The Crock of Gold (14 page)

"Who are you talking about?" the Philosopher demanded.

"It's mighty innocent you are," he replied. "Who would I be talking about but the man and woman that used to be living with you beyond in the little house? Is it poison you gave them now, or
what was it? Take a hold of your note-book, Shawn."

"Can't you have sense, man?" said Shawn. "How would I be writing in the middle of a dark place and me without as much as a pencil, let alone a book?"

"Well, we'll take it down at the station, and himself can tell us all about it as we go along. Move on now, for this is no place to be conversing in."

They paced on again, and in another moment they were swallowed up by the darkness. When they had proceeded for a little distance there came a peculiar sound in front like the breathing of some
enormous animal, and also a kind of shuffling noise, and so they again halted.

"There's a queer kind of a thing in front of us," said one of the men in a low voice.

"If I had a match itself," said another.

The sergeant had also halted.

"Draw well into the side of the road," said he, "and poke your batons in front of you. Keep a tight hold of that man, Shawn."

"I'll do that," said Shawn.

Just then one of them found a few matches in his pocket, and he struck a light; there was no wind so that it blazed easily enough and they all peered in front.

A big, black cart-horse was lying in the middle of the road having a gentle sleep, and when the light shone it scrambled to its feet and went thundering away in a panic.

"Isn't that enough to put the heart crossways in you?" said one of the men with a great sigh.

"Ay," said another; "if you stepped on that beast in the darkness you wouldn't know what to be thinking."

"I don't quite remember the way about here," said the sergeant after a while, "but I think we should take the first turn to the right. I wonder have we passed the turn yet; these criss-cross
kinds of roads are the devil, and it dark as well. Do any of you men know the way?"

"I don't," said one voice; "I'm a Cavan man myself."

"Roscommon," said another, "is my country, and I wish I was there now, so I do."

"Well, if we walk straight on we're bound to get somewhere, so step it out. Have you got a good hold of that man, Shawn?"

"I have so," said Shawn.

The Philosopher's voice came pealing through the darkness.

"There is no need to pinch me, sir," said he.

"I'm not pinching you at all," said the man.

"You are so," returned the Philosopher. "You have a big lump of skin doubled up in the sleeve of my coat, and unless you instantly release it I will sit down in the road."

"Is that any better?" said the man, relaxing his hold a little.

"You have only let out half of it," replied the Philosopher. "That's better now," he continued, and they resumed their journey.

After a few minutes of silence the Philosopher began to speak.

"I do not see any necessity in nature for policemen," said he, "nor do I understand how the custom first originated. Dogs and cats do not employ these extraordinary mercenaries, and yet their
polity is progressive and orderly. Crows are a gregarious race with settled habitations and an organised commonwealth. They usually congregate in a ruined tower or on the top of a church, and their
civilisation is based on mutual aid and tolerance for each other's idiosyncrasies. Their exceeding mobility and hardiness render them dangerous to attack, and thus they are free to devote
themselves to the development of their domestic laws and customs. If policemen were necessary to a civilisation crows would certainly have evolved them, but I triumphantly insist that they have not
got any policemen in their republic—"

"I don't understand a word you are saying," said the sergeant.

"It doesn't matter," said the Philosopher. "Ants and bees also live in specialised communities and have an extreme complexity both of function and occupation. Their experience in governmental
matters is enormous, and yet they have never discovered that a police force is at all essential to their well-being—"

"Do you know," said the sergeant, "that whatever you say now will be used in evidence against you later on?"

"I do not," said the Philosopher. "It may be said that these races are free from crime, that such vices as they have are organised and communal instead of individual and anarchistic, and that,
consequently, there is no necessity for policecraft, but I cannot believe that these large aggregations of people could have attained their present high culture without an interval of both national
and individual dishonesty—"

"Tell me now, as you are talking," said the sergeant, "did you buy the poison at a chemist's shop, or did you smother the pair of them with a pillow?"

"I did not," said the Philosopher. "If crime is a condition precedent to the evolution of policemen then I will submit that jackdaws are a very thievish clan—they are somewhat larger than
a blackbird, and will steal wool off a sheep's back to line their nests with; they have, furthermore, been known to abstract one shilling in copper and secrete this booty so ingeniously that it has
never since been recovered—"

"I had a jackdaw myself," said one of the men. "I got it from a woman that came to the door with a basket for fourpence. My mother stood on its back one day and she getting out of bed. I split
its tongue with a threepenny bit the way it would talk, but devil the word it ever said for me. It used to hop around letting on it had a lame leg, and then it would steal your socks."

"Shut up," roared the sergeant.

"If," said the Philosopher, "these people steal both from sheep and from men, if their peculations range from wool to money, I do not see how they can avoid stealing from each other, and,
consequently, if anywhere, it is amongst jackdaws one should look for the growth of a police force, but there is no such force in existence. The real reason is that they are a witty and thoughtful
race who look temperately on what is known as crime and evil—one eats, one steals; it is all in the order of things and, therefore, not to be quarrelled with. There is no other view possible
to a philosophical people—"

"What the devil is he talking about?" said the sergeant.

"Monkeys are gregarious and thievish and semi-human. They inhabit the equatorial latitudes and eat nuts—"

"Do you know what he is saying, Shawn?"

"I do not," said Shawn.

"—they ought to have evolved professional thief-takers, but it is common knowledge that they have not done so. Fishes, squirrels, rats, beavers, and bison have also abstained from this
singular growth—therefore, when I insist that I see no necessity for policemen and object to their presence, I base that objection on logic and facts, and not on any immediate petty
prejudice."

"Shawn," said the sergeant, "have you got a good grip on that man?"

"I have," said Shawn.

"Well, if he talks any more hit him with your baton."

"I will so," said Shawn.

"There's a speck of light down yonder, and, maybe, it's a candle in a window—we'll ask the way at that place."

In about three minutes they came to a small house which was overhung by trees. If the light had not been visible they would undoubtedly have passed it in the darkness. As they approached the
door the sound of a female voice came to them scoldingly.

"There's somebody up, anyhow," said the sergeant, and he tapped at the door.

The scolding voice ceased instantly. After a few seconds he tapped again, then a voice was heard from just behind the door.

"Tomás," said the voice, "go and bring up the two dogs with you before I take the door off the chain."

The door was then opened a few inches and a face peered out—

"What would you be wanting at this hour of the night?" said the woman.

"Not much, ma'am," said the sergeant; "only a little direction about the road, for we are not sure whether we've gone too far or not far enough."

The woman noticed their uniforms.

"Is it policemen ye are? There's no harm in your coming in, I suppose, and if a drink of milk is any good to ye I have plenty of it."

"Milk's better than nothing," said the sergeant with a sigh.

"I've a little sup of spirits," said she, "but it wouldn't be enough to go round."

"Ah, well," said he, looking sternly at his comrades, "everybody has to take their chance in this world," and he stepped into the house followed by his men.

The woman gave him a little sup of whisky from a bottle, and to each of the other men she gave a cup of milk.

"It'll wash the dust out of our gullets, anyhow," said one of them.

There were two chairs, a bed, and a table in the room. The Philosopher and his attendants sat on the bed. The sergeant sat on the table, the fourth man took a chair, and the woman dropped
wearily into the remaining chair from which she looked with pity at the prisoner.

"What are you taking the poor man away for?" she asked.

"He's a bad one, ma'am," said the sergeant. "He killed a man and a woman that were staying with him and he buried their corpses underneath the hearthstone of his house. He's a real malefactor,
mind you."

"Is it hanging him you'll be, God help us?"

"You never know, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised if it came to that. But you were in trouble yourself, ma'am, for we heard your voice lamenting about something as we came along the road."

"I was, indeed," she replied, "for the person that has a son in her house has a trouble in her heart."

"Do you tell me now—What did he do on you?" and the sergeant bent a look of grave reprobation on a young lad who was standing against the wall between two dogs.

"He's a good boy enough in some ways," said she, "but he's too fond of beasts. He'll go and lie in the kennel along with them two dogs for hours at a time, petting them and making a lot of them,
but if I try to give him a kiss, or to hug him for a couple of minutes when I do be tired after the work, he'll wriggle like an eel till I let him out—it would make a body hate him, so it
would. Sure, there's no nature in him, sir, and I'm his mother."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you young whelp," said the sergeant very severely.

"And then there's the horse," she continued. "Maybe you met it down the road a while ago?"

"We did, ma'am," said the sergeant.

"Well, when he came in Tomás went to tie him up, for he's a caution at getting out and wandering about the road, the way you'd break your neck over him if you weren't minding. After a
while I told the boy to come in, but he didn't come, so I went out myself, and there was himself and the horse with their arms round each other's necks looking as if they were moonstruck."

"Faith, he's the queer lad!" said the sergeant. "What do you be making love to the horse for, Tomás?"

"It was all I could do to make him come in," she continued, "and then I said to him, 'Sit down alongside of me here, Tomás, and keep me company for a little while'—for I do be
lonely in the night time—but he wouldn't stay quiet at all. One minute he'd say, 'Mother, there's a moth flying round the candle and it'll be burnt,' and then, 'There was a fly going into the
spider's web in the corner,' and he'd have to save it, and after that, 'There's a daddy-long-legs hurting himself on the window-pane,' and he'd have to let it out; but when I try to kiss him he
pushes me away. My heart is tormented, so it is, for what have I in the world but him?"

"Is his father dead, ma'am?" said the sergeant kindly.

"I'll tell the truth," said she. "I don't know whether he is or not, for a long time ago, when we used to live in the city of Bla' Cliah, he lost his work one time and he never came back to me
again. He was ashamed to come home I'm thinking, the poor man, because he had no money; as if I would have minded whether he had any money or not—sure, he was very fond of me, sir, and we
could have pulled along somehow. After that I came back to my father's place here; the rest of the children died on me, and then my father died, and I'm doing the best I can by myself. It's only
that I'm a little bit troubled with the boy now and again."

"It's a hard case, ma'am," said the sergeant, "but maybe the boy is only a bit wild not having his father over him, and maybe it's just that he's used to yourself, for there isn't a child at all
that doesn't love his mother. Let you behave yourself now, Tomás; attend to your mother, and leave the beasts and the insects alone, like a decent boy, for there's no insect in the world
will ever like you as well as she does. Could you tell me, ma'am, if we have passed the first turn on this road, or is it in front of us still, for we are lost altogether in the darkness?"

"It's in front of you still," she replied, "about ten minutes down the road; you can't miss it, for you'll see the sky where there is a gap in the trees, and that gap is the turn you want."

"Thank you, ma'am," said the sergeant; "we'd better be moving on, for there's a long tramp in front of us before we get to sleep this night."

He stood up and the men rose to follow him when, suddenly, the boy spoke in a whisper.

"Mother," said he, "they are going to hang the man," and he burst into tears.

"Oh, hush, hush," said the woman, "sure, the men can't help it." She dropped quickly on her knees and opened her arms, "Come over to your mother, my darling."

The boy ran to her.

"They are going to hang him," he cried in a high, thin voice, and he plucked at her arm violently.

"Now, then, my young boy-o," said the sergeant, "none of that violence."

The boy turned suddenly and flew at him with astonishing ferocity. He hurled himself against the sergeant's legs and bit, and kicked, and struck at him. So furiously sudden was his attack that
the man went staggering back against the wall, then he plucked at the boy and whirled him across the room. In an instant the two dogs leaped at him snarling with rage—one of these he kicked
into a corner, from which it rebounded again bristling and red-eyed; the other dog was caught by the woman, and after a few frantic seconds she gripped the first dog also. To a horrible chorus of
howls and snapping teeth the men hustled outside and slammed the door.