Part 45 (1/2)

Morshed began to talk about uncles?'

'When he came back to the bar, after he'd changed into those rat-catcher clothes,' said Leggatt.

'That's right. ”Pye,” said he, ”have you an uncle?” ”I have,” I says.

”Here's santy to him,” and I finished my sherry and bitters to _you_, uncle.'

'That's right,' said Pyecroft's uncle sternly. 'If you hadn't I'd have belted you worth rememberin', Emmanuel. I had the body all night.'

Pyecroft smiled affectionately. 'So you 'ad, uncle, an' beautifully you looked after her. But as I was saying, ”I have an uncle, too,” says Mr.

Morshed, dark and lowering. ”Yet somehow I can't love him. I want to mortify the beggar. Volunteers to mortify my uncle, one pace to the front.”

'I took Jules with me the regulation distance. Jules was getting interested. Your Mr. Leggatt preserved a strictly nootral att.i.tude.

'”You're a pressed man,” says our Mr. Morshed. ”I owe your late employer much, so to say. The car will manoeuvre all night, as requisite.”

'Mr. Leggatt come out n.o.ble as your employee, and, by 'Eaven's divine grace, instead of arguing, he pleaded his new paint and varnish which was Mr. Morshed's one vital spot (he's lootenant on one of the new catch-'em-alive-o's now). ”True,” says he, ”paint's an 'oly thing. I'll give you one hour to arrange a _modus vivendi_. Full bunkers and steam ready by 9 P.M. to-night, _if_ you please.”

'Even so, Mr. Leggatt was far from content. _I_ 'ad to arrange the details. We run her into the yard here.' Pyecroft nodded through the window at my car's glossy back-panels. 'We took off the body with its mats and put it in the stable, subst.i.tooting (and that yard's a tight fit for extensive repairs) the body of uncle's blue delivery cart. It overhung a trifle, but after I'd lashed it I knew it wouldn't fetch loose. Thus, in our composite cruiser, we repaired once more to the hotel, and was immediately dispatched to the toy-shop in the High Street where we took aboard one rocking-horse which was waiting for us.'

'Took aboard _what_?' I cried.

'One fourteen-hand dapple-grey rocking-horse, with pure green rockers and detachable tail, pair gashly gla.s.s eyes, complete set 'orrible grinnin' teeth, and two b.l.o.o.d.y-red nostrils which, protruding from the brown papers, produced the _tout ensemble_ of a Ju-ju sacrifice in the Benin campaign. Do I make myself comprehensible?'

'Perfectly. Did you say anything?' I asked.

'Only to Jules. To him, I says, wis.h.i.+ng to try him. ”_Allez a votre bateau. Je say mon Lootenong. Eel voo donneray porkwor_.” To me, says he, ”_Vous ong ate hurroo! Jamay de la vee_!” and I saw by his eye he'd taken on for the full term of the war. Jules was a blue-eyed, brindle-haired beggar of a useful make and inquirin' habits. Your Mr.

Leggatt he only groaned.'

Leggatt nodded. 'It was like nightmares,' he said. 'It was like nightmares.'

'Once more, then,' Pyecroft swept on, 'we returned to the hotel and partook of a sumptuous repast, under the able and genial chairmans.h.i.+p of our Mr. Morshed, who laid his projecks unreservedly before us. ”In the first place,” he says, opening out bicycle-maps, ”my uncle, who, I regret to say, is a brigadier-general, has sold his alleged soul to d.i.c.ky Bridoon for a feathery hat and a pair o' gilt spurs. Jules, _conspuez l'oncle_!” So Jules, you'll be glad to hear--'

'One minute, Pye,' I said. 'Who is d.i.c.ky Bridoon?'

'I don't usually mingle myself up with the bickerings of the Junior Service, but it trarnspired that he was Secretary o' State for Civil War, an' he'd been issuing mechanical leather-belly gee-gees which doctors recommend for tumour--to the British cavalry in loo of real meat horses, to learn to ride on. Don't you remember there was quite a stir in the papers owing to the cavalry not appreciatin' 'em? But that's a minor item. The main point was that our uncle, in his capacity of brigadier-general, mark you, had wrote to the papers highly approvin' o'

d.i.c.ky Bridoon's mechanical subst.i.tutes an 'ad thus obtained promotion--all same as a agnosticle stoker psalm-singin' 'imself up the Service under a pious captain. At that point of the narrative we caught a phosph.o.r.escent glimmer why the rocking-horse might have been issued; but none the less the navigation was intricate. Omitting the fact it was dark and cloudy, our brigadier-uncle lay somewhere in the South Downs with his brigade, which was manoeuvrin' at Whitsum manoeuvres on a large scale--Red Army _versus_ Blue, et cetera; an' all we 'ad to go by was those flapping bicycle-maps and your Mr. Leggatt's groans.'

'I was thinking what the Downs mean after dark,' said Leggatt angrily.

'They was worth thinkin' of,' said Pyecroft. 'When we had studied the map till it fair spun, we decided to sally forth and creep for uncle by hand in the dark, dark night, an' present 'im with the rocking-horse. So we embarked at 8.57 P.M.'

'One minute again, please. How much did Jules understand by that time?'

I asked.

'Sufficient unto the day--or night, perhaps I should say. He told our Mr. Morshed he'd follow him _more sang frays_, which is French for dead, drunk, or d.a.m.ned. Barrin' 'is paucity o' language, there wasn't a blemish on Jules. But what I wished to imply was, when we climbed into the back parts of the car, our Lootenant Morshed says to me, ”I doubt if I'd flick my cigar-ends about too lavish, Mr. Pyecroft. We ought to be sitting on five pounds' worth of selected fireworks, and I think the rockets are your end.” Not being able to smoke with my 'ead over the side I threw it away; and then your Mr. Leggatt, 'aving been as nearly mutinous as it pays to be with my Mr. Morshed, arched his back and drove.'

'Where did he drive to, please?' said I.

'Primerrily, in search of any or either or both armies; seconderrily, of course, in search of our brigadier-uncle. Not finding him on the road, we ran about the gra.s.s looking for him. This took us to a great many places in a short time. Ow 'eavenly that lilac did smell on top of that first Down--stinkin' its blossomin' little heart out!'

'I 'adn't leesure to notice,' said Mr. Leggatt. 'The Downs were full o'

chalk-pits, and we'd no lights.'