A Bid for Fortune, Guy Boothby [easy books to read TXT] 📗

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“Never set eyes on him in my life, but I heard him spoken of the other day.”

I did not add that it was Mr. Matchem who, during my conversation with him, had referred to his Grace, nor did I think it well to say that he had designated him the “Mad Duke.” And so the boy I had saved from drowning was the young Marquis of Beckenham. Well, I was moving in good society with a vengeance. This boy was the first nobleman I had ever clapped eyes on, though I knew the Count de Panuroff well enough in Thursday Island. But then foreign Counts, and shady ones at that, ought not to reckon, perhaps.

“But you don’t mean to tell me,” I said at length, “that you’ve got no friends? Don’t you ever see anyone at all?”

“No, I am not allowed to. My father thinks it better not. And as he does not wish it, of course I have nothing left but to obey. I must own, however, I should like to see the world⁠—to go a long voyage to Australia, for instance.”

“But how do you put in your time? You must have a very dull life of it.”

“Oh, no! You see, I have never known anything else, and then I have always the future to look forward to. As it is now, I bathe every morning, I have my yacht, I ride about the park, I have my studies, and I have a tutor who tells me wonderful stories of the world.”

“Oh, your tutor has been about, has he?”

“Dear, yes! He was a missionary in the South Sea Islands, and has seen some very stirring adventures.”

“A missionary in the South Seas, eh? Perhaps I know him.”

“Were you ever in those seas?”

“Why, I’ve spent almost all my life there.”

“Were you a missionary?”

“You bet not. The missionaries and my friends don’t cotton to one another.”

“But they are such good men!”

“That may be. Still, as I say, we don’t somehow cotton. D’you know I’d like to set my eyes upon your tutor.”

“Well, you will. I think I see him on the beach now. I expect he has been wondering what has become of me. I’ve never been out so long before.”

“Well, you’re close home now, and as safe as eggs in a basket.”

Another minute brought us into as shallow water as I cared to go. Accordingly, heaving to, I brought the dinghy alongside, and we got into her. Then casting off, I pulled my lord ashore. A small, clean-shaven, parsonish-looking man, with the regulation white choker, stood by the water waiting for us. As I beached the boat he came forward and said:

“My lord, we have been very anxious about you. We feared you had met with an accident.”

“I have been very nearly drowned, Mr. Baxter. Had it not been for this gentleman’s prompt assistance I should never have reached home again.”

“You should really be more careful, my lord. I have warned you before. You father has been nearly beside himself with anxiety about you!”

“Eh?” said I to myself. “Somehow this does not sound quite right. Anyhow, Mr. Baxter, I’ve seen your figurehead somewhere before⁠—but you were not a missionary then, I’ll take my affidavit.”

Turning to me, my young lord held out his hand.

“You have never told me your name,” he said almost reproachfully.

“Dick Hatteras,” I answered, “and very much at your service.”

“Mr. Hatteras, I shall never forget what you have done for me. That I am most grateful to you I hope you will believe. I know that I owe you my life.”

Here the tutor’s voice chipped in again, as I thought, rather impatiently.

“Come, come, my lord. This delay will not do. Your father will be growing still more nervous about you. We must be getting home!”

Then they went off up the cliff path together, and I returned to my boat.

“Mr. Baxter,” I said to myself again as I pulled off to the yacht, “I want to know where I’ve seen your face before. I’ve taken a sudden dislike to you. I don’t trust you; and if your employer’s the man they say he is, well, he won’t either.”

Then, having brought the dinghy alongside, I made the painter fast, clambered aboard, and we stood out of the bay once more.

The following morning I was sitting in my room at the hotel idly scanning the Standard, and wondering in what way I should employ myself until the time arrived for me to board the yacht, when I heard a carriage roll up to the door.

On looking out I discovered a gorgeous landau, drawn by a pair of fine thoroughbreds, and resplendent with much gilded and crested harness, standing before the steps. A footman had already opened the door, and I was at the window just in time to see a tall, soldierly man alight from it. To my astonishment, two minutes later a waiter entered my room and announced “His Grace the Duke of Glenbarth.” It was the owner of the carriage and the father of my young friend, if by such a title I might designate the Marquis of Beckenham.

“Mr. Hatteras, I presume?” said he, advancing towards me and using that dignified tone that only an English gentleman can assume with anything approaching success.

“Yes, that is my name. I am honoured by your visit. Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you.”

He paused for a moment, and then continued:

“Mr. Hatteras, I have to offer you an apology. I should have called upon you yesterday to express the gratitude I feel to you for having saved the life of my son, but I was unavoidably prevented.”

“I beg you will not mention it,” I said. “His lordship thanked me sufficiently himself. And after all, when you look at it, it was not very much to do. I would, however, venture one little suggestion. Is it wise to let him swim so far unaccompanied by a boat? The same thing might happen to him on another occasion, and no one