“I must what?” said Mr. Babbacombe, all at sea.
“Brush! Pike! Lope off!” said John, his eyes brimful of laughter. “In your own flash tongue, depart!”
“Yes, I know you’re up to fun and gig,” said Mr. Babbacombe severely. “Not but what I must depart tomorrow, because I didn’t bring Fockerby along with me, and what with having to see to it that the ostler at the inn I stayed at last night looked after these tits of mine, and being obliged to dashed well stand over the boots this morning—and even now they don’t look as they should—my boots, I mean!—it’s devilish exhausting! Where can I stable the bays? I can’t talk to you on the high road!”
“Well, you can’t stable them here. You must take them back to the Blue Boar.”
“But I want to talk to you!” objected Mr. Babbacombe.
“Of course, but you must see there’s no place for a curricle here, let alone a pair of horses! You’ll have to walk back: it’s not much more than a mile! Oh, lord! here’s the carrier! Mind, now, Bab, you’ve mistaken the road!” He then said, raising his voice: “No, sir, you should ha’ turned right-handed, short of the village!” and turned from the curricle to fetch the tickets from the office.
Mr. Babbacombe sat in a trance-like state, listening to an interchange of conversation, during the course of which he learned that his eccentric friend was apparently keeping the gate for someone called Brean. The carrier seemed surprised that this person had not yet returned; Mr. Babbacombe was even more surprised to hear that Mr. Brean was John’s cousin. No sooner had the pike been closed behind the carrier than he exclaimed: “If you are not the most complete hand I ever knew! Now, Jack, stop bamming, and tell me what the devil you’re doing!”
“I will,” John promised, grinning up at him, “but take that natty turn-out of yours away first! If Sopworthy—that’s your ale-draper!—knows you’ve come here to see me, you may as well borrow his cob: I can stable him in the henhouse.”
“Jack!” said Mr. Babbacombe. “Are you stabling your own horse in a dashed hen-house?”
“No, no, he’s in that barn, up there! Now, do be off, Bab!” He watched Mr. Babbacombe turn his pair, and bethought him of something, and called out: “Wait, Bab!—I daresay you won’t see him, but if you should meet a fellow at the Blue Boar called Stogumber, take care what you say to him! He was nursing a broken head and a gashed shoulder this morning, but if he gets wind of such an out-and-outer as you, putting up at the inn, he’s bound to think it smoky, and very likely he’ll leave his bed to discover what your business may be. You’d better tell him you came here to visit Sir Peter Stornaway, up at the Manor, but hearing that he’s very ill you’ve thought it best not to intrude upon the family. Now, don’t forget!—Stornaway—Kellands Manor! Stogumber’s a Bow Street Runner, but he don’t know I’ve bubbled him.”
Mr. Babbacombe regarded him in fascinated horror. “A Bow Street—No, by God, I’ll be damned if I’ll go another yard until you’ve told me what kind of a kick-up this is! Dear boy, you ain’t murdered anyone?”
“Lor” bless you, gov’nor, I ain’t a queer cove!” said the Captain outrageously. “Nor no trap ain’t wishful to snabble me!”
“Dutch comfort! Do you mean the Runner ain’t after you?”
“No, he only suspects he may be,” replied the Captain. “He thinks I’m a trifle smoky.”
“If he knew as much about you as I do,” said Mr. Babbacombe, with feeling, “he’d know you’re a dangerous lunatic, and dashed well put you under restraint!”
With these embittered words, he drove off, leaving the Captain laughing, and waving farewell.
Half an hour later he was once more at the tollhouse, dismounting from the landlord’s cob, which animal he apostrophized as the greatest slug he had ever crossed in his life. The hen-house, he considered, would be a fitting stable; and allowing John to lead the cob away, he entered the tollhouse, and was discovered by his friend, a few minutes later, inspecting the premises with interest not unmixed with consternation.
“How do you like my quarters?” John asked cheerfully.
“Well, your bedroom ain’t so bad, but where do you sit?” enquired Mr. Babbacombe.
“Here, in the kitchen, of course!”
“No, really, Jack!”
“Lord, you’ve grown very nice, haven’t you? Were you never billeted in a Portuguese cottage, with no glass in the windows, and a fire burning in the middle of the floor, so that you were blinded by the smoke?”
“I was,” acknowledged Mr. Babbacombe. “That’s why I sold out!”
“Don’t you try to play off the airs of an exquisite on me, my buck! Sit down! By the way, why the devil didn’t you pack up my cigarillos with the rest of my gear? I’ve none left!”
With a sigh, Mr. Babbacombe produced a case from his pocket, and held it out. “Because you didn’t tell me to, of course. Here you are!”
“Bless you!” said the Captain. “Well, now we’ll blow a cloud together, Bab, and I’ll tell you what I’m doing here!”
After this promising beginning he seemed to find it hard to continue, and for a moment or two sat staring into the fire, smoking, and frowning slightly. Mr. Babbacombe, his elegant form disposed as comfortably as a Windsor chair would permit, watched him through his lashes, but preserved a patient silence. John looked up at last, a rueful smile in his eyes. “It all came about by accident,” he said.
Mr. Babbacombe sighed. “I knew that,” he replied. “You’ve never been in a scrape yet but what it came about by accident. The thing is, no one else has these accidents. However, I ain’t going to argue about it! Why did you send your baggage to Edenhope, though? Been puzzling me!”
“I was coming to stay with you!” said the Captain indignantly.
“Well, what made you change your mind?” mildly enquired Mr. Babbacombe.
“I’ll tell you,” said the Captain obligingly; and settled down to give him a brief account of his present adventure. Certain aspects of it he chose to keep to himself, perhaps considering them to be irrelevant, and although the Squire’s name occurred frequently during his recital, the most glancing of references only were made to his granddaughter. But the rest of the story he told his friend without reservation.
Mr. Babbacombe, listening in astonishment, and with no more than an occasional interruption, learned with incredulity that the Captain had no immediate intention of divulging to Stogumber the whereabouts of the treasure. He was moved to protest, saying in deeply moved accents: “No, really, my dear fellow—! Only one thing to be done! Tell the Redbreast at once!”
“If you had paid the least heed to what I have been saying,” retorted John, “you would know that what I am trying to do is to keep young Stornaway’s name out of this!”
“Well, you can’t do it, and, damme, I don’t see why you should wish to! Sounds to me like a devilish loose fish!”
“Yes, a contemptible creature! But I promised his grandfather I would do my possible to keep his name clean!”
“So you may have—though I’ll be damned if I see why you should!—but you didn’t know then what kind of a business he was mixed up in! I tell you, this is serious, Jack! Good God, it’s a hanging matter!”
“Don’t I know it!”
“Well, it don’t seem to me as though you’ve the least notion of it!” said Mr. Babbacombe, with considerable asperity. “Dash it, who is this old fellow, and what made you take such a fancy to him?”
This home question brought the colour up into John’s face. Avoiding his friend’s eye, he was just about to embark on an explanation, which sounded lame even in his own ears, when he was interrupted by a shout from the road. Never more thankful to be recalled to his duties, he apologized hastily to Mr. Babbacombe, and went off to open the gate, and to collect the toll. By the time he returned to the kitchen, he was once more in command of himself, and the situation, and informed Babbacombe crisply that he had his own sufficient reasons for desiring to spare Sir Peter as much pain as possible. “It don’t matter why: it is so!” he said. “Just accept that, will you, Bab?”