The Gay Adventure: A Romance
the immolation of a friend, but that was not his fault,--it was Fate who
should be reviled. This was an occasion calling for presence of mind,
resource and unflinching discipline. If the adventure of his life was
to be carried through successfully, no minor considerations--such as
friendship or soot--could be allowed to weigh. With a strong gesture he
pointed to the old-fashioned hearth and capacious chimney. "Up you go!"
he whispered. "Look sharp!"
Robert recoiled. "No! no!" he whispered piteously. "Not that!
Surely----"
He was not allowed to argue. In another moment Robert felt himself led,
as in a dream, to the fireplace. The next, and he had a foot upon the
massive iron bars. Luckily there was no fire laid, no coal to disturb
and proclaim his bid for obscurity. He looked up into the cavernous
darkness and groaned in spirit; that was the first time he regretted his
mad flight. Then, helping himself by projecting bricks, searching for
insecure crevices with his toes, he began to climb the few feet
necessary to safety.
By the time his ankles were the only visible evidence the hearth was
covered with soot, and Tony looked anxiously round for something to
remove it. As chance would have it, a broom stood in the corner of the
parlor, left there by a careless servant after the morning's tidy-up.
Triumph in his eye, Tony seized it and approached the hearth. But on
getting there his purpose changed; temptation was too strong. Pushing
the broom up the chimney, he used it as one uses a ramrod, helping the
murmurous Robert in his upward path. "Excelsior, old friend!" whispered
Tony, for an ankle could still be seen. "Excelsior!" and he thrust with
frenzy. The only response was a muffled sound that floated down, a
subdued kind of blasphemous choke. It filtered into the parlor as
"Orpgh," but Tony did not relax his efforts till the ankle had
disappeared. The next moment Lionel entered the room, followed by the
landlord. The latter gave an astonished grunt as he surveyed Tony, hands
and face smudged like a Christy Minstrel, and even Lionel's breeding
found it hard to restrain a laugh.
"There has been a fall of soot, Mr. Glew," observed Tony blandly. "I
found this broom, and was just going----"
"Lor', sir, don't you trouble," said Glew, scandalized that a guest
could so demean himself. "The servant'll do that presently. I was just
saying to the missus a week ago come Thursday that we should 'ave to get
our chimneys cleaned soon. We'll 'ave to set about it in earnest now,
and no mistake."
"I suppose you send over to Dallingham for a sweep?" suggested Lionel,
sitting down. The landlord chuckled.
"Yes, sir, when the squire's at 'ome. 'E makes us. But when 'e's abroad,
why, we do the old-fashioned way--light a batten of straw and burn the
flue clear."
A slight scuffle proceeding from the chimney seemed to hint that Mr.
Bangs had heard. Could it be that he feared lest they were going to
clean the flue in the old-fashioned way now, or was he merely suffering
from cramp? Whichever it was, he shifted: the noise was unmistakable,
and the fall of more soot made the landlord shake his head.
"I doubt there's a bird got down the chimney," he said, scratching his
chin. "Those jackdaws or young rooks do sometimes. Give me the broom,
sir, and I'll soon have him down."
Tony's hand tightened on the broom.
"Let me," he said suavely. "There's no need for two people to get
black." Without waiting for a reply he approached the fireplace and
thrust his weapon strenuously aloft. It was no time for half measures,
and Tony felt obliged to be as realistic as possible in the interests of
his friend. Realism, however, may be carried to excess (as Mr. Bangs
pointed out later with no little heat), and the fluttering of the
mythical bird would have drawn tears to the eyes of humanitarians.
"It's no good, sir," said the landlord, dismally observing the soot;
"it's out o' reach. I fancy I'd better get that straw and ha' done with
it."
"That's rather too cruel, landlord," said Lionel from his seat. "I don't
like the idea of smothering the poor beast."
"Put it this way, sir," said Glew, who was an amiable fellow; "is it
better to smother it or leave it there to starve? My way 'ud take five
minutes--yours a couple o' days. Well, sir?"
"I suppose you're right," said the soft-hearted Lionel, "but I don't
half like----"
"Don't you worry," struck in Tony, who was beginning to get anxious. "I
tell you what! It's a big chimney and I'm pretty slim. If you'll let me
go up to-night after the pub's closed, Mr. Glew, I'll strip and climb.
Of course we mustn't leave it there, and smothering doesn't appeal to
me."
"You're a decent chap," said Lionel, moved to admiration. Tony modestly
murmured "Not at all," and hoped the landlord was satisfied. But he was
not. The very ideer! One o' his guests a-climbin' the chimney! No! he'd
send the boy up. Hi!
Things were now looking very black in more than one sense, and the
disciple of romance in the chimney had serious thoughts of a descent.
But as the landlord opened his mouth to bellow for the boy, the man from
up-stairs--"Mr. Beckett"--passed the door with his golf-clubs slung over
his shoulder. He looked in and said, "I'm going up to the links, Mr.
Glew. Dinner at seven-thirty, please," in a polished voice that carried
a hint of an alien accent. Then he went on.
Lionel determined to follow. He had been to The Quiet House that morning
and had learned that Miss Arkwright was away. She would be back,
however, about four. The door had been answered by the dumb footman
spoken of by the vicar, who had exhibited one of those dials that stand
on hall tables--"Out--in at...." So Lionel had come back, meaning to
kill a couple of hours at the inn. But when he saw the man "Beckett" it
struck him that he might as well waste those hours on the links. He
might possibly get into conversation with this man, whom he felt sure
was the Turkish ambassador. Every thing pointed to it,--the newspaper
paragraph--the accent--the assumed name (for he had confessed it to the
vicar)--the age. Supposing this to be so, he might be worth watching. If
Beatrice were right in her suspicions and conjectures, it was quite
possible Mizzi would follow him to Shereling and seek an interview.
Mizzi, in point of fact might have already made an assignation--she
might even be waiting on the links! Supposing he found them ... well, at
least he would have verified suspicions, and could chart his course by
certain knowledge. Yes, he would follow on the off chance.
He did not take as long to make up his mind as we have taken to describe
it. The reader, if kindly-hearted, should be glad of this; for meanwhile
the unhappy Bangs has risked exceeding the proverbial allowance of "a
peck of dirt" to be swallowed in a lifetime. Lionel, then, went out,
leaving Tony to deal with the landlord. He sighed with relief, for at
least the most important character had disappeared.
"Mr. Glew," he said winningly, "I have a little surprise for you. May I
close the door for a moment?"
"Cert'n'y, sir," said the other, staring. His bovine gaze followed Tony
as he walked to the fireplace, stooped down, and said gently, "_Come,
birdie, come!_"--a song of his childhood flitting suddenly across his
brain. To make his meaning perfectly clear, he added, "It's all right,
Bangs. You may get down from the table!" Then he discreetly retired a
few paces and waited. He had not to wait long.
"_Mygoard!_" said the landlord explosively, and indeed there was excuse
for the expression. It was caused by the extraordinary entrance of Mr.
Bangs. He clambered down painfully for a few feet, but just as he
reached the bottom his foot slipped and he sat down emphatically, facing
them, in the grate. The appearance of this gnome, silent, save for a
strange wheezing that rasped its way through a soot-slaked windpipe,
baffled description. Tony looked at the figure with a mournful
compassion, and the landlord rocked drunkenly against the door.
"You see, Mr. Glew," said Tony soothingly, "it happened like this. My
friend--who, I am sure, will corroborate me as soon as he has had a
drink,--my friend and I had a dispute about chimneys. He averred that
they often concealed a 'priest's hole,'--one of those hiding-places for
Popish priests we read about. I disagreed, and our dispute became so
heated that we even staked money--Mr. Bangs, on the probable existence
of such a chamber here, I on the negative side. He is an enthusiast, and
nothing would content him but the immediate settlement of the question.
So, despite my protests, up he climbed. Just as he was about to descend,
you and the other gentleman entered. Conceive the position! He naturally
had no wish to be discovered in such a situation, and waited, hoping the
parlor would soon be empty. Your suggestion of the batten upset all
calculations. Now, I am sure you will spare his feelings and say nothing
of this. All he requires is a hot bath. You quite understand?"
The landlord gave a crow of assent. But as he went down the passage a
deep rumbling, suppressed but distinct, betokened that he could not
regard the situation seriously. When the door was closed Tony turned
apologetically to his companion-in-arms.
"Awfully sorry, old chap," he said, "but it was one of those things that
had to be. You quite see that, I hope?"
"_Krwx!_" said the gnome, weeping. "_Krwx! airp--krwx!_"
CHAPTER XV
A CHANGE OF LODGING
At the club-house Lionel put his name down for a week's membership,
thinking it might be useful. He learned from the local professional in
the course of a short chat that there were only some half-dozen players
out that afternoon, all being men. Mizzi, therefore, had not assumed the
disguise of a golfer, though she might be waiting somewhere on the
horizon at an appointed trysting-place. The ambassador drove from the
first tee while they were talking: he was playing a solitary game
against bogey, who--judging from the first three shots--appeared likely
to win. The fact that he did not take a caddy might mean anything--a
sense of shame or an expected meeting with Mizzi. Lionel, that he might
have a reasonable excuse for keeping him under observation, borrowed
some clubs from the pro. on the plea that his own had not yet arrived.
He had not played golf for years, but trusted that some of his ancient
skill might still remain,--enough, at least, to justify his appearance
on the links.
The scheme, however, produced little, for there was no sign of Mizzi.
Lionel played slowly, keeping a methodical hole behind all the way. At
the fifteenth, however, he caught up with his quarry. In a moment of
ill-judged enthusiasm, and fired by the thrill of a superlative
brassie-shot, he went all out for his third. It was a long hole--bogey
five--and there was a deep bunker guarding the green. Lionel, after some
consideration, took the mashie in preference to the iron. It was a
mistake, for the green was farther than he thought. He made a beautiful
full shot that flew straight but fell short, deep in the heart of the
bunker. "Spoilt it!" thought Lionel with natural melancholy. "Ah! well!
Not so bad, considering I haven't played for so long."
As he walked on he remembered with a pang that he had forgotten the
ambassador. In the pleasure excited by a perfect drive, a perfect
brassie-shot, and an ill-fated, ill-judged, but clean full mashie, he
had lost sight of the other's existence. Now he was nowhere to be seen.
"Confound it!" thought Lionel uneasily; "what a kid I am to get carried
away by the game! Has he holed out and gone on, or is he by any chance
in that bunker?"
He hurried forward, now thinking only of the chase; and as he drew
nearer he heard curious sounds proceeding from the grave of so many