Part 24 (1/2)
”Mr. Ireland, save him! What shall we do?”
”Don't put yourself out, Miss Strong. This may turn out to be the best thing that could have happened to Mr. Paxton. Bill, where's this crib of theirs?”
Cooper pushed his hat on to the side of his head.
”I don't know as how I could rightly describe it to you--Brighton ain't my home, you know. But I daresay I could show it to you if I was to try.”
”Then you shall try. Listen to me, Bill Cooper. If you take me to this crib of theirs, and if what you say is true, and you don't try to play any of those tricks of yours, I'll add something of my own to this lady's fifty, and it'll be the best stroke of business that you ever did in all your life.”
Ireland called a cab. He allowed Daisy to enter first. Cooper got in after her.
”The police-station, driver--as fast as you can.”
Cooper immediately wanted to get out again.
”Where are you a-taking me to? I ain't going to no police-station!”
”Stay where you are, you idiot! So long as you act fairly with me, I'll act fairly with you. You don't suppose that this is a sort of job that I can tackle single-handed? I'm going to the station to get help.
Now then, driver, move that horse of yours!”
The cab moved off, leaving Miss Wentworth and Mr. Franklyn to follow in another if they chose.
CHAPTER XIV
AMONG THIEVES
Cyril was vaguely conscious of the touch of some one's hand about the region of his throat; not of a soft or a gentle hand, but of a clumsy, fumbling, yet resolute paw. Then of something falling on to him--falling with a splas.h.i.+ng sound. He opened his eyes, heavily, dreamily. He heard a voice, speaking as if from afar.
”Hullo, chummie, so you ain't dead, after all?--leastways, not as yet you ain't.”
The voice was not a musical voice, nor a friendly one. It was harsh and husky, as if the speaker suffered from a chronic cold. It was the voice not only of an uneducated man, but of the lowest type of English-speaking human animal. Cyril shuddered as he heard it. His eyes closed of their own accord.
”Now then!”
The words were accompanied by a smart, stinging blow on Mr. Paxton's cheek, a blow from the open palm of an iron-fronted hand. Severe though it was, Paxton was in such a condition of curious torpor that it scarcely seemed to stir him. It induced him to open his eyes again, and that, apparently, was all.
”Look here, chummie, if you're a-going to make a do of it, make a do of it, and we'll bury you. But if you're going to keep on living, move yourself, and look alive about it. I ain't going to spend all my time waiting for you--it's not quite good enough.”
While the flow of words continued, Cyril endeavoured to get the speaker's focus--to resolve his individuality within the circuit of his vision. And, by degrees, it began to dawn on him that the man was, after all, quite close to him: too close, indeed--very much too close.
With a sensation of disgust he realised that the fellow's face was actually within a few inches of his own--realised, too, what an unpleasant face it was, and that the man's horrible breath was mingling with his. It was an evil face, the face of one who had grown prematurely old. Staring eyes were set in cavernous sockets. A month's growth of bristles accentuated the animalism of the man's mouth, and jaw, and chin. His ears stuck out like flappers. His forehead receded.
His scanty, grizzled hair looked as if it had been shaved off close to his head. Altogether, the man presented a singularly unpleasant picture. As Paxton grasped, slowly enough, how unpleasant, he became conscious of a feeling of unconquerable repulsion.
”Who are you?” he asked.
His voice did not sound to him as if it were his own. It was thin, and faint like the voice of some puny child.
”Me?” The fellow chuckled--not by any means in a way which was suggestive of mirth. ”I'm the Lord Mayor and Aldermen--that's who I am.”