Mr. Ledbetter's Vacation
My friend, Mr. Ledbetter, is a round-faced little man, whose naturalmildness of eye is gigantically exaggerated when you catch the beamthrough his glasses, and whose deep, deliberate voice irritatesirritable people. A certain elaborate clearness of enunciation hascome with him to his present vicarage from his scholastic days, anelaborate clearness of enunciation and a certain nervous determinationto be firm and correct upon all issues, important and unimportantalike. He is a sacerdotalist and a chess player, and suspected by manyof the secret practice of the higher mathematics--creditable ratherthan interesting things. His conversation is copious and givenmuch to needless detail. By many, indeed, his intercourse iscondemned, to put it plainly, as "boring," and such have even doneme the compliment to wonder why I countenance him. But, on the otherhand, there is a large faction who marvel at his countenancingsuch a dishevelled, discreditable acquaintance as myself. Few appearto regard our friendship with equanimity. But that is because theydo not know of the link that binds us, of my amiable connectionvia Jamaica with Mr. Ledbetter's past.About that past he displays an anxious modesty. "I do not know whatI should do if it became known," he says; and repeats, impressively,"I do not know what I should do." As a matter of fact, I doubt ifhe would do anything except get very red about the ears. But thatwill appear later; nor will I tell here of our first encounter,since, as a general rule--though I am prone to break it--the endof a story should come after, rather than before, the beginning.And the beginning of the story goes a long way back; indeed, it isnow nearly twenty years since Fate, by a series of complicated andstartling manoeuvres, brought Mr. Ledbetter, so to speak, into myhands.In those days I was living in Jamaica, and Mr. Ledbetter was aschoolmaster in England. He was in orders, and already recognisablythe same man that he is to-day: the same rotundity of visage,the same or similar glasses, and the same faint shadow of surprisein his resting expression. He was, of course, dishevelled whenI saw him, and his collar less of a collar than a wet bandage,and that may have helped to bridge the natural gulf between us--butof that, as I say, later.The business began at Hithergate-on-Sea, and simultaneously withMr. Ledbetter's summer vacation. Thither he came for a greatlyneeded rest, with a bright brown portmanteau marked "F. W. L.",a new white-and-black straw hat, and two pairs of white flanneltrousers. He was naturally exhilarated at his release from school--for he was not very fond of the boys he taught. After dinner hefell into a discussion with a talkative person established in theboarding-house to which, acting on the advice of his aunt, he hadresorted. This talkative person was the only other man in the house.Their discussion concerned the melancholy disappearance of wonderand adventure in these latter days, the prevalence of globe-trotting,the abolition of distance by steam and electricity, the vulgarityof advertisement, the degradation of men by civilisation, and manysuch things. Particularly was the talkative person eloquent onthe decay of human courage through security, a security Mr. Ledbetterrather thoughtlessly joined him in deploring. Mr. Ledbetter, in thefirst delight of emancipation from "duty," and being anxious, perhaps,to establish a reputation for manly conviviality, partook, rathermore freely than was advisable, of the excellent whisky the talkativeperson produced. But he did not become intoxicated, he insists.He was simply eloquent beyond his sober wont, and with the fineredge gone from his judgment. And after that long talk of the braveold days that were past forever, he went out into moonlit Hithergate--alone and up the cliff road where the villas cluster together.He had bewailed, and now as he walked up the silent road he stillbewailed, the fate that had called him to such an uneventful lifeas a pedagogue's. What a prosaic existence he led, so stagnant,so colourless! Secure, methodical, year in year out, what call wasthere for bravery? He thought enviously of those roving, mediaevaldays, so near and so remote, of quests and spies and condottieriand many a risky blade-drawing business. And suddenly came a doubt,a strange doubt, springing out of some chance thought of tortures,and destructive altogether of the position he had assumed that evening.Was he--Mr. Ledbetter--really, after all, so brave as he assumed?Would he really be so pleased to have railways, policemen, andsecurity vanish suddenly from the earth?The talkative man had spoken enviously of crime. "The burglar,"he said, "is the only true adventurer left on earth. Think of hissingle-handed fight against the whole civilised world!" And Mr.Ledbetter had echoed his envy. "They do have some fun out of life,"Mr. Ledbetter had said. "And about the only people who do. Justthink how it must feel to wire a lawn!" And he had laughed wickedly.Now, in this franker intimacy of self-communion he found himselfinstituting a comparison between his own brand of courage and that ofthe habitual criminal. He tried to meet these insidious questioningswith blank assertion. "I could do all that," said Mr. Ledbetter."I long to do all that. Only I do not give way to my criminal impulses.My moral courage restrains me." But he doubted even while he toldhimself these things."Mr. Ledbetter passed a large villa standing by itself. Convenientlysituated above a quiet, practicable balcony was a window, gapingblack, wide open. At the time he scarcely marked it, but the pictureof it came with him, wove into his thoughts. He figured himselfclimbing up that balcony, crouching--plunging into that dark,mysterious interior. "Bah! You would not dare," said the Spiritof Doubt. "My duty to my fellow-men forbids," said Mr. Ledbetter'sself-respect.It was nearly eleven, and the little seaside town was already verystill. The whole world slumbered under the moonlight. Only onewarm oblong of window-blind far down the road spoke of waking life.He turned and came back slowly towards the villa of the open window.He stood for a time outside the gate, a battlefield of motives."Let us put things to the test," said Doubt. "For the satisfactionof these intolerable doubts, show that you dare go into that house.Commit a burglary in blank. That, at any rate, is no crime." Verysoftly he opened and shut the gate and slipped into the shadowof the shrubbery. "This is foolish," said Mr. Ledbetter's caution."I expected that," said Doubt. His heart was beating fast, but hewas certainly not afraid. He was not afraid. He remained in thatshadow for some considerable time.The ascent of the balcony, it was evident, would have to be donein a rush, for it was all in clear moonlight, and visible fromthe gate into the avenue. A trellis thinly set with young, ambitiousclimbing roses made the ascent ridiculously easy. There, in thatblack shadow by the stone vase of flowers, one might crouch andtake a closer view of this gaping breach in the domestic defences,the open window. For a while Mr. Ledbetter was as still as the night,and then that insidious whisky tipped the balance. He dashed forward.He went up the trellis with quick, convulsive movements, swung hislegs over the parapet of the balcony, and dropped panting in theshadow even as he had designed. He was trembling violently, shortof breath, and his heart pumped noisily, but his mood was exultation.He could have shouted to find he was so little afraid.A happy line that he had learnt from Wills's "Mephistopheles" cameinto his mind as he crouched there. "I feel like a cat on the tiles,"he whispered to himself. It was far better than he had expected--this adventurous exhilaration. He was sorry for all poor men to whomburglary was unknown. Nothing happened. He was quite safe. Andhe was acting in the bravest manner!And now for the window, to make the burglary complete! Must he dare dothat? Its position above the front door defined it as a landing orpassage, and there were no looking-glasses or any bedroom signs aboutit, or any other window on the first floor, to suggest the possibilityof a sleeper within. For a time he listened under the ledge, thenraised his eyes above the sill and peered in. Close at hand, ona pedestal, and a little startling at first, was a nearly life-sizegesticulating bronze. He ducked, and after some time he peeredagain. Beyond was a broad landing, faintly gleaming; a flimsy fabricof bead curtain, very black and sharp, against a further window; abroad staircase, plunging into a gulf of darkness below; and anotherascending to the second floor. He glanced behind him, but thestillness of the night was unbroken. "Crime," he whispered, "crime,"and scrambled softly and swiftly over the sill into the house. Hisfeet fell noiselessly on a mat of skin. He was a burglar indeed!He crouched for a time, all ears and peering eyes. Outside wasa scampering and rustling, and for a moment he repented of hisenterprise. A short "miaow," a spitting, and a rush into silence,spoke reassuringly of cats. His courage grew. He stood up. Everyone was abed, it seemed. So easy is it to commit a burglary, if oneis so minded. He was glad he had put it to the test. He determinedto take some petty trophy, just to prove his freedom from any abjectfear of the law, and depart the way he had come.He peered about him, and suddenly the critical spirit arose again.Burglars did far more than such mere elementary entrance as this:they went into rooms, they forced safes. Well--he was not afraid.He could not force safes, because that would be a stupid wantof consideration for his hosts. But he would go into rooms--he wouldgo upstairs. More: he told himself that he was perfectly secure;an empty house could not be more reassuringly still. He had to clenchhis hands, nevertheless, and summon all his resolution before hebegan very softly to ascend the dim staircase, pausing for severalseconds between each step. Above was a square landing with oneopen and several closed doors; and all the house was still. Fora moment he stood wondering what would happen if some sleeperwoke suddenly and emerged. The open door showed a moonlit bedroom,the coverlet white and undisturbed. Into this room he crept in threeinterminable minutes and took a piece of soap for his plunder--his trophy. He turned to descend even more softly than he hadascended. It was as easy as--Hist! . . .Footsteps! On the gravel outside the house--and then the noise of alatchkey, the yawn and bang of a door, and the spitting of a matchin the hall below. Mr. Ledbetter stood petrified by the suddendiscovery of the folly upon which he had come. "How on earth amI to get out of this?" said Mr. Ledbetter.The hall grew bright with a candle flame, some heavy object bumpedagainst the umbrella-stand, and feet were ascending the staircase. Ina flash Mr. Ledbetter realised that his retreat was closed. He stoodfor a moment, a pitiful figure of penitent confusion. "My goodness!What a fool I have been!" he whispered, and then darted swiftlyacross the shadowy landing into the empty bedroom from which hehad just come. He stood listening--quivering. The footsteps reachedthe first-floor landing.Horrible thought! This was possibly the latecomer's room! Not a momentwas to be lost! Mr. Ledbetter stooped beside the bed, thanked Heavenfor a valance, and crawled within its protection not ten secondstoo soon. He became motionless on hands and knees. The advancingcandle-light appeared through the thinner stitches of the fabric, theshadows ran wildly about, and became rigid as the candle was put down."Lord, what a day!" said the newcomer, blowing noisily, and it seemedhe deposited some heavy burthen on what Mr. Ledbetter, judgingby the feet, decided to be a writing-table. The unseen then wentto the door and locked it, examined the fastenings of the windowscarefully and pulled down the blinds, and returning sat down uponthe bed with startling ponderosity."WHAT a day!" he said. "Good Lord!" and blew again, and Mr. Ledbetterinclined to believe that the person was mopping his face. His bootswere good stout boots; the shadows of his legs upon the valancesuggested a formidable stoutness of aspect. After a time he removedsome upper garments--a coat and waistcoat, Mr. Ledbetter inferred--and casting them over the rail of the bed remained breathing lessnoisily, and as it seemed cooling from a considerable temperature.At intervals he muttered to himself, and once he laughed softly. AndMr. Ledbetter muttered to himself, but he did not laugh. "Of all thefoolish things," said Mr. Ledbetter. "What on earth am I to do now?"His outlook was necessarily limited. The minute apertures betweenthe stitches of the fabric of the valance admitted a certain amountof light, but permitted no peeping. The shadows upon this curtain,save for those sharply defined legs, were enigmatical, and intermingledconfusingly with the florid patterning of the chintz. Beneath the edgeof the valance a strip of carpet was visible, and, by cautiouslydepressing his eye, Mr. Ledbetter found that this strip broadeneduntil the whole area of the floor came into view. The carpet wasa luxurious one, the room spacious, and, to judge by the castorsand so forth of the furniture, well equipped.What he should do he found it difficult to imagine. To wait untilthis person had gone to bed, and then, when he seemed to be sleeping,to creep to the door, unlock it, and bolt headlong for that balconyseemed the only possible thing to do. Would it be possible to jumpfrom the balcony? The danger of it! When he thought of the chancesagainst him, Mr. Ledbetter despaired. He was within an ace of thrustingforth his head beside the gentleman's legs, coughing if necessaryto attract his attention, and then, smiling, apologising and explaininghis unfortunate intrusion by a few well-chosen sentences. But hefound these sentences hard to choose. "No doubt, sir, my appearanceis peculiar," or, "I trust, sir, you will pardon my somewhat ambiguousappearance from beneath you," was about as much as he could get.Grave possibilities forced themselves on his attention. Supposethey did not believe him, what would they do to him? Would hisunblemished high character count for nothing? Technically he wasa burglar, beyond dispute. Following out this train of thought,he was composing a lucid apology for "this technical crime I havecommitted," to be delivered before sentence in the dock, whenthe stout gentleman got up and began walking about the room. Helocked and unlocked drawers, and Mr. Ledbetter had a transient hopethat he might be undressing. But, no! He seated himself at thewriting-table, and began to write and then tear up documents.Presently the smell of burning cream-laid paper mingled with the odourof cigars in Mr. Ledbetter's nostrils."The position I had assumed," said Mr. Ledbetter when he told me ofthese things, "was in many respects an ill-advised one. A transversebar beneath the bed depressed my head unduly, and threw adisproportionate share of my weight upon my hands. After a time, Iexperienced what is called, I believe, a crick in the neck. Thepressure of my hands on the coarsely-stitched carpet speedily becamepainful. My knees, too, were painful, my trousers being drawn tightlyover them. At that time I wore rather higher collars than I do now--twoand a half inches, in fact--and I discovered what I had not remarkedbefore, that the edge of the one I wore was frayed slightly underthe chin. But much worse than these things was an itching of my face,which I could only relieve by violent grimacing--I tried to raisemy hand, but the rustle of the sleeve alarmed me. After a timeI had to desist from this relief also, because--happily in time--I discovered that my facial contortions were shifting my glassesdown my nose. Their fall would, of course, have exposed me, and as itwas they came to rest in an oblique position of by no means stableequilibrium. In addition I had a slight cold, and an intermittentdesire to sneeze or sniff caused me inconvenience. In fact, quiteapart from the extreme anxiety of my position, my physical discomfortbecame in a short time very considerable indeed. But I had to staythere motionless, nevertheless."After an interminable time, there began a chinking sound. Thisdeepened into a rhythm: chink, chink, chink--twenty-five chinks--a rap on the writing-table, and a grunt from the owner of the stoutlegs. It dawned upon Mr. Ledbetter that this chinking was the chinkingof gold. He became incredulously curious as it went on. His curiositygrew. Already, if that was the case, this extraordinary man musthave counted some hundreds of pounds. At last Mr. Ledbetter couldresist it no longer, and he began very cautiously to fold his armsand lower his head to the level of the floor, in the hope of peepingunder the valance. He moved his feet, and one made a slight scrapingon the floor. Suddenly the chinking ceased. Mr. Ledbetter becamerigid. After a while the chinking was resumed. Then it ceased again,and everything was still, except Mr. Ledbetter's heart--that organseemed to him to be beating like a drum.The stillness continued. Mr. Ledbetter's head was now on the floor,and he could see the stout legs as far as the shins. They werequite still. The feet were resting on the toes and drawn back,as it seemed, under the chair of the owner. Everything was quitestill, everything continued still. A wild hope came to Mr. Ledbetterthat the unknown was in a fit or suddenly dead, with his head uponthe writing-table. . . .The stillness continued. What had happened? The desire to peepbecame irresistible. Very cautiously Mr. Ledbetter shifted his handforward, projected a pioneer finger, and began to lift the valanceimmediately next his eye. Nothing broke the stillness. He saw nowthe stranger's knees, saw the back of the writing-table, and then--he was staring at the barrel of a heavy revolver pointed overthe writing-table at his head."Come out of that, you scoundrel!" said the voice of the stoutgentleman in a tone of quiet concentration. "Come out. This side,and now. None of your hanky-panky--come right out, now."Mr. Ledbetter came right out, a little reluctantly perhaps, butwithout any hanky-panky, and at once, even as he was told."Kneel," said the stout gentleman. "and hold up your hands."The valance dropped again behind Mr. Ledbetter, and he rose fromall-fours and held up his hands. "Dressed like a parson," saidthe stout gentleman. "I'm blest if he isn't! A little chap, too!You scoundrel! What the deuce possessed you to come here to-night?What the deuce possessed you to get under my bed?"He did not appear to require an answer, but proceeded at once toseveral very objectionable remarks upon Mr. Ledbetter's personalappearance. He was not a very big man, but he looked strong to Mr.Ledbetter: he was as stout as his legs had promised, he had ratherdelicately-chiselled small features distributed over a considerablearea of whitish face, and quite a number of chins. And the noteof his voice had a sort of whispering undertone."What the deuce, I say, possessed you to get under my bed?"Mr. Ledbetter, by an effort, smiled a wan propitiatory smile. Hecoughed. "I can quite understand--" he said."Why! What on earth? It's soap! No!--you scoundrel. Don't you movethat hand.""It's soap," said Mr. Ledbetter. "From your washstand. No doubt it--""Don't talk," said the stout man. "I see it's soap. Of all incrediblethings.""If I might explain--""Don't explain. It's sure to be a lie, and there's no time forexplanations. What was I going to ask you? Ah! Have you any mates?""In a few minutes, if you--""Have you any mates? Curse you. If you start any soapy palaverI'll shoot. Have you any mates?""No," said Mr. Ledbetter."I suppose it's a lie," said the stout man. "But you'll pay for itif it is. Why the deuce didn't you floor me when I came upstairs?You won't get a chance to now, anyhow. Fancy getting under the bed!I reckon it's a fair cop, anyhow, so far as you are concerned.""I don't see how I could prove an alibi," remarked Mr. Ledbetter,trying to show by his conversation that he was an educated man.There was a pause. Mr. Ledbetter perceived that on a chair besidehis captor was a large black bag on a heap of crumpled papers,and that there were torn and burnt papers on the table. And in frontof these, and arranged methodically along the edge were rows androws of little yellow rouleaux--a hundred times more gold than Mr.Ledbetter had seen in all his life before. The light of two candles,in silver candlesticks, fell upon these. The pause continued. "It israther fatiguing holding up my hands like this," said Mr. Ledbetter,with a deprecatory smile."That's all right," said the fat man. "But what to do with youI don't exactly know.""I know my position is ambiguous.""Lord!" said the fat man, "ambiguous! And goes about with his ownsoap, and wears a thundering great clerical collar. You are a bloomingburglar, you are--if ever there was one!""To be strictly accurate," said Mr. Ledbetter, and suddenly hisglasses slipped off and clattered against his vest buttons.The fat man changed countenance, a flash of savage resolutioncrossed his face, and something in the revolver clicked. He puthis other hand to the weapon. And then he looked at Mr. Ledbetter,and his eye went down to the dropped pince-nez."Full-cock now, anyhow," said the fat man, after a pause, and hisbreath seemed to catch. "But I'll tell you, you've never been sonear death before. Lord! I'm almost glad. If it hadn't been thatthe revolver wasn't cocked you'd be lying dead there now."Mr. Ledbetter said nothing, but he felt that the room was swaying."A miss is as good as a mile. It's lucky for both of us it wasn't.Lord!" He blew noisily. "There's no need for you to go pale-greenfor a little thing like that.""If I can assure you, sir--" said Mr. Ledbetter, with an effort."There's only one thing to do. If I call in the police, I'm bust--a little game I've got on is bust. That won't do. If I tie you upand leave you again, the thing may be out to-morrow. Tomorrow'sSunday, and Monday's Bank Holiday--I've counted on three cleardays. Shooting you's murder--and hanging; and besides, it will bustthe whole blooming kernooze. I'm hanged if I can think what to do--I'm hanged if I can.""Will you permit me--""You gas as much as if you were a real parson, I'm blessed if youdon't. Of all the burglars you are the--Well! No!--I won't permityou. There isn't time. If you start off jawing again, I'll shootright in your stomach. See? But I know now-I know now! What we'regoing to do first, my man, is an examination for concealed arms--an examination for concealed arms. And look here! When I tell youto do a thing, don't start off at a gabble--do it brisk."And with many elaborate precautions, and always pointing the pistolat Mr. Ledbetter's head, the stout man stood him up and searchedhim for weapons. "Why, you ARE a burglar!" he said "You're a perfectamateur. You haven't even a pistol-pocket in the back of yourbreeches. No, you don't! Shut up, now."So soon as the issue was decided, the stout man made Mr. Ledbettertake off his coat and roll up his shirt-sleeves, and, with the revolverat one ear, proceed with the packing his appearance had interrupted.From the stout man's point of view that was evidently the onlypossible arrangement, for if he had packed, he would have hadto put down the revolver. So that even the gold on the table washandled by Mr. Ledbetter. This nocturnal packing was peculiar.The stout man's idea was evidently to distribute the weight ofthe gold as unostentatiously as possible through his luggage. It wasby no means an inconsiderable weight. There was, Mr. Ledbetter says,altogether nearly L18,000 in gold in the black bag and on the table.There were also many little rolls of L5 bank-notes. Each rouleauof L25 was wrapped by Mr. Ledbetter in paper. These rouleaux werethen put neatly in cigar boxes and distributed between a travellingtrunk, a Gladstone bag, and a hatbox. About L600 went in a tobaccotin in a dressing-bag. L10 in gold and a number of L5 notes the stoutman pocketed. Occasionally he objurgated Mr. Ledbetter's clumsiness,and urged him to hurry, and several times he appealed to Mr.Ledbetter's watch for information.Mr. Ledbetter strapped the trunk and bag, and returned the stout manthe keys. It was then ten minutes to twelve, and until the stroke ofmidnight the stout man made him sit on the Gladstone bag, while hesat at a reasonably safe distance on the trunk and held the revolverhandy and waited. He appeared to be now in a less aggressive mood,and having watched Mr. Ledbetter for some time, he offered a fewremarks."From your accent I judge you are a man of some education," he said,lighting a cigar. "No--don't begin that explanation of yours. I knowit will be long-winded from your face, and I am much too old a liarto be interested in other men's lying. You are, I say, a personof education. You do well to dress as a curate. Even among educatedpeople you might pass as a curate.""I am a curate," said Mr. Ledbetter, "or, at least--""You are trying to be. I know. But you didn't ought to burgle.You are not the man to burgle. You are, if I may say it--the thingwill have been pointed out to you before--a coward.""Do you know," said Mr. Ledbetter, trying to get a final opening,"it was that very question--"The stout man waved him into silence."You waste your education in burglary. You should do one of twothings. Either you should forge or you should embezzle. For myown part, I embezzle. Yes; I embezzle. What do you think a mancould be doing with all this gold but that? Ah! Listen! Midnight! . . .Ten. Eleven. Twelve. There is something very impressive to mein that slow beating of the hours. Time--space; what mysteriesthey are! What mysteries. . . . It's time for us to be moving.Stand up!"And then kindly, but firmly, he induced Mr. Ledbetter to sling thedressing bag over his back by a string across his chest, to shoulderthe trunk, and, overruling a gasping protest, to take the Gladstonebag in his disengaged hand. So encumbered, Mr. Ledbetter struggledperilously downstairs. The stout gentleman followed with an overcoat,the hatbox, and the revolver, making derogatory remarks about Mr.Ledbetter's strength, and assisting him at the turnings of the stairs."The back door," he directed, and Mr. Ledbetter staggered througha conservatory, leaving a wake of smashed flower-pots behind him."Never mind the crockery," said the stout man; "it's good for trade.We wait here until a quarter past. You can put those things down. Youhave!"Mr. Ledbetter collapsed panting on the trunk. "Last night," he gasped,"I was asleep in my little room, and I no more dreamt--""There's no need for you to incriminate yourself," said the stoutgentleman, looking at the lock of the revolver. He began to hum.Mr. Ledbetter made to speak, and thought better of it.There presently came the sound of a bell, and Mr. Ledbetter wastaken to the back door and instructed to open it. A fair-haired manin yachting costume entered. At the sight of Mr. Ledbetter he startedviolently and clapped his hand behind him. Then he saw the stoutman. "Bingham!" he cried, "who's this?""Only a little philanthropic do of mine--burglar I'm trying to reform.Caught him under my bed just now. He's all right. He's a frightfulass. He'll be useful to carry some of our things."The newcomer seemed inclined to resent Mr. Ledbetter's presenceat first, but the stout man reassured him."He's quite alone. There's not a gang in the world would own him.No!--don't start talking, for goodness' sake."They went out into the darkness of the garden with the trunk stillbowing Mr. Ledbetter's shoulders. The man in the yachting costumewalked in front with the Gladstone bag and a pistol; then cameMr. Ledbetter like Atlas; Mr. Bingham followed with the hat-box,coat, and revolver as before. The house was one of those that havetheir gardens right up to the cliff. At the cliff was a steep woodenstairway, descending to a bathing tent dimly visible on the beach.Below was a boat pulled up, and a silent little man with a black facestood beside it. "A few moments' explanation," said Mr. Ledbetter;"I can assure you--" Somebody kicked him, and he said no more.They made him wade to the boat, carrying the trunk, they pulledhim aboard by the shoulders and hair, they called him no bettername than "scoundrel" and "burglar" all that night. But they spokein undertones so that the general public was happily unaware of hisignominy. They hauled him aboard a yacht manned by strange,unsympathetic Orientals, and partly they thrust him and partly hefell down a gangway into a noisome, dark place, where he was toremain many days--how many he does not know, because he lost countamong other things when he was seasick. They fed him on biscuits andincomprehensible words; they gave him water to drink mixed withunwished-for rum. And there were cockroaches where they put him,night and day there were cockroaches, and in the night-time therewere rats. The Orientals emptied his pockets and took his watch--but Mr. Bingham, being appealed to, took that himself. And five orsix times the five Lascars--if they were Lascars--and the Chinamanand the negro who constituted the crew, fished him out and took himaft to Bingham and his friend to play cribbage and euchre and three-anded whist, and to listen to their stories and boastings in aninterested manner.Then these principals would talk to him as men talk to those whohave lived a life of crime. Explanations they would never permit,though they made it abundantly clear to him that he was the rummiestburglar they had ever set eyes on. They said as much again and again.The fair man was of a taciturn disposition and irascible at play;but Mr. Bingham, now that the evident anxiety of his departurefrom England was assuaged, displayed a vein of genial philosophy.He enlarged upon the mystery of space and time, and quoted Kantand Hegel--or, at least, he said he did. Several times Mr. Ledbettergot as far as: "My position under your bed, you know--," but thenhe always had to cut, or pass the whisky, or do some such interveningthing. After his third failure, the fair man got quite to look forthis opening, and whenever Mr. Ledbetter began after that, he wouldroar with laughter and hit him violently on the back. "Same old start,same old story; good old burglar!" the fair-haired man would say.So Mr. Ledbetter suffered for many days, twenty perhaps; and oneevening he was taken, together with some tinned provisions, overthe side and put ashore on a rocky little island with a spring.Mr. Bingham came in the boat with him, giving him good adviceall the way, and waving his last attempts at an explanation aside."I am really not a burglar," said Mr. Ledbetter."You never will be," said Mr. Bingham. "You'll never make a burglar.I'm glad you are beginning to see it. In choosing a professiona man must study his temperament. If you don't, sooner or lateryou will fail. Compare myself, for example. All my life I havebeen in banks--I have got on in banks. I have even been a bankmanager. But was I happy? No. Why wasn't I happy? Because it didnot suit my temperament. I am too adventurous--too versatile.Practically I have thrown it over. I do not suppose I shall evermanage a bank again. They would be glad to get me, no doubt;but I have learnt the lesson of my temperament--at last. . . .No! I shall never manage a bank again."Now, your temperament unfits you for crime--just as mine unfitsme for respectability. I know you better than I did, and now I donot even recommend forgery. Go back to respectable courses, my man.Your lay is the philanthropic lay--that is your lay. With that voice--the Association for the Promotion of Snivelling among the Young--something in that line. You think it over."The island we are approaching has no name apparently--at least,there is none on the chart. You might think out a name for it whileyou are there--while you are thinking about all these things. It hasquite drinkable water, I understand. It is one of the Grenadines--one of the Windward Islands. Yonder, dim and blue, are others ofthe Grenadines. There are quantities of Grenadines, but the majorityare out of sight. I have often wondered what these islands arefor--now, you see, I am wiser. This one at least is for you. Sooneror later some simple native will come along and take you off.Say what you like about us then--abuse us, if you like--we shan'tcare a solitary Grenadine! And here--here is half a sovereign'sworth of silver. Do not waste that in foolish dissipation whenyou return to civilisation. Properly used, it may give you a freshstart in life. And do not--Don't beach her, you beggars, he canwade!--Do not waste the precious solitude before you in foolishthoughts. Properly used, it may be a turning-point in your career.Waste neither money nor time. You will die rich. I'm sorry, butI must ask you to carry your tucker to land in your arms. No; it'snot deep. Curse that explanation of yours! There's not time.No, no, no! I won't listen. Overboard you go!"And the falling night found Mr. Ledbetter--the Mr. Ledbetter whohad complained that adventure was dead--sitting beside his cansof food, his chin resting upon his drawn-up knees, staring throughhis glasses in dismal mildness over the shining, vacant sea.He was picked up in the course of three days by a negro fishermanand taken to St. Vincent's, and from St. Vincent's he got, bythe expenditure of his last coins, to Kingston, in Jamaica. And therehe might have foundered. Even nowadays he is not a man of affairs,and then he was a singularly helpless person. He had not the remotestidea what he ought to do. The only thing he seems to have done wasto visit all the ministers of religion he could find in the placeto borrow a passage home. But he was much too dirty and incoherent--and his story far too incredible for them. I met him quite by chance.It was close upon sunset, and I was walking out after my siestaon the road to Dunn's Battery, when I met him--I was rather bored,and with a whole evening on my hands--luckily for him. He was trudgingdismally towards the town. His woebegone face and the quasi-clericalcut of his dust-stained, filthy costume caught my humour. Our eyes met.He hesitated. "Sir," he said, with a catching of the breath, "couldyou spare a few minutes for what I fear will seem an incredible story?""Incredible!" I said."Quite," he answered eagerly. "No one will believe it, alter itthough I may. Yet I can assure you, sir--"He stopped hopelessly. The man's tone tickled me. He seemed an oddcharacter. "I am," he said, "one of the most unfortunate beings alive.""Among other things, you haven't dined?" I said, struck with an idea."I have not," he said solemnly, "for many days.""You'll tell it better after that," I said; and without more ado ledthe way to a low place I knew, where such a costume as his wasunlikely to give offence. And there--with certain omissions whichhe subsequently supplied--I got his story. At first I was incredulous,but as the wine warmed him, and the faint suggestion of cringingwhich his misfortunes had added to his manner disappeared, I beganto believe. At last, I was so far convinced of his sincerity thatI got him a bed for the night, and next day verified the banker'sreference he gave me through my Jamaica banker. And that done, I tookhim shopping for underwear and such like equipments of a gentlemanat large. Presently came the verified reference. His astonishingstory was true. I will not amplify our subsequent proceedings.He started for England in three days' time."I do not know how I can possibly thank you enough," began the letterhe wrote me from England, "for all your kindness to a total stranger,"and proceeded for some time in a similar strain. "Had it not beenfor your generous assistance, I could certainly never have returnedin time for the resumption of my scholastic duties, and my fewminutes of reckless folly would, perhaps, have proved my ruin.As it is, I am entangled in a tissue of lies and evasions, of the mostcomplicated sort, to account for my sunburnt appearance and mywhereabouts. I have rather carelessly told two or three differentstories, not realising the trouble this would mean for me in the end.The truth I dare not tell. I have consulted a number of law-booksin the British Museum, and there is not the slightest doubt thatI have connived at and abetted and aided a felony. That scoundrelBingham was the Hithergate bank manager, I find, and guilty ofthe most flagrant embezzlement. Please, please burn this letterwhen read--I trust you implicitly. The worst of it is, neither my auntnor her friend who kept the boarding-house at which I was stayingseem altogether to believe a guarded statement I have made thempractically of what actually happened. They suspect me of somediscreditable adventure, but what sort of discreditable adventurethey suspect me of, I do not know. My aunt says she would forgive meif I told her everything. I have--I have told her more than everything,and still she is not satisfied. It would never do to let them knowthe truth of the case, of course, and so I represent myself as havingbeen waylaid and gagged upon the beach. My aunt wants to knowwhy they waylaid and gagged me, why they took me away in their yacht.I do not know. Can you suggest any reason? I can think of nothing.If, when you wrote, you could write on two sheets so that I couldshow her one, and on that one if you could show clearly that I reallywas in Jamaica this summer, and had come there by being removedfrom a ship, it would be of great service to me. It would certainlyadd to the load of my obligation to you--a load that I fear I cannever fully repay. Although if gratitude . . ." And so forth.At the end he repeated his request for me to burn the letter.So the remarkable story of Mr. Ledbetter's Vacation ends. That breachwith his aunt was not of long duration. The old lady had forgiven himbefore she died.
zpostcode
Recruit
weather
mreligion
Yellowpages
sport
constellation
shopping
name
game
directory
literature
Word
tour
furnish
Lottery
tftnews
lyrics
News
digital
car
dir
Edu
Finance
