The Crock of Gold, James Stephens [best mobile ebook reader txt] 📗

SOME distance down the road the policemen halted. The night had fallen before they effected their capture, and now, in the gathering darkness, they were not at ease. In the first place, they knew that the occupation upon which they were employed was not a creditable one to a man whatever it might be to a policeman. The seizure of a criminal may be justified by certain arguments as to the health of society and the preservation of property, but no person wishes under any circumstances to hale a wise man to prison. They were further distressed by the knowledge that they were in the very centre of a populous fairy country, and that on every side the elemental hosts might be ranging, ready to fall upon them with the terrors of war or the still more awful scourge of their humour. The path leading to their station was a long one, winding through great alleys of trees, which in some places overhung the road so thickly that even the full moon could not search out that deep blackness. In the daylight these men would have arrested an Archangel and, if necessary, bludgeoned him, but in the night-time a thousand fears afflicted and a multitude of sounds shocked them from every quarter.

Two men were holding the Philosopher, one on either side; the other two walked one before and one behind him. In this order they were proceeding when just in front through the dim light they saw the road swallowed up by one of these groves already spoken of. When they came nigh they halted irresolutely: the man who was in front (a silent and perturbed sergeant) turned fiercely to the others “Come on, can’t you?” said he; “what the devil are you waiting for?” and he strode forward into the black gape.

“Keep a good hold of that man,” said the one behind.

“Don’t be talking out of you,” replied he on the right. “Haven’t we got a good grip of him, and isn’t he an old man into the bargain?”

“Well, keep a good tight grip of him, anyhow, for if he gave you the slip in there he’d vanish like a weasel in a bush. Them old fellows do be slippery customers. Look here, mister,” said he to the Philosopher, “if you try to run away from us I’ll give you a clout on the head with my baton; do you mind me now!”

They had taken only a few paces forward when the sound of hasty footsteps brought them again to a halt, and in a moment the sergeant came striding back. He was angry.

“Are you going to stay there the whole night, or what are you going to do at all?” said he.

“Let you be quiet now,” said another; “we were only settling with the man here the way he wouldn’t try to give us the slip in a dark place.”

“Is it thinking of giving us the slip he is?” said the sergeant. “Take your baton in your hand, Shawn, and if he turns his head to one side of him hit him on that side.”

“I’ll do that,” said Shawn, and he pulled out his truncheon.

The Philosopher had been dazed by the suddenness of these occurrences, and the enforced rapidity of his movements prevented him from either thinking or speaking, but during this brief stoppage his scattered wits began to return to their allegiance. First, bewilderment at his enforcement had seized him, and the four men, who were continually running round him and speaking all at once, and each pulling him in a different direction, gave him the impression that he was surrounded by a great rabble of people, but he could not discover what they wanted. After a time he found that there were only four men, and gathered from their remarks that he was being arrested for murder—this precipitated him into another and a deeper gulf of bewilderment. He was unable to conceive why they should arrest him for murder when he had not committed any; and, following this, he became indignant.

“I will not go another step,” said he, “unless you tell me where you are bringing me and what I am accused of.”

“Tell me,” said the sergeant, “what did you kill them with? for it’s a miracle how they came to their ends without as much as a mark on their skins or a broken tooth itself.”

“Who are you talking about?” the Philosopher demanded.

“It’s mighty innocent you are,” he replied. “Who would I be talking about but the man and woman that used to be living with you beyond in the little house? Is it poison you gave them now, or what was it? Take a hold of your note-book, Shawn.”

“Can’t you have sense, man?” said Shawn. “How would I be writing in the middle of a dark place and me without as much as a pencil, let alone a book?”

“Well, we’ll take it down at the station, and himself can tell us all about it as we go along. Move on now, for this is no place to be conversing in.”

They paced on again, and in another moment they were swallowed up by the darkness. When they had proceeded for a little distance there came a peculiar sound in front like the breathing of some enormous animal, and also a kind of shuffling noise, and so they again halted.

“There’s a queer kind of a thing in front of us,” said one of the men in a low voice.

“If I had a match itself,” said another.

The sergeant had also halted.

“Draw well into the side of the road,” said he, “and poke your batons in front of you. Keep a tight hold of that man, Shawn.”