Foe-Farrell Part 17

"Jack!" I called.

"Let's try the theatre," Sir Elkin suggested. "I left him there."

We went in.

The rostrum Jack used for his lectures was low, flat-topped and semicircular, with a high raised desk in the middle. Being isolated, it had escaped the fire; as maybe it had proved too c.u.mbrous for removal.

Anyhow, there it was; and Jack stood beside it busy with something he was laying out on the flat desk-top. It looked like some sort of jigsaw puzzle that he was piecing together very carefully, very-- what's the word?--meticulously. He had a small heap of oddments on his left, and a silk handkerchief in his right hand. His game was, he picked out an oddment from the heap, polished it, fitted it more or less into the silly puzzle, and stepped back to eye it. He looked up, annoyed-like, as if we were breaking in on a delicate experiment.

"Drop that, Foe!" Sir Elkin commanded, sharp and harsh, but with a human tremble in his voice. His nails clawed into my arm. "It's his dog," he whispered me, "or what's left. The poor brute held the door, they say . . . sprang at their throats right and left . . .

till someone brained him and they threw his carca.s.s into the fire. . . . Drop it, Foe--that's a good fellow!"

Jack stayed himself, stared at us dully, and put down the handkerchief after dusting the bench with it.

"Is that you, you fellows?" he asked, with a smile playing about his mouth and twisting it. "Good of you, Roddy--though almost too late for the fun! Jimmy, too? . . . They've made a bit of a mess here, eh? . . . Ah, and there's Mr. Farrell! Will somebody introduce Mr.

Farrell? . . . Good-morning, sir! We'll--we'll talk this little matter over--you and I--later."

BOOK II.

THE CHASE.

NIGHT THE EIGHTH.

VENDETTA.

"My dear Roddy,--Don't come around: and for G.o.d's sake don't send Jimmy. The word is 'No sympathy, by request.' You will understand.

"I shall call on you at 9 o'clock on Tuesday. Have breakfast ready, for I shall be hungry as a hunter.

"Don't fash yourself, either, with fears that I am 'unhinged' by this business. I am just off to Paddington--thence for the Thames--shan't say where: but it's a backwater, where I propose to think things out. I shall have thought them out, quite definitely, by Tuesday.

"I believe you keep a few bottles of the audit ale. Tell Jephson to open one for a stirrup-cup. You can invite Jimmy.-- Yours truly, J.F.

"P.S.--I don't know, and can't guess, how you came to tumble in so promptly on the heels of that riot. But you have always been a cherub sitting up aloft and keeping watch over-- Poor Jack.

"P.P.S.--This by Special Messenger. . . . Forgive my breaking away and leaving you all so impolitely. Nothing would do, just then, but to escape and be alone.-- Until Tuesday."

A boy-messenger brought this missive at 5.30. I read it over in a hurry, and took cheer: read it over a second time, sentence by sentence, and liked it less. It left no doubt, anyhow, that to search for Jack on the reaches of the river would be idle, as to find him would be mean. So there was nothing to do but wait.

That week-end, as it happened, brought a false promise of spring, with a hard east wind and a clear sky.

Punctually at nine o'clock on Tuesday he arrived, clean and hale and positively bronzed. The old preoccupation of over-work rested no longer upon him. We had made ready with grilled sole, omelette, bacon and a cold game-pie. He ate like a cavalryman, talking all the while of his adventures. It appeared that he had chosen the "Leather Bottle" at Clifton Hampden for headquarters, and had spent a part of Sunday discussing Christian Science with an atheistical bagman.

He said not a word of Sat.u.r.day's happenings--talked away, in fact, as if he had returned to us, on perfect terms of understanding, out of a void. Jimmy played up and mulled some beer for us afterwards, on a recipe of which (he gave us to know) the College of Brasenose, Oxford, alone possessed the secret, to be imparted only to such of its sons as had deserved it by G.o.dliness and good learning.

Foe commended the brew, declined a cigar, and pulled out his old pipe.

"Infernal job," he began, "having to talk business, 'specially when you've tasted freedom."

He filled his pipe, lit it carefully, and went on. "I got back to London early yesterday morning. Spent the day clearing up my worldly affairs. . . . Don't look scared, Roddy. I've thrown up the Professors.h.i.+p--that's all."

"Why, in the world?" I wanted to know.

"You may put it," he answered easily, "that, as the clerics say, I've had a higher call."

"Don't understand," said I; "unless you're telling us that Travers--"

"Travers?" His eyebrows went up. "Oh, I see what you mean.

No: Travers hasn't been running around and finding me a better-paid job as a solatium. He's a good fellow and quite capable of it.

Even hinted at something of the sort when I broke it to him verbally, yesterday afternoon. I thanked him, but wasn't taking any. I get quite as much money as I want at the Silversmiths'; and I've saved a little, too. It's freedom, not money, I want; as a means to my little end. I want complete freedom for a couple of years, perhaps for three, or maybe even for longer. It may be I shall have to buy myself an annuity. I'd ask for absolute independence if it could be had--independence of all my fellow-creatures but one. But it can't be had: so I've come to you for help."

"Say on," I commanded.

"It's this way, Roddy. Like the late General Trochu, I have a Plan.

Unlike his, it's a Great Plan. . . . Yes, I'll give you a glimpse of it by and by. It involves--or may involve--the cutting of all human ties--that is of all but one. Well, as you know, I haven't many, and those clients of Farrell's have lightened me of worldly furniture.

What's become of Farrell, by the way?"

"He's retiring from the contest, and has been advised to travel for the good of his health. The Sunday papers settled it with their reports of the Police Court proceedings. . . . What! Haven't you heard?"

"Now I come to think of it, Travers tried to tell me some story . . .

but I wasn't listening. . . . In trouble, is he? Good. Not going to hang him, are they? Good."

"The actual decision," said I, "was taken at the Whips' Office yesterday morning. Farrell goes. There's just time to put up a working-man candidate in his stead. But the seat's lost."

"Good," repeated Jack tranquilly. "Eh? . . . Oh, I beg your pardon, Roddy: I was looking at it from--well, from a different angle. . . .

Let's get back to my plan. Wasn't it Huck Finn who wished it were possible to die temporarily? That's what I'm going to do, anyhow: and I want you to be my executor."

"I should need an inventory of your worldly goods, to start with,"

said I gravely.

"Drew it up, Sunday night. . . . Where's my coat? . . . here, catch!"

He pulled out a long legal envelope, well stuffed, and threw it across to me. "Don't open it now. When you do, you'll find everything in order. I've a habit of neatness with my worldly affairs."

"All very well," said I. "But you'll have to tell a lot more before I commit myself. And, anyhow, things can't be done in this easy way.

You'll have to see a solicitor and get me power of attorney or something of the sort--"

"Look here," he interrupted; "I thought it was understood that I'd come to you for _help_. Power of attorney? Bos.h.!.+ Not going to commit yourself? Why, man, you're committed! The cheque's drawn and paid into your account at h.o.a.re's. . . . I did it yesterday--caught 'em just before closing-time. You'll be hearing in a post or so.

They have all the bonds too, and my written instructions. . . . I bank there, too, you know."

"Heaven alive!" said I, with a gasp. "Are you telling me you've chucked all you possess into my account?"