling of a car more nearly approaches perfection than any human effort I know. In other hands the hired wreckage that bore our fortunes would, I feel sure, have collapsed hopelessly long before we reached Gloucester. But Tommy, who, according to Mortimer, had pored lovingly over it with a spanner for several hours that morning, lifted it triumphantly, if complainingly, through all demands. At half-past six, dusty and incredibly vociferous, it clattered into Ross, and, practically speaking, our journey was accomplished.
We had a cup of tea at the hotel there, and then in the cool of the evening clanked on cheerfully through the thickly wooded lanes that led to Sir Cuthbert Quinn's bungalow. The distance must have been about six miles, and it was while we were covering this that we got on to the question of how great a strain a salmon rod would stand. Tommy had been telling us some yarn about how a man he knew had jerked a fifteen-pound salmon clean out of the water, and I had ventured to cast a little mild doubt on the accuracy of the tale. Tommy had been quite indignant.
"Why, of course it's possible," he had declared. "A salmon rod will stand almost any strain. The best swimmer in the world would be quite helpless if you hooked him by a belt round his middle."
"Get out, Tommy," I said derisively; "he'd break you every time."
"I bet you he wouldn't," said Tommy. "Look here, you get a good swimmer--any one you like, I don't care who he is--and I'll bet you five pounds I'll land him in under half an hour."
"Done with you," I replied. "And what's more, I'll bet you another fiver he breaks your line inside of five minutes."
Mortimer chuckled.
As he spoke we rattled round the corner of a deeply embedded lane, and, of a sudden, the Wye lay before us, gleaming like silver in its cool green valley.
"That's the bungalow," said Tommy, pointing to a low, red-tiled building which one could just catch a glimpse of through the trees. "The boathouse must be just below us."
We trundled delicately down the hill, for the road rather resembled the traditional highway to Zion, and pulled up outside a solid-looking building on the banks of the river.
Tommy stopped the engine, and we all clambered out. The island lay exactly opposite, its neatly painted landing-stage facing us across the water.
"Why, there's the boat!" exclaimed Mortimer suddenly. "Over there by the steps--look!"
He pointed towards the island, and following his gesture, we all saw a small dinghy apparently tied up to one of the willows that fringed the bank.
We stared at it in amazement.
"Well, that's funny," I said. "How did it get there? There must be someone on the island."
"Oh, no," said Tommy. "Why, I had a card from old stick-in-the-mud only yesterday saying that it was all clear. There's probably another boat of some kind in the shed."
He took the key out of his pocket, and thrusting it into the lock, flung open the door. The place was as empty as a barn.
Mortimer laughed.
"Your aged friend seems to be a bit of a humorist, Tommy."
"There must be someone there," I said. "Most likely it's the gardener. Let's go outside and give him a hail."
We stepped out on to the bank, where Tommy let off a vigorous yell, while I played an impressive voluntary on the horn.
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