Round the Fire Stories

by Arthur Conan Doyle

THE CLUB-FOOTED GROCER

  My uncle, Mr. Stephen Maple, had been at the same time the mostsuccessful and the least respectable of our family, so that we hardlyknew whether to take credit for his wealth or to feel ashamed of hisposition. He had, as a matter of fact, established a large grocery inStepney which did a curious mixed business, not always, as we had heard,of a very savoury character, with the riverside and seafaring people. Hewas ship’s chandler, provision merchant, and, if rumour spoke truly,some other things as well. Such a trade, however lucrative, had itsdrawbacks, as was evident when, after twenty years of prosperity, he wassavagely assaulted by one of his customers and left for dead, with threesmashed ribs and a broken leg, which mended so badly that it remainedfor ever three inches shorter than the other. This incident seemed, notunnaturally, to disgust him with his surroundings, for, after the trial,in which his assailant was condemned to fifteen years’ penal servitude,he retired from his business and settled in a lonely part of the Northof England, whence, until that morning, we had never once heard ofhim—not even at the death of my father, who was his only brother.

  My mother read his letter aloud to me: “If your son is with you, Ellen,and if he is as stout a lad as he promised for when last I heard fromyou, then send him up to me by the first train after this comes to hand.He will find that to serve me will pay him better than the engineering,and if I pass away (though, thank God, there is no reason to complain asto my health) you will see that I have not forgotten my brother’s son.Congleton is the station, and then a drive of four miles to Greta House,where I am now living. I will send a trap to meet the seven o’clocktrain, for it is the only one which stops here. Mind that you send him,Ellen, for I have very strong reasons for wishing him to be with me. Letbygones be bygones if there has been anything between us in the past. Ifyou should fail me now you will live to regret it.”

  We were seated at either side of the breakfast table, looking blankly ateach other and wondering what this might mean, when there came a ring atthe bell, and the maid walked in with a telegram. It was from UncleStephen.

  “On no account let John get out at Congleton,” said the message. “Hewill find trap waiting seven o’clock evening train Stedding Bridge, onestation further down line. Let him drive not me, but Garth FarmHouse—six miles. There will receive instructions. Do not fail; only youto look to.”

  “That is true enough,” said my mother. “As far as I know, your uncle hasnot a friend in the world, nor has he ever deserved one. He has alwaysbeen a hard man in his dealings, and he held back his money from yourfather at a time when a few pounds would have saved him from ruin. Whyshould I send my only son to serve him now?”

  But my own inclinations were all for the adventure.

  “If I have him for a friend, he can help me in my profession,” I argued,taking my mother upon her weakest side.

  “I have never known him to help any one yet,” said she, bitterly. “Andwhy all this mystery about getting out at a distant station and drivingto the wrong address? He has got himself into some trouble and he wishesus to get him out of it. When he has used us he will throw us aside ashe has done before. Your father might have been living now if he hadonly helped him.”

  But at last my arguments prevailed, for, as I pointed out, we had muchto gain and little to lose, and why should we, the poorest members of afamily, go out of our way to offend the rich one? My bag was packed andmy cab at the door, when there came a second telegram.

  “Good shooting. Let John bring gun. Remember Stedding Bridge, notCongleton.” And so, with a gun-case added to my luggage and somesurprise at my uncle’s insistence, I started off upon my adventure.

  The journey lies over the main Northern Railway as far as the station ofCarnfield, where one changes for the little branch line which winds overthe fells. In all England there is no harsher or more impressivescenery. For two hours I passed through desolate rolling plains, risingat places into low, stone-littered hills, with long, straight outcropsof jagged rock showing upon their surface. Here and there littlegrey-roofed, grey-walled cottages huddled into villages, but for manymiles at a time no house was visible nor any sign of life save thescattered sheep which wandered over the mountain sides. It was adepressing country, and my heart grew heavier and heavier as I neared myjourney’s end, until at last the train pulled up at the little villageof Stedding Bridge, where my uncle had told me to alight. A singleramshackle trap, with a country lout to drive it, was waiting at thestation.

  “Is this Mr. Stephen Maple’s?” I asked.

  The fellow looked at me with eyes which were full of suspicion. “What isyour name?” he asked, speaking a dialect which I will not attempt toreproduce.

  “John Maple.”

  “Anything to prove it?”

  I half raised my hand, for my temper is none of the best, and then Ireflected that the fellow was probably only carrying out the directionsof my uncle. For answer I pointed to my name printed upon my gun-case.

  “Yes, yes, that is right. It’s John Maple, sure enough!” said he, slowlyspelling it out. “Get in, maister, for we have a bit of a drive beforeus.”

  The road, white and shining, like all the roads in that limestonecountry, ran in long sweeps over the fells, with low walls of loosestone upon either side of it. The huge moors, mottled with sheep andwith boulders, rolled away in gradually ascending curves to the mistysky-line. In one place a fall of the land gave a glimpse of a grey angleof distant sea. Bleak and sad and stern were all my surroundings, and Ifelt, under their influence, that this curious mission of mine was amore serious thing than it had appeared when viewed from London. Thissudden call for help from an uncle whom I had never seen, and of whom Ihad heard little that was good, the urgency of it, his reference to myphysical powers, the excuse by which he had ensured that I should bringa weapon, all hung together and pointed to some vague but sinistermeaning. Things which appeared to be impossible in Kensington becamevery probable upon these wild and isolated hillsides. At last, oppressedwith my own dark thoughts, I turned to my companion with the intentionof asking some questions about my uncle, but the expression upon hisface drove the idea from my head.

  He was not looking at his old, unclipped chestnut horse, nor at the roadalong which he was driving, but his face was turned in my direction, andhe was staring past me with an expression of curiosity and, as Ithought, of apprehension. He raised the whip to lash the horse, and thendropped it again, as if convinced that it was useless. At the same time,following the direction of his gaze, I saw what it was which had excitedhim.

  A man was running across the moor. He ran clumsily, stumbling andslipping among the stones; but the road curved, and it was easy for himto cut us off. As we came up to the spot for which he had been making,he scrambled over the stone wall and stood waiting, with the evening sunshining on his brown, clean-shaven face. He was a burly fellow, and inbad condition, for he stood with his hand on his ribs, panting andblowing after his short run. As we drove up I saw the glint of earringsin his ears.

  “Say, mate, where are you bound for?” he asked, in a rough butgood-humoured fashion.

  “Farmer Purcell’s, at the Garth Farm,” said the driver.

  “Sorry to stop you,” cried the other, standing aside; “I thought as Iwould hail you as you passed, for if so be as you had been going my wayI should have made bold to ask you for a passage.”

  His excuse was an absurd one, since it was evident that our little trapwas as full as it could be, but my driver did not seem disposed toargue. He drove on without a word, and, looking back, I could see thestranger sitting by the roadside and cramming tobacco into his pipe.

  “A sailor,” said I.

  “Yes, maister. We’re not more than a few miles from Morecambe Bay,” thedriver remarked.

  “You seemed frightened of him,” I observed.

  “Did I?” said he, drily; and then, after a long pause, “Maybe I was.” Asto his reasons for fear, I could get nothing from him, and though Iasked him
many questions he was so stupid, or else so clever, that Icould learn nothing from his replies. I observed, however, that fromtime to time he swept the moors with a troubled eye, but their hugebrown expanse was unbroken by any moving figure. At last in a sort ofcleft in the hills in front of us I saw a long, low-lying farm building,the centre of all those scattered flocks.

  “Garth Farm,” said my driver. “There is Farmer Purcell himself,” headded, as a man strolled out of the porch and stood waiting for ourarrival. He advanced as I descended from the trap, a hard, weather-wornfellow with light blue eyes, and hair and beard like sun-bleached grass.In his expression I read the same surly ill-will which I had alreadyobserved in my driver. Their malevolence could not be directed towards acomplete stranger like myself, and so I began to suspect that my unclewas no more popular on the north-country fells than he had been inStepney Highway.

  “You’re to stay here until nightfall. That’s Mr. Stephen Maple’s wish,”said he, curtly. “You can have some tea and bacon if you like. It’s thebest we can give you.”

  I was very hungry, and accepted the hospitality in spite of the churlishtone in which it was offered. The farmer’s wife and his two daughterscame into the sitting-room during the meal, and I was aware of a certaincuriosity with which they regarded me. It may have been that a young manwas a rarity in this wilderness, or it may be that my attempts atconversation won their goodwill, but they all three showed a kindlinessin their manner. It was getting dark, so I remarked that it was time forme to be pushing on to Greta House.

  “You’ve made up your mind to go, then?” said the older woman.

  “Certainly. I have come all the way from London.”

  “There’s no one hindering you from going back there.”

  “But I have come to see Mr. Maple, my uncle.”

  “Oh, well, no one can stop you if you want to go on,” said the woman,and became silent as her husband entered the room.

  With every fresh incident I felt that I was moving in an atmosphere ofmystery and peril, and yet it was all so intangible and so vague that Icould not guess where my danger lay. I should have asked the farmer’swife point-blank, but her surly husband seemed to divine the sympathywhich she felt for me, and never again left us together. “It’s time youwere going, mister,” said he at last, as his wife lit the lamp upon thetable.

  “Is the trap ready?”

  “You’ll need no trap. You’ll walk,” said he.

  “How shall I know the way?”

  “William will go with you.”

  William was the youth who had driven me up from the station. He waswaiting at the door, and he shouldered my gun-case and bag. I stayedbehind to thank the farmer for his hospitality, but he would have noneof it. “I ask no thanks from Mr. Stephen Maple nor any friend of his,”said he, bluntly. “I am paid for what I do. If I was not paid I wouldnot do it. Go your way, young man, and say no more.” He turned rudely onhis heel and re-entered his house, slamming the door behind him.

  It was quite dark outside, with heavy black clouds drifting slowlyacross the sky. Once clear of the farm inclosure and out on the moor Ishould have been hopelessly lost if it had not been for my guide, whowalked in front of me along narrow sheep-tracks which were quiteinvisible to me. Every now and then, without seeing anything, we heardthe clumsy scuffling of the creatures in the darkness. At first my guidewalked swiftly and carelessly, but gradually his pace slowed down, untilat last he was going very slowly and stealthily, like one who walkslight-footed amid imminent menace. This vague, inexplicable sense ofdanger in the midst of the loneliness of that vast moor was moredaunting than any evident peril could be, and I had begun to press himas to what it was that he feared, when suddenly he stopped and draggedme down among some gorse bushes which lined the path. His tug at my coatwas so strenuous and imperative that I realized that the danger was apressing one, and in an instant I was squatting down beside him as stillas the bushes which shadowed us. It was so dark there that I could noteven see the lad beside me.

  It was a warm night, and a hot wind puffed in our faces. Suddenly inthis wind there came something homely and familiar—the smell of burningtobacco. And then a face, illuminated by the glowing bowl of a pipe,came floating towards us. The man was all in shadow, but just that onedim halo of light with the face which filled it, brighter below andshading away into darkness above, stood out against the universalblackness. A thin, hungry face, thickly freckled with yellow over thecheek bones, blue, watery eyes, an ill-nourished, light-colouredmoustache, a peaked yachting cap—that was all that I saw. He passed us,looking vacantly in front of him, and we heard the steps dying awayalong the path.

  “Who was it?” I asked, as we rose to our feet.

  “I don’t know.”

  The fellow’s continual profession of ignorance made me angry.

  “Why should you hide yourself, then?” I asked, sharply.

  “Because Maister Maple told me. He said that I were to meet no one. If Imet any one I should get no pay.”

  “You met that sailor on the road?”

  “Yes, and I think he was one of them.”

  “One of whom?”

  “One of the folk that have come on the fells. They are watchin’ GretaHouse, and Maister Maple is afeard of them. That’s why he wanted us tokeep clear of them, and that’s why I’ve been a-trying to dodge ‘em.”

  Here was something definite at last. Some body of men were threateningmy uncle. The sailor was one of them. The man with the peakedcap—probably a sailor also—was another. I bethought me of StepneyHighway and of the murderous assault made upon my uncle there. Thingswere fitting themselves into a connected shape in my mind when a lighttwinkled over the fell, and my guide informed me that it was Greta. Theplace lay in a dip among the moors, so that one was very near it beforeone saw it. A short walk brought us up to the door.

  I could see little of the building save that the lamp which shonethrough a small latticed window showed me dimly that it was both longand lofty. The low door under an overhanging lintel was loosely fitted,and light was bursting out on each side of it. The inmates of thislonely house appeared to be keenly on their guard, for they had heardour footsteps, and we were challenged before we reached the door.

  “Who is there?” cried a deep-booming voice, and urgently, “Who is it, Isay?”

  “It’s me, Maister Maple. I have brought the gentleman.”

  There was a sharp click, and a small wooden shutter flew open in thedoor. The gleam of a lantern shone upon us for a few seconds. Then theshutter closed again; with a great rasping of locks and clattering ofbars, the door was opened, and I saw my uncle standing framed in thatvivid yellow square cut out of the darkness.

  He was a small, thick man, with a great rounded, bald head and one thinborder of gingery curls. It was a fine head, the head of a thinker, buthis large white face was heavy and commonplace, with a broad,loose-lipped mouth and two hanging dewlaps on either side of it. Hiseyes were small and restless, and his light-coloured lashes werecontinually moving. My mother had said once that they reminded her ofthe legs of a woodlouse, and I saw at the first glance what she meant. Iheard also that in Stepney he had learned the language of his customers,and I blushed for our kinship as I listened to his villainous accent.“So, nephew,” said he, holding out his hand. “Come in, come in, man,quick, and don’t leave the door open. Your mother said you were grown abig lad, and, my word, she ‘as a right to say so. ‘Ere’s a ‘alf-crownfor you, William, and you can go back again. Put the things down. ‘Ere,Enoch, take Mr. John’s things, and see that ‘is supper is on the table.”

  As my uncle, after fastening the door, turned to show me into thesitting-room, I became aware of his most striking peculiarity. Theinjuries which he had received some years ago had, as I have alreadyremarked, left one leg several inches shorter than the other. To atonefor this he wore one of those enormous wooden soles to his boots whichare prescribed by surgeons in such cases. He walked without a limp, b
uthis tread on the stone flooring made a curious clack-click, clack-click,as the wood and the leather alternated. Whenever he moved it was to therhythm of this singular castanet.

  The great kitchen, with its huge fireplace and carved settle corners,showed that this dwelling was an old-time farmhouse. On one side of theroom a line of boxes stood all corded and packed. The furniture wasscant and plain, but on a trestle-table in the centre some supper, coldmeat, bread, and a jug of beer was laid for me. An elderly manservant,as manifest a Cockney as his master, waited upon me, while my uncle,sitting in a comer, asked me many questions as to my mother and myself.When my meal was finished he ordered his man Enoch to unpack my gun. Iobserved that two other guns, old rusted weapons, were leaning againstthe wall beside the window.

  “It’s the window I’m afraid of,” said my uncle, in the deep, reverberantvoice which contrasted oddly with his plump little figure. “The door’ssafe against anything short of dynamite, but the window’s a terror. Hi!hi!” he yelled, “don’t walk across the light! You can duck when you passthe lattice.”

  “For fear of being seen?” I asked.

  “For fear of bein’ shot, my lad. That’s the trouble. Now, come an’ sitbeside me on the trestle ‘ere, and I’ll tell you all about it, for I cansee that you are the right sort and can be trusted.”

  His flattery was clumsy and halting, and it was evident that he was veryeager to conciliate me. I sat down beside him, and he drew a foldedpaper from his pocket. It was a _Western Morning News_, and the date wasten days before. The passage over which he pressed a long, black nailwas concerned with the release from Dartmoor of a convict named Elias,whose term of sentence had been remitted on account of his defence of awarder who had been attacked in the quarries. The whole account was onlya few lines long.

  “Who is he, then?” I asked.

  My uncle cocked his distorted foot into the air. “That’s ‘is mark!” saidhe. “‘E was doin’ time for that. How ‘e’s out an’ after me again.”

  “But why should he be after you?”

  “Because ‘e wants to kill me. Because ‘e’ll never rest, the worryingdevil, until ‘e ‘as ‘ad ‘is revenge on me. It’s this way, nephew! I’veno secrets from you. ‘E thinks I’ve wronged ‘im. For argument’s sakewe’ll suppose I ‘ave wronged ‘im. And now ‘im and ‘is friends are afterme.”

  “Who are his friends?”

  My uncle’s boom sank suddenly to a frightened whisper. “Sailors!” saidhe. “I knew they would come when I saw that ‘ere paper, and two days agoI looked through that window and three of them was standin’ lookin’ atthe ‘ouse. It was after that that I wrote to your mother. They’ve markedme down, and they’re waitin’ for ‘im.”

  “But why not send for the police?”

  My uncle’s eyes avoided mine.

  “Police are no use,” said he. “It’s you that can help me.”

  “What can I do?”

  “I’ll tell you. I’m going to move. That’s what all these boxes are for.Everything will soon be packed and ready. I ‘ave friends at Leeds, and Ishall be safer there. Not safe, mind you, but safer. I start to-morrowevening, and if you will stand by me until then I will make it worthyour while. There’s only Enoch and me to do everything, but we shall‘ave it all ready, I promise you, by to-morrow evening. The cart will beround then, and you and me and Enoch and the boy William can guard thethings as far as Congleton station. Did you see anything of them on thefells?”

  “Yes,” said I; “a sailor stopped us on the way.”

  “Ah, I knew they were watching us. That was why I asked you to get outat the wrong station and to drive to Purcell’s instead of comin’ ‘ere.We are blockaded—that’s the word.”

  “And there was another,” said I, “a man with a pipe.”

  “What was ‘e like?”

  “Thin face, freckles, a peaked——”

  My uncle gave a hoarse scream.

  “That’s ‘im! that’s ‘im! ‘e’s come! God be merciful to me, a sinner!” Hewent click-clacking about the room with his great foot like onedistracted. There was something piteous and baby-like in that big baldhead, and for the first time I felt a gush of pity for him.

  “Come, uncle,” said I, “you are living in a civilized land. There is alaw that will bring these gentry to order. Let me drive over to thecounty police-station to-morrow morning and I’ll soon set things right.”

  But he shook his head at me.

  “E’s cunning and ‘e’s cruel,” said he. “I can’t draw a breath withoutthinking of him, cos ‘e buckled up three of my ribs. ‘E’ll kill me thistime, sure. There’s only one chance. We must leave what we ‘ave notpacked, and we must be off first thing to-morrow mornin’. Great God,what’s that!”

  A tremendous knock upon the door had reverberated through the house andthen another and another. An iron fist seemed to be beating upon it. Myuncle collapsed into his chair. I seized a gun and ran to the door.

  “Who’s there?” I shouted.

  There was no answer.

  I opened the shutter and looked out.

  No one was there.

  And then suddenly I saw that a long slip of paper was protruding throughthe slit of the door. I held it to the light. In rude but vigoroushandwriting the message ran:—

  “Put them out on the doorstep and save your skin.”

  “What do they want?” I asked, as I read him the message.

  “What they’ll never ‘ave! No, by the Lord, never!” he cried, with a fineburst of spirit. “‘Ere, Enoch! Enoch!”

  The old fellow came running to the call.

  “Enoch, I’ve been a good master to you all my life, and it’s your turnnow. Will you take a risk for me?”

  I thought better of my uncle when I saw how readily the man consented.Whomever else he had wronged, this one at least seemed to love him.

  “Put your cloak on and your ‘at, Enoch, and out with you by the backdoor. You know the way across the moor to the Purcells’. Tell them thatI must ‘ave the cart first thing in the mornin’, and that Purcell mustcome with the shepherd as well. We must get clear of this or we aredone. First thing in the mornin’, Enoch, and ten pound for the job. Keepthe black cloak on and move slow, and they will never see you. We’llkeep the ‘ouse till you come back.”

  It was a job for a brave man to venture out into the vague and invisibledangers of the fell, but the old servant took it as the most ordinary ofmessages. Picking his long, black cloak and his soft hat from the hookbehind the door, he was ready on the instant. We extinguished the smalllamp in the back passage, softly unbarred the back door, slipped himout, and barred it up again. Looking through the small hall window, Isaw his black garments merge instantly into the night.

  “It is but a few hours before the light comes, nephew,” said my uncle,after he had tried all the bolts and bars. “You shall never regret thisnight’s work. If we come through safely it will be the making of you.Stand by me till mornin’, and I stand by you while there’s breath in mybody. The cart will be ‘ere by five. What isn’t ready we can afford toleave be’ind. We’ve only to load up and make for the early train atCongleton.”

  “Will they let us pass?”

  “In broad daylight they dare not stop us. There will be six of us, ifthey all come, and three guns. We can fight our way through. Where canthey get guns, common, wandering seamen? A pistol or two at the most. Ifwe can keep them out for a few hours we are safe. Enoch must be ‘alfwayto Purcell’s by now.”

  “But what do these sailors want?” I repeated. “You say yourself that youwronged them.”

  A look of mulish obstinacy came over his large, white face.

  “Don’t ask questions, nephew, and just do what I ask you,” said he.“Enoch won’t come back. ‘E’ll just bide there and come with the cart.‘Ark, what is that?”

  A distant cry rang from out of the darkness, and then another one, shortand sharp like the wail of the curlew.


  “It’s Enoch!” said my uncle, gripping my arm. “They’re killin’ poor oldEnoch.”

  The cry came again, much nearer, and I heard the sound of hurrying stepsand a shrill call for help.

  “They are after ‘im!” cried my uncle, rushing to the front door. Hepicked up the lantern and flashed it through the little shutter. Up theyellow funnel of light a man was running frantically, his head bowed anda black cloak fluttering behind him. The moor seemed to be alive withdim pursuers.

  “The bolt! The bolt!” gasped my uncle. He pushed it back whilst I turnedthe key, and we swung the door open to admit the fugitive. He dashed inand turned at once with a long yell of triumph. “Come on, lads! Tumbleup, all hands, tumble up! Smartly there, all of you!”

  It was so quickly and neatly done that we were taken by storm before weknew that we were attacked. The passage was full of rushing sailors. Islipped out of the clutch of one and ran for my gun, but it was only tocrash down on to the stone floor an instant later with two of themholding on to me. They were so deft and quick that my hands were lashedtogether even while I struggled, and I was dragged into the settlecorner, unhurt but very sore in spirit at the cunning with which ourdefences had been forced and the ease with which we had been overcome.They had not even troubled to bind my uncle, but he had been pushed intohis chair, and the guns had been taken away. He sat with a very whiteface, his homely figure and absurd row of curls looking curiously out ofplace among the wild figures who surrounded him.

  There were six of them, all evidently sailors. One I recognized as theman with the earrings whom I had already met upon the road that evening.They were all fine, weather-bronzed bewhiskered fellows. In the midst ofthem, leaning against the table, was the freckled man who had passed meon the moor. The great black cloak which poor Enoch had taken out withhim was still hanging from his shoulders. He was of a very differenttype from the others—crafty, cruel, dangerous, with sly, thoughtful eyeswhich gloated over my uncle. They suddenly turned themselves upon me andI never knew how one’s skin can creep at a man’s glance before.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “Speak out, or we’ll find a way to make you.”

  “I am Mr. Stephen Maple’s nephew, come to visit him.”

  “You are, are you? Well, I wish you joy of your uncle and of your visittoo. Quick’s the word, lads, for we must be aboard before morning. Whatshall we do with the old ‘un?”

  “Trice him up Yankee fashion and give him six dozen,” said one of theseamen.

  “D’you hear, you cursed Cockney thief? We’ll beat the life out of you ifyou don’t give back what you’ve stolen. Where are they? I know you neverparted with them.”

  My uncle pursed up his lips and shook his head, with a face in which hisfear and his obstinacy contended.

  “Won’t tell, won’t you? We’ll see about that! Get him ready, Jim!”

  One of the seamen seized my uncle, and pulled his coat and shirt overhis shoulders. He sat lumped in his chair, his body all creased intowhite rolls which shivered with cold and with terror.

  “Up with him to those hooks.”

  There were rows of them along the walls where the smoked meat used to behung. The seamen tied my uncle by the wrists to two of these. Then oneof them undid his leather belt.

  “The buckle end, Jim,” said the captain. “Give him the buckle.”

  “You cowards,” I cried; “to beat an old man!”

  “We’ll beat a young one next,” said he, with a malevolent glance at mycorner. “Now, Jim, cut a wad out of him!”

  “Give him one more chance!” cried one of the seamen.

  “Aye, aye,” growled one or two others. “Give the swab a chance!”

  “If you turn soft, you may give them up for ever,” said the captain.“One thing or the other! You must lash it out of him; or you may give upwhat you took such pains to win and what would make you gentlemen forlife—every man of you. There’s nothing else for it. Which shall it be?”

  “Let him have it,” they cried, savagely.

  “Then stand clear!” The buckle of the man’s belt whined savagely as hewhirled it over his shoulder.

  But my uncle cried out before the blow fell.

  “I can’t stand it!” he cried. “Let me down!”

  “Where are they, then?”

  “I’ll show you if you’ll let me down.”

  They cast off the handkerchiefs and he pulled his coat over his fat,round shoulders. The seamen stood round him, the most intense curiosityand excitement upon their swarthy faces.

  “No gammon!” cried the man with the freckles. “We’ll kill you joint byjoint if you try to fool us. Now then! Where are they?”

  “In my bedroom.”

  “Where is that?”

  “The room above.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “In the corner of the oak ark by the bed.”

  The seamen all rushed to the stair, but the captain called them back.

  “We don’t leave this cunning old fox behind us. Ha, your face drops atthat, does it? By the Lord, I believe you are trying to slip youranchor. Here, lads, make him fast and take him along!”

  With a confused trampling of feet they rushed up the stairs, dragging myuncle in the midst of them. For an instant I was alone. My hands weretied but not my feet. If I could find my way across the moor I mightrouse the police and intercept these rascals before they could reach thesea. For a moment I hesitated as to whether I should leave my unclealone in such a plight. But I should be of more service to him—or, atthe worst, to his property—if I went than if I stayed. I rushed to thehall door, and as I reached it I heard a yell above my head, ashattering, splintering noise, and then amid a chorus of shouts a hugeweight fell with a horrible thud at my very feet. Never while I livewill that squelching thud pass out of my ears. And there, just in frontof me, in the lane of light cast by the open door, lay my unhappy uncle,his bald head twisted on to one shoulder, like the wrung neck of achicken. It needed but a glance to see that his spine was broken andthat he was dead.

  The gang of seamen had rushed downstairs so quickly that they wereclustered at the door and crowding all round me almost as soon as I hadrealized what had occurred.

  “It’s no doing of ours, mate,” said one of them to me. “He hove himselfthrough the window, and that’s the truth. Don’t you put it down to us.”

  “He thought he could get to windward of us if once he was out in thedark, you see,” said another. “But he came head foremost and broke hisbloomin’ neck.”

  “And a blessed good job too!” cried the chief, with a savage oath. “I’dhave done it for him if he hadn’t took the lead. Don’t make any mistake,my lads, this is murder, and we’re all in it, together. There’s only oneway out of it, and that is to hang together, unless, as the saying goes,you mean to hang apart. There’s only one witness——”

  He looked at me with his malicious little eyes, and I saw that he hadsomething that gleamed—either a knife or a revolver—in the breast of hispea-jacket. Two of the men slipped between us.

  “Stow that, Captain Elias,” said one of them. “If this old man met hisend it is through no fault of ours. The worst we ever meant him was totake some of the skin off his back. But as to this young fellow, we haveno quarrel with him——”

  “You fool, you may have no quarrel with him, but he has his quarrel withyou. He’ll swear your life away if you don’t silence his tongue. It’shis life or ours, and don’t you make any mistake.”

  “Aye, aye, the skipper has the longest head of any of us. Better do whathe tells you,” cried another.

  But my champion, who was the fellow with the earrings, covered me withhis own broad chest and swore roundly that no one should lay a finger onme. The others were equally divided, and my fate might have been thecause of a quarrel between them when suddenly the captain gave a cry ofdelight and amazement which was taken up by the whole gang. I followedtheir eyes and outstretched fingers, and this was
what I saw.

  My uncle was lying with his legs outstretched, and the club foot wasthat which was furthest from us. All round this foot a dozen brilliantobjects were twinkling and flashing in the yellow light which streamedfrom the open door. The captain caught up the lantern and held it to theplace. The huge sole of his boot had been shattered in the fall, and itwas clear now that it had been a hollow box in which he stowed hisvaluables, for the path was all sprinkled with precious stones. Threewhich I saw were of an unusual size, and as many as forty, I shouldthink, of fair value. The seamen had cast themselves down and weregreedily gathering them up, when my friend with the earrings plucked meby the sleeve.

  “Here’s your chance, mate,” he whispered. “Off you go before worse comesof it.”

  It was a timely hint, and it did not take me long to act upon it. A fewcautious steps and I had passed unobserved beyond the circle of light.Then I set off running, falling and rising and falling again, for no onewho has not tried it can tell how hard it is to run over uneven groundwith hands which are fastened together. I ran and ran, until for want ofbreath I could no longer put one foot before the other. But I need nothave hurried so, for when I had gone a long way I stopped at last tobreathe, and, looking back, I could still see the gleam of the lanternfar away, and the outline of the seamen who squatted round it. Then atlast this single point of light went suddenly out, and the whole greatmoor was left in the thickest darkness.

  So deftly was I tied, that it took me a long half-hour and a brokentooth before I got my hands free. My idea was to make my way across tothe Purcells’ farm, but north was the same as south under that pitchysky, and for hours I wandered among the rustling, scuttling sheepwithout any certainty as to where I was going. When at last there came aglimmer in the east, and the undulating fells, grey with the morningmist, rolled once more to the horizon, I recognized that I was close byPurcell’s farm, and there a little in front of me I was startled to seeanother man walking in the same direction. At first I approached himwarily, but before I overtook him I knew by the bent back and totteringstep that it was Enoch, the old servant, and right glad I was to seethat he was living. He had been knocked down, beaten, and his cloak andhat taken away by these ruffians, and all night he had wandered in thedarkness, like myself, in search of help. He burst into tears when Itold him of his master’s death, and sat hiccoughing with the hard, drysobs of an old man among the stones upon the moor.

  “It’s the men of the _Black Mogul_,” he said. “Yes, yes, I knew thatthey would be the end of ‘im.”

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  “Well, well, you are one of ‘is own folk,” said he. “‘E ‘as passed away;yes, yes, it is all over and done. I can tell you about it, no manbetter, but mum’s the word with old Enoch unless master wants ‘im tospeak. But his own nephew who came to ‘elp ‘im in the hour of need—yes,yes, Mister John, you ought to know.

  “It was like this, sir. Your uncle ‘ad ‘is grocer’s business at Stepney,but ‘e ‘ad another business also. ‘E would buy as well as sell, and when‘e bought ‘e never asked no questions where the stuff came from. Whyshould ‘e? It wasn’t no business of ‘is, was it? If folk brought him astone or a silver plate, what was it to ‘im where they got it? That’sgood sense, and it ought to be good law, as I ‘old. Any’ow, it was goodenough for us at Stepney.

  “Well, there was a steamer came from South Africa what foundered at sea.At least, they say so, and Lloyd’s paid the money. She ‘ad some veryfine diamonds invoiced as being aboard of ‘er. Soon after there came thebrig _Black Mogul_ into the port o’ London, with ‘er papers all right as‘avin’ cleared from Port Elizabeth with a cargo of ‘ides. The captain,which ‘is name was Elias, ‘e came to see the master, and what d’youthink that ‘e ‘ad to sell? Why, sir, as I’m a livin’ sinner ‘e ‘ad apacket of diamonds for all the world just the same as what was lost outo’ that there African steamer. ‘Ow did ‘e get them? I don’t know. Masterdidn’t know. ‘E didn’t seek to know either. The captain ‘e was anxiousfor reasons of ‘is own to get them safe, so ‘e gave them to master, sameas you might put a thing in a bank. But master ‘e’d ‘ad time to get fondof them, and ‘e wasn’t over satisfied as to where the _Black Mogul_ ‘adbeen tradin’, or where her captain ‘ad got the stones, so when ‘e comeback for them the master ‘e said as ‘e thought they were best in ‘is own‘ands. Mind I don’t ‘old with it myself, but that was what master saidto Captain Elias in the little back parlour at Stepney. That was ‘ow ‘egot ‘is leg broke and three of his ribs.

  “So the captain got jugged for that, and the master, when ‘e was able toget about, thought that ‘e would ‘ave peace for fifteen years, and ‘ecame away from London because ‘e was afraid of the sailor men; but, atthe end of five years, the captain was out and after ‘im, with as manyof ‘is crew as ‘e could gather. Send for the perlice, you says! Well,there are two sides to that, and the master ‘e wasn’t much more fond ofthe perlice than Elias was. But they fair ‘emmed master in, as you ‘aveseen for yourself, and they bested ‘im at last, and the loneliness that‘e thought would be ‘is safety ‘as proved ‘is ruin. Well, well, ‘e was‘ard to many, but a good master to me, and it’s long before I come onsuch another.”

  One word in conclusion. A strange cutter, which had been hanging aboutthe coast, was seen to beat down the Irish Sea that morning, and it isconjectured that Elias and his men were on board of it. At any rate,nothing has been heard of them since. It was shown at the inquest thatmy uncle had lived in a sordid fashion for years, and he left littlebehind him. The mere knowledge that he possessed this treasure, which hecarried about with him in so extraordinary a fashion, had appeared to bethe joy of his life, and he had never, as far as we could learn, triedto realize any of his diamonds. So his disreputable name when living wasnot atoned for by any posthumous benevolence, and the family, equallyscandalized by his life and by his death, have finally buried all memoryof the club-footed grocer of Stepney.