"When you've been chased by bloody Afghans," says I, "you learn all there is to know about lying low." But I was pleased at the way my trick had worked, just the same.
We found a skylight, and as luck had it there was a convenient flat roof close by over what proved to be an empty house. We prised up another skylight, crept down two flights of stairs, and got out of a back window into a lane. So far, excellent, but Speed thought it would be capital to go round the front and watch from a safe distance while the peelers removed their victims. I thought it would be fun, too, so we straightened our clothes and then sauntered round into the end of the street.
Sure enough, there was a crowd outside the Minor Club to see the sport. The bobbies were there in their high hats and belts, clustering round the steps while the prisoners were brought down to the closed carts, the men silent and shame-faced or damning their captors for all they were worth, and the trollops crying for the most part, although some had to be carried out kicking and scratching.
If we had been wise we would have kept well clear, but it was growing dusk, and we thought we'd have a closer look. We strolled up to the fringe of the crowd, and as bad luck had it, who should be brought out last, wailing and white-faced, but the youth in the pink coat. Speed guffawed at the woebegone look of him, and sang out to me:
"I say, Flashy, what will mother say?"
The youth must have heard; he twisted round and saw us, and the spiteful little hound gave a yelp and pointed in our direction.
"They were there, too!" he cries. "Those two, they were hiding as well!"
If we had stood fast we could have brazened it out, I dare say, but my instinct to run is too deep ingrained; I was off like a hare before the bobbies had even started towards us, and seeing us run they gave chase at once. We had a fair start, but not enough to be able to get out of view and duck into a doorway or area; St James is a damned bad district to fly from the police in—streets too broad and no convenient alleyways.
They were perhaps fifty yards behind for the first two streets, but then they began to gain—two of them, with their clubs out, yelling after us to stop. I could feel myself going lame in the leg I had broken earlier in the year at Jallalabad; the muscles were still stiff, and pains shot through my thigh at every stride.
Speed saw what was up and slackened his pace.
"Hallo, Flash," says he, "are you done for?"
"Leg's gone," says I. "I can't keep up any longer."
He glanced over his shoulder. In spite of the bad name Hughes gives him in Tom Brown's Schooldays, Speedicut was as game as a terrier and ready for a turn-up any time—not like me at all.[5]
"Oh, well, then," says he, "the deuce with this. Let's stand and have it out with 'em. There's only two—no, wait though, there are more behind, damn 'em. We'll just have to do the best we can old son."
"It's no use," I gasped. "I'm in no state to fight."
"You leave 'em to me," cries he. "I'll hold 'em off while you get out of it. Don't stand there, man; don't you see it won't do for the hero of Afghanistan to be dragged in by the traps? Hellish scandal. Doesn't matter for me, though. Come on, you bluebellied bastards!"
And he turned in the middle of the road, sparring away and daring them to come on.
I didn't hesitate. Anyone who is ass enough to sacrifice himself for Flashy deserves all he gets. Over my shoulder I saw him stop one trap with a straight left, and close with the other. Then I was round the corner, hobbling away as fast as my game leg would carry me. It took me along that street and into the square beyond, and still no bobbies hove in view. I doubled round the central garden, and then my leg almost folded under me.
I rested, gasping, against the railings. Faintly behind me I could hear Speed still singing defiance, and then the nearer patter of feet. Looking round for somewhere to hide I saw a couple of carriages drawn up outside a house fronting onto the railed garden; they weren't far, and the two drivers were together, talking by the horses in the first one. They hadn't seen me; if I could hobble to the rear coach and crawl in, the peelers would pass me by.
Hopping quietly is difficult, but I got to the coach unseen by the drivers, opened the door and climbed in. I squatted down out of sight, heaving to get my breath back and listening for sounds of pursuit. But for several moments all was still; they must be off the scent, thinks I, and then I heard a new sound. Men's and women's voices were coming from the doorway of one of the houses; there was laughter and cries of goodnight, some chattering on the pavement and the sound of footsteps. I held my breath, my heart pounding, and then the carriage door opened, light came in, and I found myself staring into the surprised face of one of the loveliest girls I have ever seen in my life.
No—the loveliest. When I look back and review the beautiful women I have known, blonde and dark, slim and buxom, white and brown, hundreds of the creatures—still, I doubt if there was one to touch her. She was standing with one foot on the step, her hands holding back the skirts of her red satin gown, bending forward to display a splendid white bosom on which sparkled a row of brilliants matching the string in her jet-black hair. Dark blue eyes, very large, stared down at me, and her mouth, which was not wide but very full and red, opened in a little gasp.
"God save me!" exclaims she. "A man! What the devil are you doing, sir?"
It wasn't the kind of greeting you commonly heard from ladies in the young Queen's day, I may tell you. Any other would have screamed and swooned. Thinking quickly, I decided that for once truth would answer best.
"I'm hiding," says I.
"I can see that," says she smartly. She had a most lovely Irish lilt to her voice. "Who from, and why in my carriage, if you please?"
Before I could answer, a man loomed up at her elbow, and at sight of me he let out a foreign oath and started forward as though to protect her.
"Please, please, I mean no harm," I said urgently. "I'm being pursued … the police … no, I'm not a criminal, I assure you. I was in a club that was raided."
The man just stared at me, but the woman showed her teeth in a delightful smile and then threw her head back, chuckling. I smiled as ingratiatingly as I could, but for all the effect my charm had on her companion I might as well have been Quasimodo.
"Step out at once," snaps he, in a cold clipped voice. "At once, do you hear?"
I conceived an instant dislike for him. It was not only his manner and his words, but the look of him. He was big, as big as I was, slim-hipped and broad-shouldered, but he was also damned handsome. He had bright grey eyes and one of those clean-cut faces beneath fair hair that make you think of moral Norse gods, too splendid altogether to be in the company of the beauty beside him.
I started to say something, but he barked at me again, and then the woman came to my aid.
"Oh, let him be, Otto," says she. "Can't you see he's a gentleman?"
I would have thanked her gratefully, but at that moment there were heavy feet on the pavement, and a grave voice inquiring if the gentleman had seen anyone running through the square. The peelers were on the scent again, and this time I was cornered.
But before I could move or speak the lady had seated herself in the coach and hissed:
"Getup off the floor, you booby!"
I obeyed, in spite of my leg, and dropped gasping into the seat beside her. And then her companion, damn his eyes, was saying:
"Here is your man, constable. Arrest him, if you please."
A police sergeant poked his head in at the door, surveyed us, and said to the fair man, doubtfully:
"This gentleman, sir?"
"Of course. Who else?"
"Well… ." The bobby was puzzled, seeing me sitting there large as life. "Are you sure, sir?"