Part 25 (2/2)

”Lord knows,” I interrupted her; ”but if you will tell Horrex to get himself and the policeman into the cab, I will run upstairs, dress, and join them in five minutes.”

IV.

In five minutes I had donned my ordinary clothes again and, descending through the pack of guests to the front door, found a four-wheeler waiting, with Horrex inside and a policeman whom, as I guessed, he had been drugging with strong waters for an hour past in some secluded chamber of the house. The fellow was somnolent, and in sepulchral silence we journeyed to Vine Street. There I chose to be conducted to the cell alone, and Mr. Horrex, hearing my decision, said fervently, ”May you be rewarded for your goodness to me and mine!”

I discovered afterwards that he had a growing family of six dependent on him, and think this must explain a gratefulness which puzzled me at the time.

”He's quieter this last half-hour,” said the police sergeant, unlocking the cell and opening the door with extreme caution.

The light fell and my eyes rested on a sandy-haired youth with a receding chin, a black eye, a crumpled s.h.i.+rt-front smeared with blood, and a dress-suit split and soiled with much rolling in the dust.

”Friend of yours, sir, to bail you out,” announced the sergeant.

”I have no friends,” answered the prisoner in hollow tones. ”Who's this Johnny?”

”My name is Richardson,” I began.

”From the Grampian Hills? Al' ri', old man; what can I do for you?”

”Well, if you've no objection, I've come to bail you out.”

”Norra a bit of it. Go 'way: I want t'other Richardson, good old larks-in-aspic! Sergeant--”

”Yessir.”

”I protest--you hear?--protest in sacred name of law; case of mish--case of mistaken 'dent.i.ty. Not this Richardson--take him away! Don't blame you: common name. Richardson _I_ want has whiskers down to here, tiddy-fol-ol; calls 'em 'Piccadilly weepers.' Can't mistake him.

If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.”

”Look here,” said I, ”just you listen to this; I'm Richardson, and I'm here to bail you out.”

”Can't do it, old man; mean well, no doubt, but can't do it. One man lead a horse to the water--twenty can't bail him out. Go 'way and don't fuss.”

I glanced at the sergeant. ”You'll let me deal with him as I like?” I asked.

He grinned. ”Bless you, sir, we're used to it. _I_ ain't listening.”

”Thank you.” I turned to the prisoner. ”Now, then, you drunken little hog, stand up and walk,” said I, taking him by the ear and keeping my left ready.

I suppose that the drink suddenly left him weak, for he stood up at once.

”There's some ho--horrible mistake,” he began to whimper. ”But if the worst comes to the worst, you'll _adopt_ me, won't you?”

Still holding him by the ear, I led him forth and flung him into the cab, in a corner of which the trembling Horrex had already huddled himself.

He fell, indeed, across Horrex's knees, and at once screamed aloud.

”Softly, softly, Master 'Erbert,” whispered the poor man soothingly.

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