Part 23 (1/2)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE ”YELLOW DRAGON”

Spargo, changing his clothes, was.h.i.+ng away the dust of his journey, in that old-fas.h.i.+oned lavender-scented bedroom, busied his mind in further speculations on his plan of campaign in Market Milcaster. He had no particularly clear plan. The one thing he was certain of was that in the old leather box which the man whom he knew as John Marbury had deposited with the London and Universal Safe Deposit Company, he and Rathbury had discovered one of the old silver tickets of Market Milcaster racecourse, and that he, Spargo, had come to Market Milcaster, with the full approval of his editor, in an endeavour to trace it. How was he going to set about this difficult task?

”The first thing,” said Spargo to himself as he tied a new tie, ”is to have a look round. That'll be no long job.”

For he had already seen as he approached the town, and as he drove from the station to the ”Yellow Dragon” Hotel, that Market Milcaster was a very small place. It chiefly consisted of one long, wide thoroughfare--the High Street--with smaller streets leading from it on either side. In the High Street seemed to be everything that the town could show--the ancient parish church, the town hall, the market cross, the princ.i.p.al houses and shops, the bridge, beneath which ran the river whereon s.h.i.+ps had once come up to the town before its mouth, four miles away, became impa.s.sably silted up. It was a bright, clean, little town, but there were few signs of trade in it, and Spargo had been quick to notice that in the ”Yellow Dragon,” a big, rambling old hostelry, reminiscent of the old coaching days, there seemed to be little doing.

He had eaten a bit of lunch in the coffee-room immediately on his arrival; the coffee-room was big enough to accommodate a hundred and fifty people, but beyond himself, an old gentleman and his daughter, evidently tourists, two young men talking golf, a man who looked like an artist, and an unmistakable honeymooning couple, there was no one in it. There was little traffic in the wide street beneath Spargo's windows; little pa.s.sage of people to and fro on the sidewalks; here a countryman drove a lazy cow as lazily along; there a farmer in his light cart sat idly chatting with an ap.r.o.ned tradesman, who had come out of his shop to talk to him. Over everything lay the quiet of the sunlight of the summer afternoon, and through the open windows stole a faint, sweet scent of the new-mown hay lying in the meadows outside the old houses.

”A veritable Sleepy Hollow,” mused Spargo. ”Let's go down and see if there's anybody to talk to. Great Scott!--to think that I was in the poisonous atmosphere of the Octoneumenoi only sixteen hours ago!”

Spargo, after losing himself in various corridors and pa.s.sages, finally landed in the wide, stone-paved hall of the old hotel, and with a sure instinct turned into the bar-parlour which he had noticed when he entered the place. This was a roomy, comfortable, bow-windowed apartment, looking out upon the High Street, and was furnished and ornamented with the usual appurtenances of country-town hotels. There were old chairs and tables and sideboards and cupboards, which had certainly been made a century before, and seemed likely to endure for a century or two longer; there were old prints of the road and the chase, and an old oil-painting or two of red-faced gentlemen in pink coats; there were foxes' masks on the wall, and a monster pike in a gla.s.s case on a side-table; there were ancient candlesticks on the mantelpiece and an antique snuff-box set between them. Also there was a small, old-fas.h.i.+oned bar in a corner of the room, and a new-fas.h.i.+oned young woman seated behind it, who was yawning over a piece of fancy needlework, and looked at Spargo when he entered as Andromeda may have looked at Perseus when he made arrival at her rock. And Spargo, treating himself to a suitable drink and choosing a cigar to accompany it, noted the look, and dropped into the nearest chair.

”This,” he remarked, eyeing the damsel with enquiry, ”appears to me to be a very quiet place.”

”Quiet!” exclaimed the lady. ”Quiet?”

”That,” continued Spargo, ”is precisely what I observed. Quiet. I see that you agree with me. You expressed your agreement with two shades of emphasis, the surprised and the scornful. We may conclude, thus far, that the place is undoubtedly quiet.”

The damsel looked at Spargo as if she considered him in the light of a new specimen, and picking up her needlework she quitted the bar and coming out into the room took a chair near his own.

”It makes you thankful to see a funeral go by here,” she remarked.

”It's about all that one ever does see.”

”Are there many?” asked Spargo. ”Do the inhabitants die much of inanition?”

The damsel gave Spargo another critical inspection.

”Oh, you're joking!” she said. ”It's well you can. Nothing ever happens here. This place is a back number.”

”Even the back numbers make pleasant reading at times,” murmured Spargo. ”And the backwaters of life are refres.h.i.+ng. Nothing doing in this town, then?” he added in a louder voice.

”Nothing!” replied his companion. ”It's fast asleep. I came here from Birmingham, and I didn't know what I was coming to. In Birmingham you see as many people in ten minutes as you see here in ten months.”

”Ah!” said Spargo. ”What you are suffering from is dulness. You must have an antidote.”

”Dulness!” exclaimed the damsel. ”That's the right word for Market Milcaster. There's just a few regular old customers drop in here of a morning, between eleven and one. A stray caller looks in--perhaps --during the afternoon. Then, at night, a lot of old fogies sit round that end of the room and talk about old times. Old times, indeed!--what they want in Market Milcaster is new times.”

Spargo p.r.i.c.ked up his ears.

”Well, but it's rather interesting to hear old fogies talk about old times,” he said. ”I love it!”

”Then you can get as much of it as ever you want here,” remarked the barmaid. ”Look in tonight any time after eight o'clock, and if you don't know more about the history of Market Milcaster by ten than you did when you sat down, you must be deaf. There are some old gentlemen drop in here every night, regular as clockwork, who seem to feel that they couldn't go to bed unless they've told each other stories about old days which I should think they've heard a thousand times already!”