The Shadow of Dr Syn - Thorndike Russell (библиотека электронных книг txt) 📗
The Squire was mollified, having taken this to mean that the Revenue man had paid him compliments, which was indeed Doctor Syn’s intent; and so, after saying that no doubt the Revenue man was a damned decent fellow, he sat down comfortably in the chair from which he had so ignominiously fallen, and good-naturedly resumed the conversation with: ‘What was I sayin’ when I slid off?’
Doctor Syn explained that his last words before disappearing under the table had been to ask for another drink. The Squire received this news with as much interest as though he had delivered a pearl of wisdom, adding that he might as well have it now. Then in an attempt to pick up the threads of their interrupted discussion, said that as far as he could recollect, he was being annoyed about something.
‘Now what was I being annoyed about?’ he asked himself. Again, the bruises of the morning reminded him of his misfortunes, and after a lengthy grumble, in which there figured prominently the faulty bell-pull, the remains of Gabriel Creach, her ladyship’s bad temper, the waste of a good day’s sport, that confounded doormat bitin’ his toe; and then making that ridiculous offer of a thousand guineas for the Scarecrow who won’t be caught, this gave him another hint and he remembered what he was being annoyed about, and said triumphantly: ‘I know. Those fumblin’ old Lords of the Level askin’ the Dragoons to come and catch our Scarecrow. Read it in the papers. Lots of elephants tryin’ to catch an eel. Damned silly. Know perfectly well, no smugglin’ in this part of the country.’ Even that did not satisfy him as being the real cause; so he started again: ‘No, what was I bein’ annoyed about?’ Another ray of hope: ‘Oh, I know. That confounded highwayman, stoppin’ the Dover coach with me wife’s Aunt Agatha. Must have been Gentleman James because of his good manners. Damned bad manners, I call it, takin’ the diamonds old girl plannin’ to leave Cicely.’ Cicely. At last he had found the real cause of his annoyance, as is often the case, the chief worry having been obliterated by the trifling ones, and his voice now took on a sincerely worried tone. ‘That’s what I was annoyed about, Christopher — Cicely and Maria. Bad enough to have a daughter in France; all those upstarts cuttin’ people’s heads off all over the place — then Cicely goin’ off and not sayin’ where she was goin’. Said she was goin’ off to stay with the Pemburys, but she didn’t go there. And just when I want you most you go off preachin’ in London, and only return yesterday. No, I’m worried, Christopher.’
Doctor Syn urged that there was really no cause for anxiety, pointing out that Cicely was well able to take care of herself; that she had probably changed her mind about the Pemburys and had gone to stay with other friends; that probably she had written, but that the mails were unreliable.
The Squire, always influenced by what Christopher said, was only too eager to be cheered up, and so saying that Christopher was probably right, he asked for a drink.
Thinking that his old friend had already drunk more than was good for him, Doctor Syn said he was extremely sorry but that he couldn’t oblige, adding apologetically: ‘We made rather a night of it, you know. Even my small cellar will need replenishing.’
The Squire was most upset at this and asked him why the devil he had not said so before. ‘Here we’ve been sittin’ about, talkin’ and shiverin’.’ All his old grievances came back with a rush and he sneezed violently, announcing, as though it were a Christopher’s fault: ‘There, I knew I’d catch a cold on that lawn.’ There was only one thing for it. They must go home and open another bin. And in order to carry out this excellent idea he went with all possible haste to the front door, and, flinging it open, found that his way was impeded, for there on the doorstep were two large casks. Annoyed at not being able to get out, but equally mystified as to why such things should be outside the door instead of in their proper place, he reminded Christopher that he had said there was nothing in his cellar.
Doctor Syn remarked that there was nothing in his cellar but there certainly seemed to be something on his doorstep, which gave the Squire a brilliant idea.
‘I say, Christopher,’ he whispered. ‘P’raps they’ve left them. You know who I mean. They.’ Then, not liking to admit to the possibility of their existence, he mouthed the word ‘Smugglers’.
An even better thought then struck him. ‘Come on, Christopher. Let’s bring ’em in.’
Doctor Syn, however, seemed doubtful, suggesting that this was a matter for the Revenue man, at which Sir Antony was highly indignant, saying that he didn’t like the Revenue man anyway, and that he would handle this himself, and that it was a very good thing, since they could have a drink now, and wouldn’t have to wait till they got home.
So, telling Doctor Syn in his best judicial manner to report this to him in the morning, he set to work pushing and pulling at one of the barrels, speculating the while as to its contents.
‘Hope it’s not rum,’ he grunted; ‘don’t like rum. Her Ladyship can always tell.’
After a deal of struggling, in which Mr. Mipps had been summoned to assist, both barrels were successfully man?uvred into the room, and at the Squire’s orders the door was closed to prevent anyone ‘pryin’ in while he was investigatin’!’
Heated from his exertions, he could hardly wait to tap the barrels, and Mr. Mipps having conveniently produced a spigot with the necessary implements, he was delightedly setting to work when he noticed some roughly chalked writing on the side of the casks.
‘Hallo, who’s been chalkin’ on our barrels?’ he cried.
‘Looks as if they are your barrels, sir,’ said Mr. Mipps, who was on his hands and knees peering at the writing. ‘This one says “For our Parson with
C.O.M.P.S. from Scarecrow”. What does this one say?’ Mr. Mipps crawled round to the other. ‘“For our S.Q.U.I.R.T.” Squirt? ’Ope that don’t mean you, sir.’
Preferring to receive the insult with the barrel rather than without it, the Squire replied indignantly that of course it meant him. ‘Bad spellin’ — that’s all,’ and added that it was a waste of time standing about spelling when they might be drinking, and that for his part he was going to open his right away.’
At that moment there was a loud knocking on the door while from outside came what were obviously noises of the military. ‘Confound it, Christopher,’ grumbled the Squire, his thirst thwarted, ‘why can’t you have your callers at the proper time?’
Mr. Mipps, already at the spy-hole, whispered dramatically: ‘It’s the Dragoons, sir.’
Sir Antony, fearing that the Law might cheat him of his drink, asked Mr. Mipps to tell them to go away. ‘Never asked ’em here. Tell ’em to go home.’
This seemed easy enough till the full horror of the situation dawned upon him. Here he was, the Chief Magistrate, receiving smuggled goods. ‘Damned embarrasin’.’
‘I think we had better find out what they want, Tony,’ said Doctor Syn calmly. ‘The door, Mr. Mipps.’
Sir Antony, nearly crying with vexation, endeavoured to disguise his own barrel by draping himself round it, then finding that he was still holding the spigot, he endeavoured to hide such incriminating evidence, trying first one pocket, then another, and finally sticking it up his waistcoat, where it bulged most uncomfortably. By this time the door was open and Major Faunce and his Sergeant had come in.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the Major, addressing Doctor Syn, ‘but I was told I should find Mr. Hyde at your house.’
Doctor Syn greeted the soldier pleasantly and told him that Mr. Hyde had been gone for some little time. Then seeing that both the soldiers were caked in mud, he asked innocently if they had been fighting. To which the Major replied that ‘paddling’ would be a better description. He sounded and looked most aggrieved, explaining that they had been up to their necks in mud; in and out dykes halfway round Kent, and that he was positive monkey business had been going on with the signposts; that he had lost his men all but two, in this confounded mist, and hadn’t seen a sign of any smuggling; and it was all the fault of that meddling fool of a Revenue man sending them off on a wild-goose chase. He then apologized for his outburst, adding that that was why he wanted a few words with Nicholas Hyde.
