Part 10 (1/2)

”It is heavy. Just watch me for a moment if you don't want to lift it yourself.”

G.o.dfrey with evident difficulty lifted the packing-case, staggered a few steps with it and then set it down. The packing-case may have been heavy but it was quite small. It seemed to me that G.o.dfrey was making a rather pitiful exhibition of his physical feebleness.

”You ought to do things with dumb bells,” I said. ”The muscles of your arms are evidently quite soft.”

G.o.dfrey took no notice of the taunt. He was in a state of tremendous moral earnestness.

”I want your permission to open these cases,” he said.

”I won't give you any such permission,” I said. ”How can I? They're not my packing-cases.”

G.o.dfrey argued with me for quite a long time, but I remained firm. For some reason which I could not understand, G.o.dfrey was unwilling to open the packing-cases without permission from somebody. I should have supposed that having already forced a door he would not have boggled at the lid of a packing-case; but he did. He evidently had some vague idea that the law takes a more serious view of smas.h.i.+ng packing-cases than it does of housebreaking. He may have been right. But my record so far was clear. I had not forced the lock of the door.

”What do you suppose is in those cases?” said G.o.dfrey.

”Artificial manure,” I said.

Our store does a large business in artificial manure. It generally comes to us in sacks, but there is no reason why it should not come in packing-cases. It is tremendously heavy stuff.

”Those cases were landed from the _Finola_,” said G.o.dfrey. ”She wouldn't come here with a cargo of artificial manure.”

”If you've brought me all the way up here to accuse Conroy of smuggling,” I said, ”you've wasted your own time and mine.”

”I don't accuse Conroy of smuggling,” said G.o.dfrey. ”In fact, I'm going to write to him to-night to tell him what's going on.”

”Very well,” I said. ”You can if you like, but don't mix my name up with it.”

We walked back together as far as the village. G.o.dfrey was silent again. I could see that he still had something on his mind, probably something which he wanted me to do. He kept on clearing his throat and pulling himself together as if he were going to say something of importance. I was uncomfortable, for I felt sure that he intended to attack me again about Marion's correspondence with Bob Power. I have never, since she was quite a little girl, interfered with Marion's freedom of action. I had not the smallest intention of making myself ridiculous by claiming any kind of authority over her, especially in a matter so purely personal as the young man she chose to favour.

Besides, I like Bob Power. At worst there was nothing against him except his smuggling, and smuggling is much less objectionable than the things that G.o.dfrey does. I should rather, if it came to that, have a son-in-law who went to prison occasionally for importing spirits without consulting the government than one who perpetually nagged at me and worried me. But I did not want to provoke further arguments by explaining my feelings to G.o.dfrey. I was therefore rather relieved when he finally succeeded in blurting out what was in his mind.

”I hope, Excellency,” he said, ”that you will take the first chance you get of speaking to Crossan.”

In sudden grat.i.tude for escaping a wrangle about Marion and Bob Power I promised hurriedly that I would speak to Crossan. I was sorry afterwards that I did promise. Still, I very much wished to know what was in the packing-cases. I did not really believe it was artificial manure. I did not believe either that it was smuggled brandy.

My chance came two days later. I met Crossan in the street. He was standing beside his motor car, a handsome-looking vehicle. He evidently intended to go for a drive. I felt at once that I could not ask him a direct question about the packing-cases. I determined to get at them obliquely if I could. I began by admiring the motor.

”She's good enough, my lord,” said Crossan.

He is a man of few words, and is sparing of his praise. ”Good enough”

is, from Crossan, quite an enthusiastic compliment.

”If your lords.h.i.+p would care about a drive any day,” he said, ”it'll be a pleasure to me.”

Crossan always interjects ”my lord” and ”your lords.h.i.+p” into the middle of the remarks he makes to me; but he says the words in a very peculiar tone. It always seems to me that he wishes to emphasize the difference in our social station because he feels that the advantage is all on his side. ”The rank,” so his tone suggests, ”is but the guinea stamp. The man”--that is in this case Crossan himself--”is the gowd for a' that.”

”You can get about the country pretty quickly in that car,” I said.

Crossan looked at me with a perfectly expressionless face for some time. Then he said said--