Rodney Stone, Arthur Conan Doyle [e reader comics .txt] 📗

>“By the way, nephew,” said he, “gout or no gout, and whether Abernethy likes it or not, we must be down at Crawley to-night. The battle will take place upon Crawley Downs. Sir Lothian Hume and his man are at Reigate. I have reserved beds at the George for both of us. The crush will, it is said, exceed anything ever known. The smell of these country inns is always most offensive to me—mais que voulez-vous? Berkeley Craven was saying in the club last night that there is not a bed within twenty miles of Crawley which is not bespoke, and that they are charging three guineas for the night. I hope that your young friend, if I must describe him as such, will fulfil the promise which he has shown, for I have rather more upon the event than I care to lose. Sir Lothian has been plunging also— he made a single bye-bet of five thousand to three upon Wilson in Limmer’s yesterday. From what I hear of his affairs it will be a serious matter for him if we should pull it off. Well, Lorimer?”

“A person to see you, Sir Charles,” said the new valet.

“You know that I never see any one until my dressing is complete.”

“He insists upon seeing you, sir. He pushed open the door.”

“Pushed it open! What d’you mean, Lorimer? Why didn’t you put him out?”

A smile passed over the servant’s face. At the same moment there came a deep voice from the passage.

“You show me in this instant, young man, d’ye ‘ear? Let me see your master, or it’ll be the worse for you.”

I thought that I had heard the voice before, but when, over the shoulder of the valet, I caught a glimpse of a large, fleshy, bull-face, with a flattened Michael Angelo nose in the centre of it, I knew at once that it was my neighbour at the supper party.

“It’s Warr, the prizefighter, sir,” said I.

“Yes, sir,” said our visitor, pushing his huge form into the room. “It’s Bill Warr, landlord of the One Ton public-‘ouse, Jermyn Street, and the gamest man upon the list. There’s only one thing that ever beat me, Sir Charles, and that was my flesh, which creeps over me that amazin’ fast that I’ve always got four stone that ‘as no business there. Why, sir, I’ve got enough to spare to make a feather-weight champion out of. You’d ‘ardly think, to look at me, that even after Mendoza fought me I was able to jump the four-foot ropes at the ringside just as light as a little kiddy; but if I was to chuck my castor into the ring now I’d never get it till the wind blew it out again, for blow my dicky if I could climb after. My respec’s to you, young sir, and I ‘ope I see you well.”

My uncle’s face had expressed considerable disgust at this invasion of his privacy, but it was part of his position to be on good terms with the fighting-men, so he contented himself with asking curtly what business had brought him there. For answer the huge prizefighter looked meaningly at the valet.

“It’s important, Sir Charles, and between man and man,” said he.

“You may go, Lorimer. Now, Warr, what is the matter?”

The bruiser very calmly seated himself astride of a chair with his arms resting upon the back of it.

“I’ve got information, Sir Charles,” said he.

“Well, what is it?” cried my uncle, impatiently.

“Information of value.”

“Out with it, then!”

“Information that’s worth money,” said Warr, and pursed up his lips.

“I see. You want to be paid for what you know?”

The prizefighter smiled an affirmative.

“Well, I don’t buy things on trust. You should know me better than to try on such a game with me.”

“I know you for what you are, Sir Charles, and that is a noble, slap-up Corinthian. But if I was to use this against you, d’ye see, it would be worth ‘undreds in my pocket. But my ‘eart won’t let me do it, for Bill Warr’s always been on the side o’ good sport and fair play. If I use it for you, then I expect that you won’t see me the loser.”

“You can do what you like,” said my uncle. “If your news is of service to me, I shall know how to treat you.”

“You can’t say fairer than that. We’ll let it stand there, gov’nor, and you’ll do the ‘andsome thing, as you ‘ave always ‘ad the name for doin’. Well, then, your man, Jim ‘Arisen, fights Crab Wilson, of Gloucester, at Crawley Down to-morrow mornin’ for a stake.”

“What of that?”

“Did you ‘appen to know what the bettin’ was yesterday?”

“It was three to two on Wilson.”

“Right you are, gov’nor. Three to two was offered in my own bar-parlour. D’you know what the bettin’ is to-day?”

“I have not been out yet.”

“Then I’ll tell you. It’s seven to one against your man.”

“What?”

“Seven to one, gov’nor, no less.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Warr! How could the betting change from three to two to seven to one?”

“Ive been to Tom Owen’s, and I’ve been to the ‘Ole in the Wall, and I’ve been to the Waggon and ‘Orses, and you can get seven to one in any of them. There’s tons of money being laid against your man. It’s a ‘orse to a ‘en in every sportin’ ‘ouse and boozin’ ken from ‘ere to Stepney.”

For a moment the expression upon my uncle’s face made me realize that this match was really a serious matter to him. Then he shrugged his shoulders with an incredulous smile.

“All the worse for the fools who give the odds,” said he. “My man is all right. You saw him yesterday, nephew?”

“He was all right yesterday, sir.”

“If anything had gone wrong I should have heard.”

“But perhaps,” said Warr, “it ‘as not gone wrong with ‘im YET.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I’ll tell you what I mean, sir. You remember Berks? You know that ‘e ain’t to be overmuch depended on at any time, and that ‘e ‘ad a grudge against your man ‘cause ‘e laid ‘im out in the coach-‘ouse. Well, last night about ten o’clock in ‘e comes into my bar, and the three bloodiest rogues in London at ‘is ‘eels. There was Red Ike, ‘im that was warned off the ring ‘cause ‘e fought a cross with Bittoon; and there was Fightin’ Yussef, who would sell ‘is mother for a seven-shillin’-bit; the third was Chris McCarthy, who is a fogle-snatcher by trade, with a pitch outside the ‘Aymarket Theatre. You don’t often see four such beauties together, and all with as much as they could carry, save only Chris, who is too leary a cove to drink when there’s somethin’ goin’ forward. For my part, I showed ‘em into the parlour, not ‘cos they was worthy of it, but ‘cos I knew right well they would start bashin’ some of my customers, and maybe get my license into trouble if I left ‘em in the bar. I served ‘em with drink, and stayed with ‘em just to see that they didn’t lay their ‘ands on the stuffed parroquet and the pictures.

“Well, gov’nor, to cut it short, they began to talk about the fight, and they all laughed at the idea that young Jim ‘Arrison could win it—all except Chris, and e’ kept a-nudging and a-twitchin’ at the others until Joe Berks nearly gave him a wipe across the face for ‘is trouble. I saw somethin’ was in the wind, and it wasn’t very ‘ard to guess what it was—especially when Red Ike was ready to put up a fiver that Jim ‘Arrison would never fight at all. So I up to get another bottle of liptrap, and I slipped round to the shutter that we pass the liquor through from the private bar into the parlour. I drew it an inch open, and I might ‘ave been at the table with them, I could ‘ear every word that clearly.

“There was Chris McCarthy growlin’ at them for not keepin’ their tongues still, and there was Joe Berks swearin’ that ‘e would knock ‘is face in if ‘e dared give ‘im any of ‘is lip. So Chris ‘e sort of argued with them, for ‘e was frightened of Berks, and ‘e put it to them whether they would be fit for the job in the mornin’, and whether the gov’nor would pay the money if ‘e found they ‘ad been drinkin’ and were not to be trusted. This struck them sober, all three, an’ Fighting Yussef asked what time they were to start. Chris said that as long as they were at Crawley before the George shut up they could work it. ‘It’s poor pay for a chance of a rope,’ said Red Ike. ‘Rope be damned!’ cried Chris, takin’ a little loaded stick out of his side pocket. ‘If three of you ‘old him down and I break his arm-bone with this, we’ve earned our money, and we don’t risk more’n six months’ jug.’ ”E’ll fight,’ said Berks. ‘Well, it’s the only fight ‘e’ll get,’ answered Chris, and that was all I ‘eard of it. This mornin’ out I went, and I found as I told you afore that the money is goin’ on to Wilson by the ton, and that no odds are too long for the layers. So it stands, gov’nor, and you know what the meanin’ of it may be better than Bill Warr can tell you.”

“Very good, Warr,” said my uncle, rising. “I am very much obliged to you for telling me this, and I will see that you are not a loser by it. I put it down as the gossip of drunken ruffians, but none the less you have served me vastly by calling my attention to it. I suppose I shall see you at the Downs to-morrow?”

“Mr. Jackson ‘as asked me to be one o’ the beaters-out, sir.”

“Very good. I hope that we shall have a fair and good fight. Good day to you, and thank you.”

My uncle had preserved his jaunty demeanour as long as Warr was in the room, but the door had hardly closed upon him before he turned to me with a face which was more agitated than I had ever seen it.

“We must be off for Crawley at once, nephew,” said he, ringing the bell. “There’s not a moment to be lost. Lorimer, order the bays to be harnessed in the curricle. Put the toilet things in, and tell William to have it round at the door as soon as possible.”

“I’ll see to it, sir,” said I, and away I ran to the mews in Little Ryder Street, where my uncle stabled his horses. The groom was away, and I had to send a lad in search of him, while with the help of the livery-man I dragged the curricle from the coach-house and brought the two mares out of their stalls. It was half an hour, or possibly three-quarters, before everything had been found, and Lorimer was already waiting in Jermyn Street with the inevitable baskets, whilst my uncle stood in the open door of his house, clad in his long fawn-coloured driving-coat, with no sign upon his calm pale face of the tumult of impatience which must, I was sure, be raging within.

“We shall leave you, Lorimer,” said he. “We might find it hard to get a bed for you. Keep at her head, William! Jump in, nephew. Halloa, Warr, what is the matter now?”

The prizefighter was hastening towards us as fast as his bulk would allow.

“Just one word before you go, Sir Charles,” he panted. “I’ve just ‘eard in my taproom that the four men I spoke of left