Part 6 (1/2)

Oh, the awful torture of having a gay mother shopping the solemn hours away, when each instant drew her son nearer to the doom of an accessory after the fact!

My mother did not object to travel, but she _did_ like to have her little comforts about her.

She occupied herself in purchasing--

A water-bed.

A _boule_, or hot-water bottle.

A portable stove.

A travelling kitchen-range.

A medicine chest.

A complete set of Ollendorff.

Ten thousand pots of Dundee marmalade. And such other articles as she deemed essential to her comfort and safety during the expedition. In vain I urged that our motto was _Rescue and Retire_, and that such elaborate preparations might prevent our retiring from our native sh.o.r.e, and therefore make rescue exceedingly problematical.

My Tory mother only answered by quoting the example of Lord Wolseley and the Nile Expedition.

'How long did _they_ tarry among the pots--the marmalade pots?' said my mother. 'Did _they_ start before every mess had its proper share of extra teaspoons in case of accident, and a double supply of patent respirators for the drummer-boys, and of snow-shoes for the Canadian boatmen in case the climate proved uncertain?'

My mother's historical knowledge, and the unique example of provident and exhaustive equipment which she cited, reduced me to silence, but did not diminish my anxiety. The delay made me nervous, excited, and chippy.

To-morrow morning we were to start.

To-morrow morning was too late.

With an effort I opened the morning paper--the _Morning Post_, as it happened--and ran hastily up and down the columns, active exercise having been recommended to me. What cared I for politics, foreign news, or even the sportive intelligence? All I sought for was a paragraph headed 'Horrible Disclosures,' or, 'Awful Death of a Baronet.' I ran up and down the columns in vain.

No such item of news met my eye. Joyously I rose to go, when my eye fell on the Standard.

Mechanically I opened it.

Those words were written (or so they seemed to me to be written) in letters of fire, though the admirable press at Shoe Lane did not really employ that suitable medium.

'Horrible Discovery near Roding.'

At once the truth flashed across me. The _Morning Post_ had not contained the intelligence because,

The Government had Boycotted the 'Morning Post'!

Only journals which more or less supported the Government were permitted to obtain 'copy' of such thrilling interest!

And yet they speak of a free press and a free country!

Tearing myself away from these reflections, I bent my mind on the awful paragraph.

'The melting of the snow has thrown a lurid light on the mysterious disappearance (which up to this moment had attracted no attention) of an eccentric baronet, well known in sporting circles. Yesterday afternoon a gentleman's groom, wading down the highway, discovered the white hat of a gentleman floating on the muddy stream into which the unparalleled weather and the negligence of the Road Trustees has converted our thoroughfare. An inscription in red ink within the lining leaves no doubt that this article of dress is all that is left of the late Sir Runan Errand. The unfortunate n.o.bleman's friends have been communicated with. The active and intelligent representative of the local police believes that he is in possession of a clue to the author of the crime.

Probably the body of the murdered n.o.ble has been carried down by the flooded road to the sea.'