_Chapter 5_
Fortunately the road was mainly level. On the other hand, he washampered by an overcoat. After the first hundred yards he took thisoff, and carried it in an unwieldy parcel. This, he found, answeredadmirably. Running became easier. He had worked the stiffness out ofhis legs by this time, and was going well. Three hundred yards from thestation it was anybody's race. The exact position of the othercompetitor, the train, could not be defined. It was at any rate not yetwithin earshot, which meant that it still had at least a quarter of amile to go. Charteris considered that he had earned a rest. He sloweddown to a walk, but after proceeding at this pace for a few yards,thought that he heard a distant whistle, and dashed on again. Suddenlya raucous bellow of laughter greeted his ears from a spot in front ofhim, hidden from his sight by a bend in the road.
'Somebody slightly tight,' thought Charteris, rapidly diagnosing thecase. 'By Jove, if he comes rotting about with me I'll kill him.'Having to do anything in a desperate hurry always made Charteris'stemper slightly villainous. He turned the corner at a sharp trot, andcame upon two youths who seemed to be engaged in the harmlessoccupation of trying to ride a bicycle. They were of the type which heheld in especial aversion, the Rural Hooligan type, and one at least ofthe two had evidently been present at a recent circulation of thefestive bowl. He was wheeling the bicycle about the road in an aimlessmanner, and looked as if he wondered what was the matter with it thatit would not stay in the same place for two consecutive seconds. Theother youth was apparently of the 'Charles-his-friend' variety, contentto look on and applaud, and generally to play chorus to his companion's'lead'. He was standing at the side of the road, smiling broadly in away that argued feebleness of mind. Charteris was not quite sure whichof the two types he loathed the more. He was inclined to call it a tie.
However, there seemed to be nothing particularly lawless in what theywere doing now. If they were content to let him pass without hindrance,he, for his part, was content generously to overlook the insult theyoffered him in daring to exist, and to maintain a state of truce. But,as he drew nearer, he saw that there was more in this business than thecasual spectator might at first have supposed. A second and keenerinspection of the reptiles revealed fresh phenomena. In the firstplace, the bicycle which Hooligan number one was playing with was alady's bicycle, and a small one at that. Now, up to the age of fourteenand the weight of ten stone, a beginner at cycling often finds it moreconvenient to learn to ride on a lady's machine than on a gentleman's.The former offers greater facilities for rapid dismounting, a qualitynot to be despised in the earlier stages of initiation. But, thoughthis is undoubtedly the case, and though Charteris knew that it was so,yet he felt instinctively that there was something wrong here.Hooligans of twenty years and twelve stone do not learn to ride onsmall ladies' machines, or, if they do, it is probably without thepermission of the small lady who owns the same. Valuable as his timewas, Charteris felt that it behoved him to spend a thoughtful minute orso examining into this affair. He slowed down once again to a walk,and, as he did so, his eye fell upon the character in the drama whoseabsence had puzzled him, the owner of the bicycle. And from that momenthe felt that life would be a hollow mockery if he failed to fall uponthose revellers and slay them. She stood by the hedge on the right, aforlorn little figure in grey, and she gazed sadly and helplessly atthe manoeuvres that were going on in the middle of the road. Her ageCharteris put down at a venture at twelve--a correct guess. Her stateof mind he also conjectured. She was letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'Iwould', like the late Macbeth, the cat i' the adage, and numerous othercelebrities. She evidently had plenty of remarks to make on the subjectin hand, but refrained from motives of prudence.
Charteris had no such scruples. The feeling of fatigue that had beenupon him had vanished, and his temper, which had been growing steadilyworse for some twenty minutes, now boiled over gleefully at theprospect of something solid to work itself off upon. Even without acause Charteris detested the Rural Hooligan. Now that a real,copper-bottomed motive for this dislike had been supplied to him, hefelt himself capable of dealing with a whole regiment of the breed. Thecriminal with the bicycle had just let it fall with a crash to theground when Charteris went for him low, in the style which the Babealways insisted on seeing in members of the First Fifteen on thefootball field, and hove him without comment into a damp ditch.'Charles his friend' uttered a shout of disapproval and rushed into thefray. Charteris gave him the straight left, of the type to which thegreat John Jackson is reported to have owed so much in the days of theold Prize Ring, and Charles, taking it between the eyes, stopped in adiscouraged and discontented manner, and began to rub the place.Whereupon Charteris dashed in, and, to use an expression suitable tothe deed, 'swung his right at the mark'. The 'mark', it may beexplained for the benefit of the non-pugilistic, is that portion of theanatomy which lies hid behind the third button of the human waistcoat.It covers--in a most inadequate way--the wind, and even a gentle tap inthe locality is apt to produce a fleeting sense of discomfort. Agenuine flush hit on the spot, shrewdly administered by a muscular armwith the weight of the body behind it, causes the passive agent in thetransaction to wish fervently, as far as he is at the moment physicallycapable of wishing anything, that he had never been born. 'Charles hisfriend' collapsed like an empty sack, and Charteris, getting a grip ofthe outlying portions of his costume, dragged him to the ditch androlled him in on top of his friend, who had just recovered sufficientlyto be thinking about getting out again. The pair of them lay there in atangled heap. Charteris picked up the bicycle and gave it a cursoryexamination. The enamel was a good deal scratched, but no materialdamage had been done. He wheeled it across to its owner.
'It isn't much hurt,' he said, as they walked on slowly together. 'Bitscratched, that's all.'
'Thanks _awfully_,' said the small lady.
'Oh, not at all,' replied Charteris. 'I enjoyed it.' (He felt he hadsaid the right thing there. Your real hero always 'enjoys it'.) 'I'msorry those bargees frightened you.'
'They did rather. But'--she added triumphantly after a pause--'I didn'tcry.'
'Rather not,' said Charteris. 'You were awfully plucky. I noticed. Buthadn't you better ride on? Which way were you going?'
'I wanted to get to Stapleton.'
'Oh. That's simple enough. You've merely got to go straight on downthis road, as straight as ever you can go. But, look here, you know,you shouldn't be out alone like this. It isn't safe. Why did they letyou?'
The lady avoided his eye. She bent down and inspected the left pedal.
'They shouldn't have sent you out alone,' said Charteris, 'why didthey?'
'They--they didn't. I came.'
There was a world of meaning in the phrase. Charteris felt that he wasin the same case. They had not let _him_. He had come. Here was akindred spirit, another revolutionary soul, scorning the fetters ofconvention and the so-called authority of self-constituted rules, aha!Bureaucrats!
'Shake hands,' he said, 'I'm in just the same way.'
They shook hands gravely.
'You know,' said the lady, 'I'm awfully sorry I did it now. It was verynaughty.'
'I'm not sorry yet,' said Charteris, 'I'm rather glad than otherwise.But I expect I shall be sorry before long.'
'Will you be sent to bed?'
'I don't think so.'
'Will you have to learn beastly poetry?'
'Probably not.'
She looked at him curiously, as if to enquire, 'then if you won't haveto learn poetry and you won't get sent to bed, what on earth is therefor you to worry about?'
She would probably have gone on to investigate the problem further, butat that moment there came the sound of a whistle. Then another, closerthis time. Then a faint rumbling, which increased in volume steadily.Charteris looked back. The railway line ran by the side of the road. Hecould see the smoke of a train through the trees. It was quite closenow, and coming closer every minute, and he was still quite a hundredand fifty yards from the station ga
tes.
'I say,' he cried. 'Great Scott, here comes my train. I must rush.Good-bye. You keep straight on.'
His legs had had time to grow stiff again. For the first few stridesrunning was painful. But his joints soon adapted themselves to thestrain, and in ten seconds he was sprinting as fast as he had eversprinted off the running-track. When he had travelled a quarter of thedistance the small cyclist overtook him.
'Be quick,' she said, 'it's just in sight.'
Charteris quickened his stride, and, paced by the bicycle, spun alongin fine style. Forty yards from the station the train passed him. Hesaw it roll into the station. There were still twenty yards to go,exclusive of the station's steps, and he was already running as fast asit lay in him to run. Now there were only ten. Now five. And at last,with a hurried farewell to his companion, he bounded up the steps andon to the platform. At the end of the platform the line took a sharpcurve to the left. Round that curve the tail end of the guard's van wasjust disappearing.
'Missed it, sir,' said the solitary porter, who managed things atRutton, cheerfully. He spoke as if he was congratulating Charteris onhaving done something remarkably clever.
'When's the next?' panted Charteris.
'Eight-thirty,' was the porter's appalling reply.
For a moment Charteris felt quite ill. No train till eight-thirty! Thenwas he indeed lost. But it couldn't be true. There must be some sort ofa train between now and then.
'Are you certain?' he said. 'Surely there's a train before that?'
'Why, yes, sir,' said the porter gleefully, 'but they be all exprusses.Eight-thirty be the only 'un what starps at Rootton.'
'Thanks,' said Charteris with marked gloom, 'I don't think that'll bemuch good to me. My aunt, what a hole I'm in.'
The porter made a sympathetic and interrogative noise at the back ofhis throat, as if inviting him to explain everything. But Charterisfelt unequal to conversation. There are moments when one wants to bealone. He went down the steps again. When he got out into the road, hissmall cycling friend had vanished. Charteris was conscious of a feelingof envy towards her. She was doing the journey comfortably on abicycle. He would have to walk it. Walk it! He didn't believe he could.The strangers' mile, followed by the Homeric combat with the twoHooligans and that ghastly sprint to wind up with, had left himdecidedly unfit for further feats of pedestrianism. And it was eightmiles to Stapleton, if it was a yard, and another mile from Stapletonto St Austin's. Charteris, having once more invoked the name of hisaunt, pulled himself together with an effort, and limped gallantly onin the direction of Stapleton. But fate, so long hostile to him, atlast relented. A rattle of wheels approached him from behind. A thrillof hope shot through him at the sound. There was the prospect of alift. He stopped, and waited for the dog-cart--it sounded like adog-cart--to arrive. Then he uttered a shout of rapture, and began towave his arms like a semaphore. The man in the dog-cart was Dr Adamson.
'Hullo, Charteris,' said the Doctor, pulling up his horse, 'what areyou doing here?'
'Give me a lift,' said Charteris, 'and I'll tell you. It's a long yarn.Can I get in?'
'Come along. Plenty of room.'
Charteris climbed up, and sank on to the cushioned seat with a sigh ofpleasure. What glorious comfort. He had never enjoyed anything more inhis life.
'I'm nearly dead,' he said, as the dog-cart went on again. 'This is howit all happened. You see, it was this way--'
And he embarked forthwith upon his narrative.
Tales of St. Austin's Page 18
