The Raffles Megapack

by E. W. Hornung

  Hilda hesitated. A dead silence had fallen on the crowded and heated store, and in the silence Stingaree was already taking an unguarded interest in Mrs. Clarkson’s appearance, which as certainly betokened imminent collapse. “Now!” whispered Radford, and Hilda hesitated no more. She was wearing a black lace shawl between her appearances at the piano; she had the revolver under it in a twinkling, and pressed it to her bosom with both hands, one outside the shawl and one underneath, as who should hug a beating heart.

  “Mrs. Clarkson,” said Stingaree, “you have been singing too much, and the quality of your song has not been equal to the quantity.”

  It sounded a brutal speech enough; and to do justice to a portion of the audience not hitherto remarkable for its spirit, the ungallant criticism was audibly resented in the back rows. The maudlin stockman had indeed to be restrained by his neighbors from precipitating himself upon the barrels of Stingaree. But the effect upon Mrs. Clarkson herself was still more remarkable, and revealed a subtle kindness in the desperado’s cruelty. Her pale face flushed; her lack-lustre eyes blazed forth their indignation; her very clay was on fire for all the room to see.

  “I don’t sing for criminals and cut-throats!” the indignant lady cried out. She glanced at Sir Julian as one for whom she did sing. And Sir Julian’s eyes twinkled under the bushranger’s guns.

  “To be sure you don’t,” said Stingaree, with as much sweetness as his character would permit. “You sing for charity, and spend three times as much as you are ever likely to make in arraying yourself for the occasion. Well, we must put up with some song-bird without fine feathers, for I mean to hear the programme out.” His eyes ranged the front rows till they fell on Hilda Bouverie in her corner. “You young lady over there! You’ve been talking since I called for silence. You deserve to pay a penalty; be good enough to step this way.”

  Hilda’s excitement may be supposed; it made her scandalously radiant in that company of humiliated men and women, but it did not rob her of her resource. Removing her shawl with apparent haste, but with calculated deliberation, she laid it in a bunch upon the seat which she had occupied, and stepped forward with a courage that won a cheer from the back rows. Stingaree stooped to hand her up to the platform; and his warm grip told a tale. This was what he had come for, to make her sing, to make her sing before Sir Julian Crum, to give her a start unique in the history of the platform and the stage. Criminal, was he? Then the dearest, kindest, most enchanting, most romantic criminal the world had ever seen! But she must be worthy of his chivalry and her chance; and, from the first, her artistic egoism insisted that she was.

  Stingaree had picked up a programme, and dexterously mounted it between hammer and cartridge of the revolver which he had momentarily relinquished, much as a cornet-player mounts his music under his nose. With both weapons once more levelled, he consulted the programme now.

  “The next item, ladies and gentlemen,” said he, “is another pianoforte solo by this young lady. We’ll let you off that, Miss Bouverie, since you’ve got to sing. The next song on the programme is called ‘The Unrealized Ideal,’ and the music is by our distinguished visitor and patron, Sir Julian Crum. In happier circumstances it would have been sung to you by Mrs. Montgomery Clarkson; as it is, I call upon Miss Bouverie to realize her ideal and ours, and on Sir Julian Crum to accompany her, if he will.”

  At Mrs. Clarkson’s stony side the great man dropped both arms at the superb impudence of the invitation.

  “Quite right, Sir Julian; let the blood run into them,” said Stingaree. “It is a pure oversight that you were not exempted in the beginning. Comply with my entreaty and I guarantee that you shall suffer no further inconvenience.”

  Sir Julian wavered. In London he was a club-man and a diner-out; and what a tale for the Athenæum—what a short cut to every ear at a Kensington dinner-table! In the end it would get into the papers. That was the worst of it. But in the midst of Sir Julian’s hesitation his pondering eyes met those of Miss Bouverie—on fire to sing him his own song—alight with the ability to do it justice. And Sir Julian was lost.

  How she sang it may be guessed. Sir Julian bowed and swayed upon his stool. Stingaree stood by with a smile of personal pride and responsibility, but with both revolvers still levelled, and one of them cocked. It was a better song than he had supposed. It gained enormously from the composer’s accompaniment. The last verse was softer than another would have made it, and yet the singer obeyed inaudible instructions as though she had never sung it otherwise. It was more in a tuneful whisper than in hushed notes that the last words left her lips:

  “Lightly I sped when hope was high,

  And youth beguiled the chase;

  I follow—follow still; but I

  Shall never see her Face.”

  The applause, when it came, was almost overwhelming. The bushranger watched and smiled, but cocked his second pistol, and let the programme flutter to the floor. As for Sir Julian Crum, the self-contained, the cynical, he was seen for an instant, wheeled about on the music-stool, grasping the singer by both hands. But there was no hearing what he said; the girl herself heard nothing until he bellowed in her ear:

  “They’ll have their encore. What can you give them? It must be something they know. ‘Home, Sweet Home’? ‘The Last Rose’? ‘Within a Mile’? The first, eh? Very well; it’s a leaf out of Patti’s book; but so are they all.”

  And he struck the opening bars in the key of his own song, but for some moments Hilda Bouverie stood bereft of her great voice. A leaf out of Patti’s book, in that up-country township, before a roomful held in terror—and yet unmindful—of the loaded pistols of two bloodthirsty bushrangers! The singer prayed for power to live up to those golden words. A leaf out of Patti’s book!

  It was over. The last poignant note trembled into nothingness. The silence, absolutely dead for some seconds, was then only broken by a spirituous sob from the incorrigible stockman. There was never any applause at all. Ere it came, even as it was coming, the overseer Radford leapt to his feet with a raucous shout.

  The bushranger had vanished from the platform. The other bushranger had disappeared through the other door. The precious pair of them had melted from the room unseen, unheard, what time every eye doted on handsome Hilda Bouverie, and every ear on the simple words and moving cadences of “Home, Sweet Home.”

  Ted Radford was the first to see it; for by the end of the brief song he had his revolver uncovered and cocked at last, and no quarry left for him to shoot. With a bound he was on the platform; another carried him into the canvas anteroom, a third and a fourth out into the moonlight. It was as bright as noon in a conservatory of smoked glass. And in the tinted brightness one man was already galloping away; but it was Stingaree who danced with one foot only in the stirrup of a milk-white mare.

  Radford rushed up to him and fired point-blank again and again. A series of metallic clicks was all the harm he did, for Stingaree was in the saddle before the hurled revolver struck the mare on the ribs, and sent the pair flying through the moonlight with a shout of laughter, a cloud of sand, and a dull volley of thunderous hoofs. The overseer picked up his revolver and returned crestfallen to examine it in the lights of the emptying room.

  “I could have sworn I loaded it,” said he. “If I had, he’d have been a dead man six times over.”

  Miss Bouverie had been talking to Sir Julian Crum. On Radford’s entry she had grown distraite, but at Radford’s speech she turned back to Sir Julian with shining eyes.

  “My wife wants a companion for the voyage,” he was saying. “So that will cost you nothing, but if anything the other way, and once in London, I’ll be answerable. I’ve adjudicated these things for years to voices not in the same class as yours. But the worst of it is you won’t stay with us.”

  “I will.”

  “No; they’ll want you at Covent Garden before we know where we are. And when you are ready to go to them, go you must.”

  “I shall do what you tell me.”<
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  “Then speak to Mrs. Clarkson at once.”

  Hilda Bouverie glanced over her shoulder, but her employers had left the building. Her smile was less roguish than demure.

  “There is no need, Sir Julian. Mrs. Clarkson has already spoken to me, though only in a whisper. But I am to take myself off by the next coach.”

  THE BLACK HOLE OF GLENRANALD

  It was coming up the Murrumbidgee that Fergus Carrick first heard the name of Stingaree. With the cautious enterprise of his race, the young gentleman had booked steerage on a river steamer whose solitary passenger he proved to be; accordingly he was not only permitted to sleep on the saloon settee at nights, but graciously bidden to the captain’s board by day. It was there that Fergus Carrick encouraged tales of the bushrangers as the one cleanly topic familiar in the mouth of the elderly engineer who completed the party. And it seemed that the knighthood of the up-country road had been an extinct order from the extirpation of the Kellys to the appearance of this same Stingaree, who was reported a man of birth and mystery, with an ostentatious passion for music and as romantic a method as that of any highwayman of the Old World from which he hailed. But the callow Fergus had been spared the romantic temperament, and was less impressed than entertained with what he heard.

  On his arrival at Glenranald, however, he found that substantial township shaking with laughter over the outlaw’s latest and least discreditable exploit, at the back-block hamlet of Yallarook; and then it was that young Carrick first conceived an ambition to open his Colonial career with the capture of Stingaree; for he was a serious immigrant, who had come out in his teens, to stay out, if necessary, for the term of his natural life.

  The idea had birth under one of the many pine trees which shaded the skeleton streets of budding Glenranald. On this tree was nailed a placard offering high reward for the bushranger’s person alive or dead. Fergus was making an immediate note in his pocketbook when a hand fell on his shoulder.

  “Would ye like the half o’ yon?” inquired a voice in his own tongue; and there at his elbow stood an elderly gentleman, whose patriarchal beard hid half the buttons of his alpaca coat, while a black skull-cap sat somewhat jauntily on his head.

  “What do you mean?” said Fergus, bluntly, for the old gentleman stood chuckling gently in his venerable beard.

  “To lay a hold of him,” replied the other, “with the help o’ some younger and abler-bodied man; and you’re the very one I want.”

  The raw youth stared ingenuously.

  “But what can you know about me?”

  “I saw ye land at the wharf,” said the old gentleman, nodding his approval of the question, “and says I, ‘That’s my man,’ as soon as ever I clapped eyes on ye. So I had a crack wi’ the captain o’ yon steamer; he told me you hadna a billet, but were just on the lookout for the best ye could get, an’ that’s all he’d been able to get out o’ ye in a five days’ voyage. That was enough for me. I want a man who can keep his tongue behind his teeth, and I wanted you before I knew you were a brither Scot!”

  “Are you a squatter, sir?” the young man asked, a little overwhelmed.

  “No, sir, I’m branch manager o’ the Bank o’ New South Wales, the only bank within a hunder miles o’ where we stand; and I can offer ye a better billet than any squatter in the Colony.”

  “Indeed? I’m sure you’re very kind, sir, but I’m wanting to get on a station,” protested Fergus with all his tact. “And as a matter of fact, I have introductions to one or two stations further back, though I saw no reason to tell our friend the skipper so.”

  “Quite right, quite right! I like a man who can keep his tongue in its kennel!” cried the bank manager, rubbing his hands. “But wait while I tell ye: ye’d need to work for your rations an any station I ever heard tell of, and I keep the accounts of enough to know. Now, with me, ye’d get two pound a week till your share o’ the reward was wiped off; and if we had no luck for a year you’d be no worse off, but could go and try your squatters then. That’s a promise, and I’ll keep it as sure as my name’s Andr’ Macbean!”

  “But how do you propose to catch this fellow, Mr. Macbean?”

  The bank manager looked on all sides, likewise behind the tree, before replying under his breath: “By setting a wee trap for him! A bank’s a bank, and Stingaree hasna stuck one up since he took to his trade. But I’ll tell ye no more till ye give me your answer. Yes or no?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t even write an office hand; and as for figures—”

  Mr. Macbean laughed outright.

  “Did I say I was going to take ye into the bank, mun?” cried he. “There’s three of us already to do the writin’ an’ the cipherin,’ an’ three’s enough. Can you ride?”

  “I have ridden.”

  “And ye’ll do any rough job I set ye to?”

  “The rougher the better.”

  “That’s all I ask. There’s a buggy and a pair for ye to mind, and mebbe drive, though it’s horseback errands you’ll do most of. I’m an old widower, living alone with an aged housekeeper. The cashier and the clerk dig in the township, and I need to have a man of some sort about the place; in fact, I have one, but I’ll soon get rid of him if you’ll come instead. Understand, you live in the house with me, just like the jackeroos on the stations; and like the jackeroos, you do all the odd jobs and dirty work that no one else’ll look at; but, unlike them, you get two pounds a week from the first for doing it.”

  Mr. Andrew Macbean had chanced upon a magic word. It was the position of “jackeroo,” or utility parlor-man, on one or other of the stations to which he carried introductions, that his young countryman had set before him as his goal. True, a bank in a bush township was not a station in the bush itself. On the other hand, his would-be friend was not the first to warn Fergus against the futility of expecting more than a nominal salary as a babe and suckling in Colonial experience; and perhaps the prime elements of that experience might be gained as well in the purlieus of a sufficiently remote township as in realms unnamed on any map. It will be seen that the sober stripling was reduced to arguing with himself, and that his main argument was not to be admitted in his own heart. The mysterious eccentricity of his employer, coupled with the adventurous character of his alleged prospects, was what induced the lad to embrace both in defiance of an unimaginative hard-headedness which he aimed at rather than possessed.

  With characteristic prudence he had left his baggage on board the river-steamer, and his own hands carried it piecemeal to the bank. This was a red-brick bungalow with an ample veranda, standing back from the future street that was as yet little better than a country road. The veranda commanded a long perspective of pines, but no further bricks and mortar, and but very few weather board walls. The yard behind the house was shut in by as many outbuildings as clustered about the small homesteads which Fergus had already beheld on the banks of the Murrumbidgee. The man in charge of the yard was palpably in liquor, a chronic condition from his general appearance, and Mr. Macbean discharged him on the spot with a decision which left no loophole for appeal. The woman in charge of the house adorned another plane of civilization; she was very deaf, and very outspoken on her introduction to the young gentleman, whose face she was pleased to approve, with the implied reservation that all faces were liars; but she served up the mutton of the country hot and tender; and Fergus Carrick, leaning back after an excellent repast, marvelled for the twentieth time that he was not to pay for it.

  “A teetotaler, are ye?” said Macbean, mixing a third glass of whiskey, with the skull-cap on the back of his head. “And so was I at your age; but you’re my very man. There are some it sets talking. Wait till the old lady turns in, and then you shall see what you shall see.”

  Fergus waited in increasing excitement. The day’s events were worthier of a dream. To have set foot in Glenranald without knowing a soul in the place, and to find one’s self comfortably housed at a good salary before night! There were moments when he questioned the complete sa
nity of his eccentric benefactor, who drank whiskey like water, both as to quantity and effect, and who chuckled continuously in his huge gray beard. But such doubts only added to the excitement of the evening, which reached a climax when a lighted candle was thrust in at the door and the pair advised not to make a night of it by the candid crone on her way to bed.

  “We will give her twenty minutes,” said the manager, winking across his glass. “I’ve never let her hear me, and she mustn’t hear you either. She must know nothing at all about it; nobody must, except you and me.”

  The mystification of Fergus was now complete. Unimaginative as he was by practice and profession, he had an explanation a minute until the time was up, when the truth beat them all for wild improbability. Macbean had risen, lifting the lamp; holding it on high he led the way through baize doors into the banking premises. Here was another door, which Macbean not only unlocked, but locked again behind them both. A small inner office led them into a shuttered chamber of fair size, with a broad polished counter, glass swing-doors, and a formidable portal beyond. And one of young Carrick’s theories received apparent confirmation on the spot; for the manager slipped behind his counter by another door, and at once whipped out a great revolver.

  “This they provide us with,” said he. “So far it is our only authorized defence, and it hangs on a hook down here behind the counter. But you march in here prepared, your pistol cocked behind your back, and which of us is likely to shoot first?”

  “The bushranger,” said Fergus, still rather more startled than reassured.

  “The bushranger, of course. Stingaree, let us say. As for me, either my arms go up, or down I go in a heap. But supposing my arms do go up—supposing I still touch something with one foot—and supposing the floor just opens and swallows Mr. Sanguinary Stingaree! Eh? eh? What then?”