Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (1029 page)

“Why, these are the richest people in Rotherheath,” said Pomeroy, wiping his forehead.

“There is a lot more, but that is enough to settle our hash. I think we had best sell up for what we can get and clear out of the town. My gosh, those two folk must have got out of an asylum. Anyhow, my first job must be to see them. Maybe they are millionaires who can afford to pay for their little jokes.”

His mission proved, however, to be fruitless. On inquiry at the address given he found that it was an empty house. The caretaker from next door knew nothing of the matter. It was clear now why the young man had waited at the gate for his parcel. What was Pomeroy to do next? Apparently he could only sit and wait for the arrival of the writs. However, it was a very different document which was handed in at his door two evenings later, It was headed

“
R.S.B.Y.P
,”

and ran thus:

“
A special meeting of the R.S.B.Y.P. will be held at 16 Stanmore Terrace, in the billiards-room of John Anderson, J.P., to-night at 9 p.m. The presence of Mr. James Pomeroy, printer, is urgently needed. The matter under discussion is his liability for certain scandalous statements recently printed in the Parish Magazine
.”

It may well be imagined that Mr. Pomeroy was punctual at the appointment.

“Mr. Anderson is not at home himself,” said the footman, “but young Mr. Robert Anderson and his friends are receiving.” There was a humorous twinkle in the footman’s eyes.

The printer was shown into a small waiting-room, where two men, one a postman and the other apparently a small tradesman, were seated. He could not help observing that they were both as harassed and miserable as he was himself. They looked at him with dull, lack-lustre eyes, but were too dispirited to talk, nor did he feel sufficient energy to break the silence.. Presently one of them and then the other was called out. Finally the footman came for him, and threw wide a door.

“Mr. James Pomeroy,” cried the footman.

At the end of a large music-room, which was further adorned by a billiards-table, was sitting a semicircle of young people, all very serious, and all with writing materials before them. None was above twenty-one years of age, and they were about equally divided as to sex. Among them were the two customers who had lured him to his doom. They both smiled at him most affectionately, in spite of his angry stare.

“Pray sit down, Mr. Pomeroy,” said a very young man in evening dress, who acted as Chairman. “There are one or two questions which, as President of the R.S.B.Y.P., it is my duty to put to you. I believe that you have been somewhat alarmed by this incident of the Parish Magazine?”

“Of course I have,” said Pomeroy, in a surly voice.

“May I ask if your sleep has been affected?”

“I have not closed my eyes since it happened.”

There was a subdued murmur of applause, and several members leaned across to shake hands with Mr. Robert Anderson.

“Did it affect your future plans?”

“I had thought of leaving the town.”

“Excellent! I think, fellow-members, that there is no doubt that the monthly gold medal should be awarded to Mr. Anderson and Miss Duncan for their very meritorious performance, which has been well conceived and cleverly carried out. To relieve your natural anxiety, we must tell you at once, Mr. Pomeroy, that you have been the victim of a joke.”

“It’s likely to be a pretty costly one,” said the printer.

“Not at all. No harm has been done. No leaflets have been sent out. The letters which have reached you emanate from ourselves. We are, Mr. Pomeroy, the Rotherheath Society of Bright Young People, who endeavour to make the world a merrier and more lively place by the exercise of our wit. Upon this occasion a prize was offered for whichever member or members could most effectually put the wind up some resident in this suburb. There have been several candidates, but on the whole the prize must be awarded as already said.”

“But — but — it’s unjustifiable!” stammered Pomeroy.

“Entirely,” said the Chairman, cheerfully. “I think that all our proceedings may come under that head. On the other hand, we remind our victims that they have unselfishly sacrificed themselves for the general hilarity of the community. A special silver medal, which I will now affix to your coat, will be your souvenir of the occasion.”

“And I’ll speak to my father when he comes back,” said Anderson. “What I mean is, there is printing and what not to be done for the firm.”

“And my father really edits the Parish Magazine. That’s what put it into our heads,” said Miss Duncan. “Maybe we can get you the printing after all.”

“And there is whisky-and-soda on the sideboard, and a good cigar,” said the President.

So Mr. Pomeroy eventually went out into the night, thinking that after all youth will be served, and it would be a dull world without it.

THE END

THE CABMAN’S STORY

The Mysteries of a London “Growler”

We had to take a “growler,” for the day looked rather threatening and we agreed that it would be a very bad way of beginning our holiday by getting wet, especially when Fanny was only just coming round from the whooping cough. Holidays were rather scarce with us, and when we took one we generally arranged some little treat, and went in for enjoying ourselves. On this occasion we were starting off from Hammersmith to the Alexandra Palace in all the dignity of a four-wheeler. What with the wife and her sister, and Tommy and Fanny and Jack, the inside was pretty well filled up, so I had to look out for myself. I didn’t adopt the plan of John Gilpin under similar circumstances, but I took my waterproof and climbed up beside the driver.

This driver was a knowing-looking old veteran, with a weather-beaten face and white side whiskers. It has always seemed to me that a London cabman is about the shrewdest of the human race, but this specimen struck me as looking like the shrewdest of the cabmen. I tried to draw him out a bit as we jogged along, for I am always fond of a chat; but he was a bit rusty until I oiled his tongue with glass of gin when we got as far as the “Green Anchor.” Then he rattled away quickly enough, and some of what he said is worth trying to put down in black and white.

“Wouldn’t a hansom pay me better?” he said, in answer to a question of mine. “Why, of course it would. But look at the position! A four-wheeler’s a respectable conveyance, and the driver of it’s a respectable man, but you can’t say that of a rattling, splashing ‘ansom. Any boy would do for that job. Now, to my mind money hain’t to be compared to position, whatever a man’s trade may be.”

“Certainly not!” I answered.

“Besides, I’ve saved my little penny, and I’m got too old to change my ways. I’ve begun on a growler, and I’ll end on one. If you’ll believe me, sir, I’ve been on the streets for seven-and-forty year.”

“That’s a long time,” I said.

“Well, it’s long for our trade,” he replied. “You see, there ain’t no other in the world that takes the steam out of a man so quickly — what with wet and cold and late hours, and maybe no hours at all. There’s few that lasts at it as long as I have.”

“You must have seen a deal of the world during that time,” I remarked. “There are few men who can have greater opportunities of seeing life.”

“The world!” he grunted, flicking up the horse with his whip. “I’ve seen enough of it to be well-nigh sick of it. As to life, if you’d said death, you’d ha’ been nearer the mark.”

“Death!” I ejaculated.

“Yes, death,” he said. “Why, bless your soul, sir, if I was to write down all I’ve seen since I’ve been in the trade, there’s not a man in London would believe me, unless maybe some o’ the other cabbies. I tell ye I took a dead man for a fare once, and drove about with him nigh half the night. Oh, you needn’t look shocked, sir, for this wasn’t the cab — no, nor the last one I had neither.”

“How did it happen?” I asked, feeling glad, in spite of his assurance, that Matilda had not heard of the episode.

“Well, it’s an old story now,” said the driver, putting a small piece of very black tobacco into the corner of his mouth. “I daresay it’s twenty odd years since it happened, but it’s not the kind o’ thing as slips out of a man’s memory. It was very late one night, and I was working my hardest to pick up something good, for I’d made a poor day’s work of it. The theatres had all come out, and though I kept up and down the Strand till nigh one o’clock, I got nothing but one eighteenpenny job. I was thinking of giving it up and going home, when it struck me that I might as well make a bit of a circuit, and see if I couldn’t drop across something. Pretty soon I gave a gentleman a lift as far as the Oxford Road, and then I drove through St. John’s Wood on my way home. By that time it would be about half-past one, and the streets were quite quiet and deserted, for the night was cloudy and it was beginning to rain. I was putting on the pace as well as my tired beast would go, for we both wanted to get back to our suppers, when I heard a woman’s voice hail me out of a side street. I turned back, and there in about the darkest part of the road was standing two ladies — real ladies, mind you, for it would take a deal of darkness before I would mistake one for the other. One was elderly and stoutish; the other was young, and had a veil over her face. Between them there was a man in evening dress, whom they were supporting on each side, while his back was propped up against a lamp-post. He seemed beyond taking care of himself altogether, for his head was sunk down on his chest, and he’d have fallen if they hadn’t held him.

“‘Cabman,’ said the stout lady, with a very shaky voice, ‘I wish you would help us in this painful business.’ Those were her very hidentical words.

“‘Cert’nly, mum,’ I says for I saw my way to a good thing. ‘What can I do for the young lady and yourself?’ I mentioned the other in order to console her like, for she was sobbing behind her veil something pitiful.

“‘The fact is, cabman,’ she answers, ‘this gentleman is my daughter’s husband. They have only just been married, and we are visiting at a friend’s house near here. My son-in-law has just returned in a state of complete intoxication, and my daughter and I have brought him out in the hope of seeing a cab in which we could send him home, for we have most particular reasons for not wishing our friends to see him in this state, and as yet they are ignorant of it. If you would drive him to his house and leave him there, you would do us both a very great kindness, and we can easily account to our hosts for his absence.’

“I thought this rather a rum start, but I agreed, and no sooner had I said the word than the old one she pulls open the door, and she and the other, without waiting for me to bear a hand, bundled him in between them.

“‘Where to?’ I asked.

“‘Forty-seven, Orange Grove, Clapham,’ she said. ‘Hoffman is the name. You’ll easily waken the servants.’

“‘And how about the fare?’ I suggested, for I thought maybe there might be a difficulty in collecting it at the end of the journey.

“‘Here it is,’ said the young one, slipping what I felt to be a sovereign into my hand, and at the same time giving it a sort of a grateful squeeze, which made me feel as if I’d drive anywhere to get her out of trouble.

“Well, off I went, leaving them standing by the side of the road. The horse was well-nigh beat, but at last I found my way to 47, Orange Grove. It was a biggish house, and all quiet, as you may suppose, at that hour. I rang the bell, and at last down came a servant — a man, he was.

“‘I’ve got the master here,’ I said.

“‘Got who?’ he asked.

“‘Why Mr. Hoffman — your master. He’s in the cab, not quite himself. This is number forty-seven, ain’t it?’

“‘Yes, it’s forty-seven, right enough; but my master’s Captain
Ritchie, and he’s away in India, so you’ve got the wrong house.’

“‘That was the number they gave me,’ I said, ‘But maybe he’s come to himself by this time, and can give us some information. He was dead drunk an hour ago.’

“Down we went to the cab, the two of us, and opened the door. He had slipped off the seat and was lying all in a heap on the floor.

“‘Now, then, sir,’ I shouted. ‘Wake up and give us your address.’

“He didn’t answer.

“I gave another shake. ‘Pull yourself together,’ I roared. ‘Give us your name, and tell us where you live.’

“He didn’t answer again. I couldn’t even hear the sound of breathing. Then a kind of queer feeling came over me, and I put down my hand and felt his face. It was as cold as lead. The cove’s dead, mate,’ I said.

“The servant struck a match, and we had a look at my passenger. He was a young, good-looking fellow, but his face wore an expression of pain, and his jaw hung down. He was evidently not only dead, but had been dead some time.

“‘What shall we do?’ said the flunkey. He was as white as death himself, and his hair bristled with fear.

“‘I’ll drive to the nearest police station,’ I answered; and so I did, leaving him shivering on the pavement. There I gave up my fare, and that was the last I ever saw of him.”

“Did you never hear any more of it?” I asked.

“Hear! I thought I should never hear the end of it, what with examinations and inquests and one thing and another. The doctors proved that he must have been dead at the time he was shoved into the cab. Just before the inquest four little blue spots came out on one side of his neck, and one on the other, and they said only a woman’s hand could have fitted over them, so they brought in a verdict of willful murder; but, bless you, they had managed it so neatly that there was not a clue to the women, nor to the man either, for everything by which he might have been identified had been removed from his pockets. The police were fairly puzzled by that case. I’ve always thought what a bit o’ luck it was that I got my fare, for I wouldn’t have had much chance of it if it hadn’t been paid in advance.”

My friend the driver began to get very husky about the throat at this stage of the proceedings, and slackened his speed very noticeably as we approached a large public-house, so that I felt constrained to offer him another gin, which he graciously accepted. The ladies had some wine, too, and I followed the example of my companion on the box, so that we all started refreshed.

“The police and me’s been mixed up a good deal,” continued the veteran resuming his reminiscences: “They took the best customer I ever had away from me. I’d have made my fortin if they’d let him carry on his little game a while longer.”

Here, with the coquetry of one who knows that his words are of interest, the driver began to look around him with an air of abstraction and to comment upon the weather.

“Well, what about your customer and the police?” I asked.

“It’s not much to tell,” he said, coming back to his subject. “One morning I was driving across Vauxhall Bridge when I was hailed by a crooked old man with a pair of spectacles on, who was standing at the Middlesex end, with a big leather bag in his hand. ‘Drive anywhere you like,’ he said; ‘only don’t drive fast for I’m getting old, and it shakes me to pieces.’ He jumped in, and shut himself up, closing the windows, and I trotted about with him for three hours, before he let me know that he had had enough. When I stopped, out he hopped with his big bag in his hand.

“‘I say cabbie!’ he said, after he had paid his fare.

“‘Yes, sir,’ said I, touching my hat.

“‘You seem to be a decent sort of fellow, and you don’t go in the break-neck way of some of your kind. I don’t mind giving you the same job every day. The doctors recommend gentle exercise of the sort, and you may as well drive me as another. Just pick me up at the same place tomorrow.’

“Well, to make a long story short, I used to find the little man in his place every morning, always with his black bag, and for nigh on to four months never a day passed without his having his three hours’ drive and paying his fare like a man at the end of it. I shifted into new quarters on the strength of it, and was able to buy a new set of harness. I don’t say as I altogether swallowed the story of the doctors having recommended him on a hot day to go about in a growler with both windows up. However, it’s a bad thing in this world to be too knowing, so though I own I felt a bit curious at times, I never put myself out o’ the way to find out what the little game was. One day, I was driving tap to my usual place of dropping him — for by this time we had got into the way of going a regular beat every morning — when I saw a policeman waiting, with a perky sort of look about him, as if he had some job on hand. When the cab stopped out jumped the little man with his bag right into the arms of the ‘bobby.’

“‘I arrest you, John Malone,’ says the policeman.

“‘On what charge?’ he answers as cool as a turnip.

“‘On the charge of forging Bank of England notes,’ says the ‘bobby’.

“‘Oh, then the game is up!’ he cries, and with that he pulls off his spectacles, and his wig and whiskers, and there he was, as smart a young fellow as you’d wish to see.

“‘Good-bye, cabby,’ he cried, as they led him off, and that was the last I saw of him, marching along between two of them, and another behind with the bag.”