Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “That’s Flynn of Kildare,” said Dodds’s informant. “Jack Flynn has brought down that string of horses, and the other large string over yonder belongs to Tom Flynn, his brother. The two of them together are the two first breeders in Ireland.” A crowd had gathered in front of the horses. By common consent a place had been made for Mr. Holloway, and Dodds could catch a glimpse of his florid face and yellow covert-coat in the front rank. He had opened his note-book, and was tapping his teeth reflectively with his pencil as he eyed the horses.

  “You’ll see a fight now between the first seller and the first buyer in the country,” said Dodds’s acquaintance. “They are a beautiful string, anyhow. I shouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t average five-and-thirty pound apiece for the lot as they stand.”

  The salesman had mounted upon a chair, and his keen, clean-shaven face overlooked the crowd. Mr. Jack Flynn’s grey whiskers were at his elbow, and Mr. Holloway immediately in front.

  “You’ve seen these horses, gentlemen,” said the salesman, with a backward sweep of his hand towards the line of tossing heads and streaming manes. “When you know that they are bred by Mr. Jack Flynn, at his place in Kildare, you will have a guarantee of their quality. They are the best that Ireland can produce, and in this class of horse the best that Ireland can produce are the best in the world, as every riding man knows well. Hunters or carriage horses, all warranted sound, and bred from the best stock. There are seventy in Mr. Jack Flynn’s string, and he bids me say that if any wholesale dealer would make one bid for the whole lot, to save time, he would have the preference over any purchaser.”

  There was a pause and a whisper from the crowd in front, with some expressions of discontent. By a single sweep all the small dealers had been put out of it. It was only a long purse which could buy on such a scale as that. The salesman looked round him inquiringly.

  “Come, Mr. Holloway,” said he, at last. “You didn’t come over here for the sake of the scenery. You may travel the country and not see such another string of horses. Give us a starting bid.”

  The great dealer was still rattling his pencil upon his front teeth. “Well,” said he, at last, “they are a fine lot of horses, and I won’t deny it. They do you credit, Mr. Flynn, I am sure. All the same I didn’t mean to fill a ship at a single bid in this fashion. I like to pick and choose my horses.”

  “In that case Mr. Flynn is quite prepared to sell them in smaller lots,” said the salesman. “It was rather for the convenience of a wholesale customer that he was prepared to put them all up together. But if no gentleman wishes to bid—”

  “Wait a minute,” said a voice. “They are very fine horses, these, and I will give you a bid to start you. I will give you twenty pounds each for the string of seventy.”

  There was a rustle as the crowd all swayed their heads to catch a glimpse of the speaker. The salesman leaned forward. “May I ask your name, sir?”

  “Strellenhaus — Mr. Strellenhaus of Liverpool.”

  “It’s a new firm,” said Dodds’s neighbour. “I thought I knew them all, but I never heard of him before.”

  The salesman’s head had disappeared, for he was whispering with the breeder. Now he suddenly straightened himself again. “Thank you for giving us a lead, sir,” said he. “Now, gentlemen, you have heard the offer of Mr. Strellenhaus of Liverpool. It will give us a base to start from. Mr. Strellenhaus has offered twenty pounds a head.”

  “Guineas,” said Holloway.

  “Bravo, Mr. Holloway! I knew that you would take a hand. You are not the man to let such a string of horses pass away from you. The bid is twenty guineas a head.”

  “Twenty-five pounds,” said Mr. Strellenhaus.

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Thirty.”

  It was London against Liverpool, and it was the head of the trade against an outsider. Still, the one man had increased his bids by fives and the other only by ones. Those fives meant determination and also wealth. Holloway had ruled the market so long that the crowd was delighted at finding someone who would stand up to him.

  “The bid now stands at thirty pounds a head,” said the salesman.

  “The word lies with you, Mr. Holloway.”

  The London dealer was glancing keenly at his unknown opponent, and he was asking himself whether this was a genuine rival, or whether it was a device of some sort — an agent of Flynn’s perhaps — for running up the price. Little Mr. Strellenhaus, the same apple-faced gentleman whom Dodds had noticed in the coffee-room, stood looking at the horses with the sharp, quick glances of a man who knows what he is looking for.

  “Thirty-one,” said Holloway, with the air of a man who has gone to his extreme limit.

  “Thirty-two,” said Strellenhaus, promptly.

  Holloway grew angry at this persistent opposition. His red face flushed redder still.

  “Thirty-three!” he shouted.

  “Thirty-four,” said Strellenhaus.

  Holloway became thoughtful, and entered a few figures in his note-book. There were seventy horses. He knew that Flynn’s stock was always of the highest quality. With the hunting season coming on he might rely upon selling them at an average of from forty-five to fifty. Some of them might carry a heavy weight, and would run to three figures. On the other hand, there was the feed and keep of them for three months, the danger of the voyage, the chance of influenza or some of those other complaints which run through an entire stable as measles go through a nursery. Deducting all this, it was a question whether at the present price any profit would be left upon the transaction. Every pound that he bid meant seventy out of his pocket. And yet he could not submit to be beaten by this stranger without a struggle. As a business matter it was important to him to be recognised as the head of his profession. He would make one more effort, if he sacrificed his profit by doing so.

  “At the end of your rope, Mr. Holloway?” asked the salesman, with the suspicion of a sneer.

  “Thirty-five,” cried Holloway gruffly.

  “Thirty-six,” said Strellenhaus.

  “Then I wish you joy of your bargain,” said Holloway. “I don’t buy at that price, but I should be glad to sell you some.”

  Mr. Strellenhaus took no notice of the irony. He was still looking critically at the horses. The salesman glanced round him in a perfunctory way.

  “Thirty-six pounds bid,” said he. “Mr. Jack Flynn’s lot is going to Mr.

  Strellenhaus of Liverpool, at thirty-six pounds a head. Going — going—”

  “Forty!” cried a high, thin, clear voice.

  A buzz rose from the crowd, and they were all on tiptoe again, trying to catch a glimpse of this reckless buyer. Being a tall man, Dodds could see over the others, and there, at the side of Holloway, he saw the masterful nose and aristocratic beard of the second stranger in the coffee-room. A sudden personal interest added itself to the scene. He felt that he was on the verge of something — something dimly seen — which he could himself turn to account. The two men with strange names, the telegrams, the horses — what was underlying it all? The salesman was all animation again, and Mr. Jack Flynn was sitting up with his white whiskers bristling and his eyes twinkling. It was the best deal which he had ever made in his fifty years of experience.

  “What name, sir?” asked the salesman.

  “Mr. Mancune.”

  “Address?”

  “Mr. Mancune of Glasgow.”

  “Thank you for your bid, sir. Forty pounds a head has been bid by Mr.

  Mancune of Glasgow. Any advance upon forty?”

  “Forty-one,” said Strellenhaus.

  “Forty-five,” said Mancune.

  The tactics had changed, and it was the turn of Strellenhaus now to advance by ones, while his rival sprang up by fives. But the former was as dogged as ever.

  “Forty-six,” said he.

  “Fifty!” cried Mancune.

  It was unheard of. The most that the horses could possibly average at a retail price was as much as these men were wi
lling to pay wholesale.

  “Two lunatics from Bedlam,” whispered the angry Holloway. “If I was

  Flynn I would see the colour of their money before I went any further.”

  The same thought had occurred to the salesman. “As a mere matter of business, gentlemen,” said he, “it is usual in such cases to put down a small deposit as a guarantee of bona fides. You will understand how I am placed, and that I have not had the pleasure of doing business with either of you before.”

  “How much?” asked Strellenhaus, briefly.

  “Should we say five hundred?”

  “Here is a note for a thousand pounds.”

  “And here is another,” said Mancune.

  “Nothing could be more handsome, gentlemen,” said the salesman. “It’s a treat to see such a spirited competition. The last bid was fifty pounds a head from Mancune. The word lies with you, Mr. Strellenhaus.”

  Mr. Jack Flynn whispered something to the salesman. “Quite so! Mr. Flynn suggests, gentlemen, that as you are both large buyers, it would, perhaps, be a convenience to you if he was to add the string of Mr. Tom Flynn, which consists of seventy animals of precisely the same quality, making one hundred and forty in all. Have you any objection, Mr. Mancune?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you, Mr. Strellenhaus?”

  “I should prefer it.”

  “Very handsome! Very handsome indeed!” murmured the salesman. “Then I understand, Mr. Mancune, that your offer of fifty pounds a head extends to the whole of these horses?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A long breath went up from the crowd. Seven thousand pounds at one deal. It was a record for Dunsloe.

  “Any advance, Mr. Strellenhaus?”

  “Fifty-one.”

  “Fifty-five.”

  “Fifty-six.”

  “Sixty.”

  They could hardly believe their ears. Holloway stood with his mouth open, staring blankly in front of him. The salesman tried hard to look as if such bidding and such prices were nothing unusual. Jack Flynn of Kildare smiled benignly and rubbed his hands together. The crowd listened in dead silence.

  “Sixty-one,” said Strellenhaus. From the beginning he had stood without a trace of emotion upon his round face, like a little automatic figure which bid by clockwork. His rival was of a more excitable nature. His eyes were shining, and he was for ever twitching at his beard.

  “Sixty-five,” he cried.

  “Sixty-six.”

  “Seventy.”

  But the clockwork had run down. No answering bid came from Mr.

  Strellenhaus.

  “Seventy bid, sir.”

  Mr. Strellenhaus shrugged his shoulders.

  “I am buying for another, and I have reached his limit,” said he.

  “If you will permit me to send for instructions—”

  “I am afraid, sir, that the sale must proceed.”

  “Then the horses belong to this gentleman.” For the first time he turned towards his rival, and their glances crossed like sword-blades. “It is possible that I may see the horses again.”

  “I hope so,” said Mr. Mancune; and his white, waxed moustache gave a feline upward bristle.

  So, with a bow, they separated. Mr. Strellenhaus walked, down to the telegraph-office, where his message was delayed because Mr. Worlington Dodds was already at the end of the wires, for, after dim guesses and vague conjecture, he had suddenly caught a clear view of this coming event which had cast so curious a shadow before it in this little Irish town. Political rumours, names, appearances, telegrams, seasoned horses at any price, there could only be one meaning to it. He held a secret, and he meant to use it.

  Mr. Warner, who was the partner of Mr. Worlington Dodds, and who was suffering from the same eclipse, had gone down to the Stock Exchange, but had found little consolation there, for the European system was in a ferment, and rumours of peace and of war were succeeding each other with such rapidity and assurance that it was impossible to know which to trust. It was obvious that a fortune lay either way, for every rumour set the funds fluctuating; but without special information it was impossible to act, and no one dared to plunge heavily upon the strength of newspaper surmise and the gossip of the street. Warner knew that an hour’s work might resuscitate the fallen fortunes of himself and his partner, and yet he could not afford to make a mistake. He returned to his office in the afternoon, half inclined to back the chances of peace, for of all war scares not one in ten comes to pass. As he entered the office a telegram lay upon the table. It was from Dunsloe, a place of which he had never heard, and was signed by his absent partner. The message was in cipher, but he soon translated it, for it was short and crisp.

  “I am a bear of everything German and French. Sell, sell, sell, keep on selling.”

  For a moment Warner hesitated. What could Worlington Dodds know at Dunsloe which was not known in Throgmorton Street? But he remembered the quickness and decision of his partner. He would not have sent such a message without very good grounds. If he was to act at all he must act at once, so, hardening his heart, he went down to the house, and, dealing upon that curious system by which a man can sell what he has not got, and what he could not pay for if he had it, he disposed of heavy parcels of French and German securities. He had caught the market in one of its little spasms of hope, and there was no lack of buying until his own persistent selling caused others to follow his lead, and so brought about a reaction. When Warner returned to his offices it took him some hours to work out his accounts, and he emerged into the streets in the evening with the absolute certainty that the next settling-day would leave him either hopelessly bankrupt or exceedingly prosperous.

  It all depended upon Worlington Dodds’s information. What could he possibly have found out at Dunsloe?

  And then suddenly he saw a newspaper boy fasten a poster upon a lamp-post, and a little crowd had gathered round it in an instant One of them waved his hat in the air; another shouted to a friend across the street. Warner hurried up and caught a glimpse of the poster between two craning heads —

  “FRANCE DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY.”

  “By Jove!” cried Warner. “Old Dodds was right, after all.”

  THE KING OF THE FOXES

  It was after a hunting dinner, and there were as many scarlet coats as black ones round the table. The conversation over the cigars had turned, therefore, in the direction of horses and horsemen, with reminiscences of phenomenal runs where foxes had led the pack from end to end of a county, and been overtaken at last by two or three limping hounds and a huntsman on foot, while every rider in the field had been pounded. As the port circulated the runs became longer and more apocryphal, until we had the whips inquiring their way and failing to understand the dialect of the people who answered them. The foxes, too, became mere eccentric, and we had foxes up pollard willows, foxes which were dragged by the tail out of horses’ mangers, and foxes which had raced through an open front door and gone to ground in a lady’s bonnet-box. The master had told one or two tall reminiscences, and when he cleared his throat for another we were all curious, for he was a bit of an artist in his way, and produced his effects in a crescendo fashion. His face wore the earnest, practical, severely accurate expression which heralded some of his finest efforts.

  “It was before I was master,” said he. “Sir Charles Adair had the hounds at that time, and then afterwards they passed to old Lathom, and then to me. It may possibly have been just after Lathom took them over, but my strong impression is that it was in Adair’s time. That would be early in the seventies — about seventy-two, I should say.

  “The man I mean has moved to another part of the country, but I daresay that some of you can remember him. Danbury was the name — Walter Danbury, or Wat Danbury, as the people used to call him. He was the son of old Joe Danbury, of High Ascombe, and when his father died he came into a very good thing, for his only brother was drowned when the Magna Charta foundered, so he inherited the whole estate. It was but
a few hundred acres, but it was good arable land, and those were the great days of farming. Besides, it was freehold, and a yeoman farmer without a mortgage was a warmish man before the great fall in wheat came. Foreign wheat and barbed wire — those are the two curses of this country, for the one spoils the farmer’s work and the other spoils his play.

  “This young Wat Danbury was a very fine fellow, a keen rider, and a thorough sportsman, but his head was a little turned at having come, when so young, into a comfortable fortune, and he went the pace for a year or two. The lad had no vice in him, but there was a hard-drinking set in the neighbourhood at that time, and Danbury got drawn in among them; and, being an amiable fellow who liked to do what his friends were doing, he very soon took to drinking a great deal more than was good for him. As a rule, a man who takes his exercise may drink as much as he likes in the evening, and do himself no very great harm, if he will leave it alone during the day. Danbury had too many friends for that, however, and it really looked as if the poor chap was going to the bad, when a very curious thing happened which pulled him up with such a sudden jerk that he never put his hand upon the neck of a whisky bottle again.

  “He had a peculiarity which I have noticed in a good many other men, that though he was always playing tricks with his own health, he was none the less very anxious about it, and was extremely fidgety if ever he had any trivial symptom. Being a tough, open-air fellow, who was always as hard as a nail, it was seldom that there was anything amiss with him; but at last the drink began to tell, and he woke one morning with his hands shaking and all his nerves tingling like over-stretched fiddle-strings. He had been dining at some very wet house the night before, and the wine had, perhaps, been more plentiful than choice; at any rate, there he was, with a tongue like a bath towel and a head that ticked like an eight-day clock. He was very alarmed at his own condition, and he sent for Doctor Middleton, of Ascombe, the father of the man who practises there now.