It is needless to say that Mr. Mudge’s first proceeding was to ascertain the extent of his wealth; to which end he tenderly bore the jar up the tiny staircase to the room above, where he tipped out its contents, in a glorious shining heap, on the bed, and began, with trembling fingers, to count the coins into smaller heaps in the manner of a glorified Gammet.
The total was no less than six hundred and thirteen golden sovereigns, a sum, the bare contemplation of which produced symptoms of vertigo, and as he knelt by the narrow pallet, running an ecstatic eye over the unbelievable collection, his intellect began once more to occupy itself with the problem of an unsuspicious transition from poverty to affluence. No miser was Barnabas, who might find pleasure in mere gloating over a hoard of unnegotiable riches; but he was too wary to plunge into such sudden self-indulgence as might set the villagers whispering into the ear of the rural constable. What was necessary was some plausible explanation of the change in his financial condition; an explanation that was rendered necessary, not only by the amount of the windfall, but by a very curious circumstance which he had noticed while counting the coins; namely, that the sovereigns all bore the same date. That was, in fact, very odd indeed, and caused Barnabas to speculate in some surprise whether the identity of date was due to a miser’s freak, or whether perchance, the hoard was the product of some forgotten bank robbery. Of course, that was no business of his excepting as to its result; which was that he would need to use some extra caution in introducing that large family of twins to a censorious world.
He turned the problem over again and again as he replaced the coins in the jar and deposited the latter in a recess up the bedroom chimney; but he reached no conclusion. He cogitated on it profoundly as he boiled the kettle and made his tea, but still without result; and when, later in the evening, he locked up the house and directed his accustomed steps towards the Black Bull Inn, he was still without the vestige of a plan. And yet the change in his circumstances had not been without some slight and subtle influence; for, yielding to an impulse of which he was hardly conscious, he had, just before starting, transferred, from the oaken chest in his bedroom, in which he kept his little savings, no less a sum than fifteen shillings to the pocket of his mole-skin trousers.
He was not the first to arrive in the tap-room of the “Black Bull.” By no means. Over a dozen rustics had already arrived, and were at the moment recreating themselves by throwing darts at a cork target on the wall, and backing their respective abilities by small wagers. As Barnabas entered, old Joe Gammet was in the very act of taking aim; not a particularly good aim it seemed, for the dart ultimately found a billet in the corner of an adjacent picture frame.
“I’ll ’ave that shot over again,” the wily old rustic affirmed, with great presence of mind. “This ’ere Barney a-baulked me a-comin’ in so sudden-like”; and, regardless of the protests of his disconcerted comrades, he stolidly pulled the dart out of the frame, returned to his station, and forthwith made a bull’s-eye.
In the inevitable dispute that followed as to the payment of the wager, Barnabas found himself implicated by the ingenious Gammet, who sought thus to divert the attention of the losers. But Barnabas was no gambler, and with equal adroitness, he proceeded to excuse himself.
“My ’and ain’t steady enough, Joe,” said he. “Tain’t recovered yet from that there fish of yourn.”
Old Gammet snorted disdainfully. “You makes a rare outcry, you do,” said he, “about a few ’eaps o’ nice, fresh fish.”
“A few!” exclaimed Barnabas. “Dunno what you call a few. There was upwards of eighty ’eaps of ’em.”
“Upwards o’ ninety, Barney,” corrected Gammet.
Barnabas shook his head. “Upwards of eighty, I should say,” said he. The actual number had escaped him for the moment, and his rejoinder was dictated by the mere habit of contradiction inherent in the British rustic. But Gammet took him up sharply. “I tell yer there was over ninety o’ them ’eaps,” he said dogmatically.
The definiteness of the statement aroused Mr. Mudge’s attention, and, rapidly recalling the actual numbers, with the little subtraction sum worked by Mrs. Money, he said in a dogged tone:
“Not ninety, Joe, over eighty. I looked at them ’eaps carefully and I’ve got a educated eye.”
“Look ’ere!” exclaimed Gammet, in suppressed excitement, “you ain’t the only cove wot’s got a educated eye. I got one, too, and I tell yer there’s over ninety o’ them ’eaps, and I’ll bet yer a shullin’ I’m right.”
Barnabas smiled a discreet smile. “I never bets, Joe,” said he, “and you knows it. But, all the same, there worn’t ninety o’ them ’caps,” and with this he strolled through into the bar to obtain the refreshment necessary for the continuance of the discussion, and also to reflect at leisure on the situation. When he returned with his tankard of ale, he was aware of a certain ill-concealed expectancy in the aspect of his rustic acquaintances, strongly suggestive, to his mind of a secret understanding; and his agile intellect instantly framed an appropriate course of action.
“Uncommon sudden this ’ot weather’s set in,” he remarked to the company in general.
“Remarkable,” agreed Gammet, “but to return to this ’ere fish—”
“Not me,” said Barnabas, “I’ve had enough o’ that there fish. ’Twixt eighty and ninety ’eaps of ’em—”
“Over ninety,” interrupted Gammet.
“Not over,” retorted Barnabas. “Under ninety, I say, and I reckon I can trust my eye to a dozen or so.”
“There’s more’n ninety,” said Gammet; and, as Barnabas shook his head once more, old Gammet continued eagerly: “Why don’t yer back yer opinion if yer’e so bloomin’ cocksure?”
“’Twouldn’t be fair,” said Barnabas. “I ain’t never wrong in a matter o’ numbers.”
A howl of derision from the assembled company greeted this boastful statement, and Barnabas was so earnestly invited by the assembled rustics to pouch old Gammet’s “shullin’,” that he, at length, and with much show of reluctance, accepted the wager. But no sooner were the preliminaries arranged, than Bob Chalmers, the miller, came forward and said he’d have a shullin’s worth, too, and his example being followed, one after the other, by the rest of the company, Barnabas found himself committed to the extent of twelve shillings; which sum was duly carried in procession by the rustic sportsmen into the bar and deposited with the counterstakes in the custody of the landlord; who, in his turn becoming inoculated, invested a shilling himself. Then the whole twenty-six shillings in assorted coinage having been lodged in an empty Toby jug, and the bar being placed in the care of the landlord’s wife, the whole company of gamesters set forth together to inspect the deceased leviathans.
“Now then,” said old Gammet, as the party halted at the entrance to the field, and the wagerers furtively produced pocket handkerchiefs ‘let’s be clear about this ’ere bet. I say there’s over ninety o’ them ’eaps and you say there’s under ninety. Ain’t that right?
“Under ninety it is,” agreed Barnabas, and with this the procession entered the field.
The procedure was deliberate and exhaustively thorough. Sam Pullet’s new ash sapling, that he had cut that very day, was adopted as a tally-stick, and as the procession halted opposite each malodorous heap it was registered by a notch cut on the stick. The process took time, especially as there was a tendency to periodic misunderstandings as to which heap the last notch referred to; but at length, after four false starts had been made and corrected by beginning again de novo, the entire round was completed, and all that remained was to count the notches. This task was assigned to the landlord, and as that sportsman reached the last notch, and falteringly pronounced the word, “eighty-eight,” he turned a reproachful eye on Joe Gammet.
“You’ve made a mistake, Tom,” exclaimed the chap-fallen Joseph, who had, however, already detected the discrepancy, but despairingly strove to temporise. He took the stick from the landlord, and, running his
fingers down the notches, continued, with ill-feigned triumph: “There, I told yer so, ninety-one it is, ninety-one, I makes it.”
“Then you makes it wrong,” said Barnabas; and the stick being solemnly passed round, elicited the unanimous verdict of eighty-eight, and a general lowering of the sportsmen’s visages. Three times more did that melancholy procession slowly perambulate that marine necropolis, and each time the same depressing result emerged. At the end of the third perambulation there was a deathly silence, and then Bob Chalmers broke into open reproaches.
“Look ’ere, Joe Gammet!” he exclaimed, gloomily, “what’s the meanin’ o’ this ’ere? You told us as how you’d counted ’em yourself. It’s my belief as it’s a put-up job.”
“Nothun o’ the kind,” retorted Gammet. “Ninety-one ’eaps I counted afore I come away. Somebody ’as bin and stole three of ’em,” and here he fixed a suspicious eye on Barnabas, who retorted sarcastically by offering to turn out his pockets.
“Stole yer grandmother, Joe,” the landlord growled somewhat obscurely. “Who’s a-goin’ to steal rotten fish?”
Joe Gammet was about to make an angry rejoinder, possibly resenting the singular ancestry ascribed to him by the landlord’s last remark, when Barnabas blandly interposed with the suggestion that they should return and refresh on the proceeds of the gamble; on which there were signs of reviving cheerfulness, especially on the part of the landlord.
The company which left the “Black Bull” that evening was hilarious beyond all precedent, but none of the roysterers staggered homewards in a more joyous frame than did Barnabas Mudge. For he had found a solution to his problem. By this chance, foolish incident he had found a way to that appearance of modest affluence that he had justly considered necessary to his safety. With characteristic energy and judgment he followed out the policy thus suggested by chance. A judicious measurement, privately taken, of the sun-dial on the church porch, with another of the tap-room table, served with due diplomacy to evolve another wager; secret inspections of the weather forecasts in the papers at the village library not only made him an authority on meteorology, but enriched him to the extent of four and threepence. After a few such demonstrations of his infallibility, the cautious rustics began to decline his invitations to back their opinions; but although his actual activities thus necessarily came to an end, a general vague belief grew up, and was fostered by him, that his unerring judgment and never-failing luck were furnishing him with a handsome increase of income.
It was about this time that Barnabas Mudge embarked on the one and only real gamble of his life. It came about in this wise; returning homeward by a foot-path across the fields, he suddenly perceived a smart-looking gig, drawn by a handsome, mettlesome horse, careering wildly down an adjacent cart track. From the fact that the gig was empty, Barnabas naturally inferred that the horse had bolted, and as he knew that the track led direct to the steep edge of a gravel pit, he perceived that a disaster was imminent. Now Mr. Mudge was not only a man of intellect; he was also a man of action. The galloping horse was yet some distance away, and there was still time for some effort to avert the catastrophe. Accordingly, he ran across the field, and, lurking behind a bush that bordered the cart track, awaited the approach of the runaway until the latter had advanced to within some thirty or forty yards, when he darted out, cap in hand, and proceeded to execute a sort of fandango with much flourishing of arms and encouraging exhortations; as a result of which the astonished horse stopped dead to observe this amazing apparition, and before he could recover his wits, Barnabas had swooped down on him and grabbed him by the bridle. A few seconds later, while Barnabas was still soothing his captive’s troubled spirit by equine blandishments, a small man appeared on the cart track, running as fast as two extremely spindly and slightly bandy legs would propel him, and, approaching breathlessly, introduced himself as the proprietor of the horse.
“You’ve had a narrow squeak, you have,” said Barnabas. “Another hundred yards, and he’d have been in the gravel pit.”
“I know,” said the newcomer. “1 thought of that pit as soon as the beggar started. You’re a trump, that’s what you are, my lad,” and his hand strayed towards his breeches pocket.
And here, once again, we perceive the subtle effect of the invaluable jar of gold. A month ago, Barnabas would have pocketed gleefully the two sovereigns that were exhibited in the stranger’s palm. But now he was a man of means and could afford to indulge in the expensive luxury of pride.
“No, thank you,” he said, magnanimously waving the sovereigns away. “I’m glad to have been able to help you, but I reckon you’d have done the same for me.”
The horsey gentleman returned the coins to his pocket, somewhat reluctantly. “Don’t see that you need be so blooming proud,” he said, as he relieved Barnabas of his charge; “however, if you won’t take a tip in hard cash, perhaps you’ll take a tip of another kind; only, mind you,” he added impressively, “what I’m going to tell you mustn’t go any farther. Is that agreed?”
Barnabas gave the required assurance, and the other resumed:
“Now, listen to me. I’m a trainer—name of Bates; you may have heard of me. Well now, I’ve got a regular soft thing on, and I’m going to take you into it, only, you mustn’t let on to a living soul. You know the Imperial Cup’s going to be run for next week at Newmarket.” Barnabas nodded. “Well now, there are two outsiders entered for the first two races; King Tom and Columbine. There’ll be long odds against them both. Now, if you take those odds, you’ll have as near as may be a dead cert. That’s a tip that’s worth money, and I tell you again to keep it to yourself.”
With this and a touch of the hat, he started forward with the mollified horse, leaving Barnabas to return to the foot-path.
Now, Mr. Mudge, as we have said, was no gambler, and his idea of a “dead cert” was not quite the same as a sporting man’s. He was flattered by the possession of this special information, but it did not occur to him to make any use of it; indeed, the whole affair had faded from his mind when a chance circumstance recalled it. It was on the evening of the first day of the races that he happened to be in the bar of the “Black Bull” with one or two of his acquaintances. The occasion was a somewhat special one, for, having lured some misguided rustic—much against the advice of his friends—into a bet, he had just brought off a “dead cert” of his own kind, and was in the very act of receiving payment, when a gig stopped at the inn door, and a stout, red-faced man got down and entered. The newcomer was well known to the denizens of the “Black Bull,” being none other than Mr. Sandys, the famous bookmaker; a gentleman of suave and genial manners, especially on the present occasion, he having, as he expressed it, done rather a good line during the day. He was even disposed to be facetious, for having assuaged his thirst with a preliminary gulp, he smiled round on the awe-stricken yokels, and invited them jointly and severally to try a bout with Fickle Fortune.
“Hey!” said he, sticking a fat thumb into Barnabas’ ribs, “what do you say? Smart-looking chap like you ought to be ready to back his fancy. Come now, what can I do for you?” and here he produced a fat, leather-covered volume and licked the point of a lead pencil.
And then it was that Barnabas Mudge went stark mad. And yet, perhaps, not so mad as he seemed; for in that moment, it flashed upon him that even to lose money gloriously, magnificently, was to add to that reputation that he was so carefully cultivating.
“How do the odds go?” he asked carelessly; and the yokels drew nearer with dilated eyes, while the landlord rested his knuckles on the counter and leaned forward inquisitively. Mr. Sandys produced a list of the fixtures, and began to read off numerical statements which sounded like the delirious mutterings of an insane stockbroker.
“What about King Tom?” inquired Barnabas. “He’s in the first event I see.”
The bookmaker shook his head. “No class,” said he, and added, altruistically, “Don’t you go chucking your coppers away on dark ’orses.”
Mr. Sandys emptied his glass with an impatient gulp. “Another outsider,” said he. “Hasn’t got a bloomin’ look in. You take my tip, and put your money on a horse that’s known.”
Barnabas took a quick glance round at the circle of open-mouthed rustics, and then announced bumptiously. “I’m a goin’ to back my fancy, and I fancies them two ’orses. What’ll you give me on the double event?”
The bookmaker was so taken aback that he had to call for another whisky and soda.
“Double event,” he roared. “I won’t do it. It would be just picking your pocket, and I don’t pick the pockets of working men.”
“Very well,” said Barnabas, “then I must take my money to some one else.”
“Oh, if you’re going to make somebody a present,” said Mr. Sandys, “it may as well be me as anyone else. I’ll give yer a hundred to one. That won’t hurt you. How much shall we say? A bob?”
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others Page 182
