Long Live the King, Guy Boothby [red queen ebook TXT] 📗

with a fine white powder. Interrogating the station-master, whom he found upon the platform, he inquired what time the next train was due for Salisbury.

"There is not one for nearly an hour, sir," the man replied. "It leaves here at half-past eight and reaches Salisbury at 9.25."

"That's a pity," said Max, who saw that he would not be able to get on to Bristol that night. "However, as it can't be helped, I must wait for it. I am much obliged to you."

The station-master, as a matter of form, compared his watch with the clock in the little waiting-room, then glanced up and down the line, and finally disappeared into his cottage, leaving Max to his own devices. The latter examined the various railway advertisements on the notice board, criticised the name of the station arranged in white flints on a neatly-kept bank beside the platform, and then decided that he felt hungry after his walk. Fifty yards or so further along the road was a small inn, and toward this he made his way. Entering the bar, which was unoccupied, he inquired of the buxom landlady if she could supply him with a meal.

"It all depends, sir, what you want," the latter replied, shaking her curls coquettishly at him; "if you'd like ham and eggs we can manage that, or maybe a bloater if so be you'd relish it, but I don't know that I can do better for you at this time o' night, at any rate."

Max decided in favour of the former, and a quarter of an hour later might have been observed in the landlady's own private parlour, seated before a steaming dish of ham and eggs, which he was devouring with an appetite that was the outcome of a four-mile walk. I have seen that landlady since, and have tried to make her understand who her guest was.

"Lor' bless you, sir," she said--for though I told her about Max, she had not the least notion of my identity--"I don't know anything about his being a prince, but what I do know is, that he ate his ham and eggs hearty enough for a king, as I told my old man afterwards."

His meal disposed of, Max paid the bill, and returned to the station to await the arrival of his train. The sun was sinking behind the trees on the other side of the cutting, and the whole heavens were suffused with crimson light. A belated cuckoo was wishing the world good-night in the far distance, and the tinkling of bells on the harness of a waggoner's team was wafted to him like faintest music upon the still evening air. As he strolled up and down the platform, his thoughts involuntarily returned to the Princess. He wondered whether she were thinking of him, and how long it would be before he would be able to school himself to forget her.

The first sign that heralded the train's approach was the arrival of a hobbledehoy rustic of about sixteen on the platform. He carried in one hand a bundle, tied up in a red pocket-handkerchief, and in the other a ground-ash stick, with which he beat his leg to the tune of a music-hall melody that had been popular in London some six months before. As Max passed him on his way to the booking-office to take his ticket, he civilly wished him good-evening. When the train entered the station, he followed the lad to a third-class compartment, and seated himself opposite him. They were the only two occupants of the carriage, and Max was in the humour for conversation. He felt as if he had been alone in the world for countless years, and for some reason the boy's broad Hampshire dialect was soothing to his ears. The lad was on his way to a new situation, so he informed his companion, a farm on the outskirts of the village of Dean. It was his first absence from home, and Max noticed that an ominous snuffle followed his statement of the fact. To the elder man there was something engaging about this encounter. They were both stepping out of their old into a new world, in order to gain experience, and were equally anxious, yet equally loth to say farewell to their old surroundings.

"I knew it was coming for a long time, sir," said the boy in a burst of confidence. "Father always had a sort of feeling that he wanted me to go along o' Mr. Simpkins, but, somehow, mother didn't kind o' fancy it. Not but that I can do my work, sir. I bain't afraid of work--not a bit of it. It's the going away from home and mother, that's the worst of it. But there, it will seem kind of strange at first, sir, I don't doubt; but bless you, I reckon somehow it will come right in the end. Anyways, I am going to do my best to make it."

For many a long day that homely speech was destined to live in Max's memory. It was an augury for the future; at any rate, he determined to regard it as such. When they reached Dean, and the boy had made his preparations to alight, Max held out his hand.

"Good-bye," he said. "I hope you may prosper in your undertaking. Like you, I, too, am starting out into the world to gain experience. I have wished you good luck; won't you do the same for me?"

The boy shyly took the hand held out to him, and, as he did so, he said: "God speed ye, sir, and thank ye kindly for the way you've let me talk to you. It's done me a world o' good."

A second later he was gone, and the train was on its way once more. In something under twenty minutes they had reached Salisbury, where Max discovered, as he had quite made up his mind he would do, that the last train for Bristol had departed. In consequence, he would be compelled to wait in Salisbury until morning for another. The disappointment was a severe one, for he had hoped to reach his destination before the night was over. In his present state, rapid travelling was exactly what he wanted; to feel he was dashing through the country, drawing nearer his goal with every mile, was like an antidote to pain, it prevented him from thinking. Now there was nothing for it but to find an hotel and to wait for morning.

As he made his way out of the station and down into the town, he thought of the last time he had visited that ancient city. Then he had been the favoured guest of a well-known nobleman in the neighbourhood, and his arrival had been the signal for quite a respectable crowd to gather in the station yard to see the Crown Prince of Pannonia. Flags had decorated the streets, and the civic authorities had offered him a hearty welcome in their council-house. Now a thick drizzle was falling as he walked along the muddy street, and the only welcome he received was the curse of a tipsy man who reeled and almost fell against him. When he had discovered a convenient hostelry he engaged a room, and afterwards strolled about the town. At last he found himself standing before the ancient cathedral, in what is perhaps the most peaceful and beautiful close in all the length and breadth of England. The graceful spire towered hundreds of feet into the moonlit sky, and as he watched it the clock struck ten, slowly and solemnly, as if it were aware of the important part it was playing in the passage of time. At the same moment I was alighting from my train at Southampton Docks, whither I had gone in search of him. Small wonder was it, since he was in Salisbury, that I could not find him.

Next morning, shortly before five o'clock, he rose and continued his journey, catching a London train at Westbury, reaching Bath at eight o'clock, and Bristol thirty-five minutes later. Before leaving the station he secured the luggage he had sent on ahead, and then once more departed in quest of an hotel. This accomplished, he was at liberty to go in search of a vessel. From the collection of advertisements in the coffee-room, it would appear that there was no place on the face of the habitable globe that could not be reached from that port. He could find nothing, however, to suit him. The United States did not appeal sufficiently to his sense of the romantic; South Africa had another and still more vital objection; Canada was impossible, for the simple reason that he had already visited it, and was exceedingly well known there. He wanted to find a vessel on which there would be no possible chance of his being recognised, and for this reason also the big liners were unsuitable. Leaving the hotel, he went into the town, scanned the wharves, and entered into conversation with men who had their dealings in great waters. At last, and quite by chance, he happened upon the very vessel he wanted. She was the _Diamintina_, a steamer of some three thousand tons, engaged in the South American trade. Her steam was already up, and, as Max was informed, she was to sail that afternoon for Rio de Janeiro. He inquired the name of the agents, and as soon as he had discovered their address, set off in search of the office post-haste. The clerk who did him the honour to inquire his business informed him that he was quite right in supposing that she would sail that afternoon, and went even so far as to add that she had sufficient accommodation for half a dozen passengers, four of which were already booked. The chance seemed too good to be lost. Brazil was the country he had always had a desire to visit; now he paid the money demanded of him and received his ticket in exchange. An hour later he had made his way on board and the voyage to South America had commenced. Max stood at the port bulwarks as the vessel steamed slowly down the river, and watched the shore slip past with what was almost a feeling of wonderment at his position. At last he might consider himself freed from his past life. He had a hundred pounds in the belt that was safely clasped round his waist, ten pounds in his pocket, and when that was gone he would have nothing to depend upon, save his health and his determination to succeed. By nightfall they were out in more open water, and a brisk sea was running. Fortunately, Max was an excellent sailor, and enjoyed rather than disliked the active motion of the steamer. To his surprise, when the dinner-bell rang at six o'clock, he, the captain, and one solitary passenger were all who sat down to table. They were the only three to sit down at subsequent meals during the voyage. The captain was inclined to be agreeable, and Max's fellow saloon passenger was the Senor Francisco Moreas, and he was, by his own account, an old resident in Brazil. Be that as it may, and I am certainly not in a position to contradict it, he had seen more of the world than the average man. His age must have been between forty and forty-five; his appearance was that of a typical Spaniard, debilitated partly by fever and partly by his own excesses; he was tall but sparely built, boasted keen, hawk-like eyes, a nose that at first glance reminded one of the same bird's beak, a small and carefully-trimmed moustache, and last, but not least, exceedingly small hands and feet, of which he was inordinately