CHAPTER II

LEVIATHAN

The man who had lost his memory was growing tired.

Fourteen miles he had come from the village of Broad-i’-the-Beam–he
and Hamlet, his dog. So much a map would have told you. As a matter
of fact, they had covered a good twenty. Ever since nine o’clock the
two had gone as they pleased. Time was nothing to them, except an
easy-going host. The clocks they saw and heard were jolly-faced,
merry-tongued butlers, predicting meals and sleep. Did Jonathan like
the look of that peeping church, the shrine had been visited. Did
Hamlet, panting, declare this wood a rabbitry, the brake had been
scoured. Somewhere about noon the gentle plash of water had attracted
them both, and tacked a brace of miles on to their journey. The two
had spent an hour beside the scrambling stream, looking for water-rats,
unearthing brown pebbles, finding in ‘flotsam and jetsam’ a gay
significance which Blackstone seems to have missed. The burden of the
day became a shuttlecock; its heat, a cordial. Man and dog ‘fleeted
the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.’ What if they
were making for Oxford, and Oxford was yet a score of miles away? Were
they not Time’s guests? The city could wait. What if the two of them
were growing tired? They would sleep the sounder. What if they had
but sixteen shillings in the world? The morrow should take thought of
itself. The past had done so–was doing so, and doing it devilish well.

The man who had lost his memory burst into song….

It was at this musical juncture that the two wayfarers rounded a bend
of the road to see a large brown limousine perhaps one hundred yards
ahead. The car was standing idle under the grateful shadow of a
convenient wood. Its back was towards them, and the business of a
blue-suited chauffeur about the spare wheel behind was arguing the
recent occurrence of a familiar mishap.

That there was something amiss, however, beside mere tire trouble soon
became evident. Indeed, as the pair drew abreast of the workman, the
latter raised his fists skywards and shook them in inarticulate fury.

Jonathan stopped still.

“What’s the matter?” he said.

The man started violently, looked the speaker up and down, and then put
a finger to a coarse lip.

“Shut yer row,” he whispered. He jerked his head at the car. “My
bloke’s asleep, ‘e is. If you go an’ wake ‘im, there’ll be the —-
dooce.”

“All right,” said Jonathan quietly. “But what’s the matter?”

“Lef’ me spanner be’ind,” was the savage reply.

“Firs’ a —- puncture: then this ‘ere’s the wrong wheel: now the
‘ub-cap won’t move.”

“But if the spare wheel’s no use, what’s the good of taking it down?”

“So’s I kin take it beck to the —- ‘ouse an’ git the right one,
smarty. ‘Ere, jus’ ‘old this —- catch in. Shove the —- ‘ome
whiles I turn.”

With a frown, Jonathan did as he was bid, and a moment later the
refractory wheel-cap began to revolve.

The trick was done.

With a protruding tongue, the chauffeur lifted the wheel clear of its
brackets. Then he turned to his ministrant.

“If you’ll watch ‘ere with the car, you kin give me a ‘and, you
kin–when I comes beck. An’ if I puts in a word–why, my toff’s good
fer ‘alf a dollar.”

Jonathan hated the fellow, but two good shillings and sixpence were not
to be sneezed at. Clearly the morrow was taking thought of itself.
Not to encourage such initiative would be cavalier. He nodded
agreement.

The other trundled the wheel down the road, and presently dived at
right angles into a lane and out of sight.

Jonathan and Hamlet sat down in the shade of the trees by the side of
the road…

Ten minutes, perhaps, had gone by, when somebody yawned.

Hamlet leaped to his feet and put his head on one side…. Nothing
further occurring, the dog shot his smiling master a reproachful glance
and once more laid himself down.

Another yawn was luxuriously expressed.

Again the terrier started to his feet and put his head on one side….
After a moment he approached the car gingerly, nosing the nearest
running-board, as one who suspects a booby-trap. Venturing farther, he
had placed two paws upon the step and was snuffing the sill of the
door, when an explosion from within the limousine, in the shape of a
violent inclination to sneeze violently indulged, at once confirmed his
suspicions, cost him his balance, and sent him sprawling upon his
back….

Heedless of the contingent two shillings, Jonathan roared his pent-up
merriment, while Hamlet, conscious of lost dignity, retreated to the
bank and, apologetically wagging his tail, trumpeted a ridiculous
defiance of his invisible discomfiter.

The face, however, presently thrust out of the limousine’s window
should have been sobering enough.

Large, round, red, transfigured with wrath and surmounted by a vast
grey hat, it was filling most of the frame, and when a tremendous fist
followed it, to be shaken furiously in Hamlet’s direction, there was
practically no room left. The puffed-out cheeks suggested Æolus at
work, blasphemously ‘potted’ by Aristophanes: the monstrous air, a pet
of Rabelais’. Only the keen, blue eyes redeemed the countenance. By
rights, these should have been flaming. That they were merely bright,
argued the rage skin-deep.

But for Jonathan, Red Face and Hamlet might have exchanged threatenings
for half an hour. The more the one bellowed, the more the other lifted
up his voice. The dog had now just cause. The extraordinary picture
clamoured for criticism.

His master called Hamlet to order and took off his hat.

“I’m very sorry, sir. The dog—-“

“Venomous brute,” raged Red Face.

“–didn’t know you were there, and when you sneezed—-“

“I didn’t sneeze!” shouted the other. “Where’s my chauffeur?”

Jonathan swallowed.

“I think he’ll be here any minute, sir. The spare wheel was not
satisfactory, and he’s gone—-“

“What d’you mean–‘spare wheel’? What’s the spare wheel got to do with
it?”

“You’ve got a puncture, sir, and—-“

“You’re drunk!” roared Red Face. “Most beastly drunk. Where’s the
puncture?”

Swiftly Jonathan perambulated the car. _Each tire was as sound as a
bell_. He returned to the near-side door in some uneasiness.

“You’re perfectly right, sir. I—-“

“Of course I am.”

“–I must have misunderstood. When I arrived, your chauffeur was
having some difficulty with the spare wheel, and I helped him to—-“

“You’re a lying vagabond,” said the other. “You did nothing of the
kind. You’re attempting to extort money.”

“I tell you, sir—-“

“You’ve never set eyes on my chauffeur. You’ve—-“

“If it hadn’t been for me,” retorted Jonathan, “he’ld never ‘ve had the
spare wheel—-“

“Goats and monkeys!” yelled Red Face. “‘S the man mad?” He wrenched
at the door-handle. “Lemme get out, you fool.” Jonathan opened the
door, for a body and limbs proportionate to the face to be launched
into the road. “Now, then, what the devil d’you mean by it? Where’s
this spare wheel, you—-“

“It’s gone,” said Jonathan. “The chauffeur’s taken it away.”

The simple announcement appeared to bereave Red Face of the power of
speech. Taking advantage of the silence, Jonathan led the way to the
rear of the car and pointed to the empty brackets.

“You see?” he said quietly. With bulging eyes, the stranger regarded
them. “I certainly understood that you’d had a puncture, but, any way,
the chauffeur’s taken it back to get another.”

“‘Back’?” croaked Red Face. “‘Back,’ you gibbering fool? Back where?”

As he spoke, the beat of a coming engine made itself heard, and,
without waiting for an answer, the giant stepped from behind the car to
peer up the road.

A moment later a Ford came to rest alongside, and a spruce little man
in fawn-coloured livery descended, filter in hand, and touched his hat.

“Where the devil have you been?” demanded his employer.

“Quick as I could, sir”–cheerfully.

“You lying hound,” said the other. “You’ve stopped at every pub for
miles round. You know you have. Where’s the spare wheel?”

The chauffeur stared at its room.

“It was there when I left, Sir Andrew.”

“_What?_”

Jonathan put in his oar.

“This isn’t the chauffeur I helped,” he said. There was a dreadful
silence. “In fact,” he added stoutly, “I’m afraid–I’m awfully sorry,
but the more I think of it, the more afraid I am that I’ve helped some
fellow or other to pinch your wheel.”

The murder was out.

For a moment Jonathan thought the giant was going to strike him. The
chauffeur plainly was of the same mind, for he made an obvious movement
to catch his master’s arm.

But Sir Andrew never moved.

After a little while he took a deep breath.

“Did I call you a liar?” he said.

“You did,” said Jonathan.

“Well, I dare say you are. The world’s full of ’em. Still…”

It was a gruff ghost of an apology, yet the best Sir Andrew Plague had
made for twenty years. It was not the man’s fault that it was no
better. His pride’s neck had grown stiff. As though to correct the
impression that it was at all flexible, he turned upon his chauffeur
with a quick roar.

“Move, you fool, move. Don’t stand there drivelling. Fill up, and
send these thieves about their business.” A mechanic in the Ford
shifted uneasily, and his fellow let fall a can. “A-a-ah, you
blundering felon….” He swung on his heel and called to Jonathan.
“Here.”

The latter followed him, walking up the road.

“Never help anyone,” said Sir Andrew. “If you do, you’ll regret it.
If I’d caught you assisting to steal my wheel, I’ld ‘ve broken your
back: and if my chauffeur’d caught you, you’ld ‘ve got twelve
months–if there’s any law left in England. Never help anyone.” He
turned abruptly, to make his way back to the car. “Oh, and get rid of
that dog,” he added, over his shoulder.

Jonathan watched him stop to curse his chauffeur and shake a fist at
the mechanics, before flinging open the door and heaving himself out of
sight. He was sorry, to tell the truth, to see the last of him….

He liked Sir Andrew Plague and admired him enormously. For such
admiration, he must himself be admired. Worth knows worth in an
instant, smother it how you will. That which the mechanics reluctantly
respected, Jonathan found inspiring. Whensoever a deep calls, the
shallows tremble, but only a deep will respond.

Jonathan saw in Plague a man born out of time. He saw a man made of
the Conqueror’s stuff, cast in the Norman mould, seized of that dukely
‘drive,’ in mind, as body, towering above his fellow-men–to his own
hurt. He saw a giant stalking through pygmy-land, chafing for company
and finding none–a giant whose lack of peers and vigorous mental
fellowship had spoiled his temper, who had come to say in his haste,
‘All men are fools.’ Here was a lion, then–flaunting a lion’s
faults–cloaking a lion’s virtues. All the time the lion’s personality
blazed…

Jonathan’s estimate was very sound.

Sir Andrew Plague’s nickname was ‘The King of Beasts.’

What Plague thought of Jonathan will presently appear. Suffice it that
the deeps were in touch.

“Hi!”

The large red face was protruding from the limousine’s window.

Jonathan hurried to the car.

The engine was running, and the chauffeur was in his seat.

“What’s your name?”

The man who had lost his memory started. Then he lifted his eyes and
stared at the dust-laden trees.

“Wood,” he said suddenly. “Wood. Jonathan Wood.”

“Mine’s Plague,” said the other roughly. “Andrew Plague. Want any
help any time, I’m in the book. But don’t telephone. Filthy
instrument. Where’s that brute of a dog?”

Jonathan whistled, and Hamlet came running up.

Sir Andrew blew through his nose. Then–

“Does he eat sausage?” he asked.

“He will–gratefully.”

“Ugly brute,” said Sir Andrew. “Get rid of him.” He turned to rave at
his chauffeur. “Drive on, you fool, drive on. What the hell are you
waiting for?” He flung himself back on the seat and closed his eyes.

The chauffeur let in the clutch….

Before the car was fifty paces away, something white came fluttering
out of the window.

Upon examination it proved to be a confectioner’s paper bag containing
a sausage-roll.

* * * * *

Tall, grave-faced Jonah Mansel, of White Ladies, Hampshire, could tell
a good tale. That which he told to his cousins, some five days after
Hamlet had eaten the sausage-roll, was no exception. I will, if you
please, set out his very own words.

“I’d meant to lunch at Oxford, but by the time I’d got there it was a
quarter to one, so I thought I’d better push on to Ruby Green. I found
it easily enough. Nice little place, smacking of peace and plenty.
Obviously old as the hills, and, happily, off the map. Stocks, pound,
etc., and a church you could get inside a furniture-van. We must go
there one day…. Well, I found out where the Justice Room was, and
then I made for the inn.

“To tell you the truth, I’d expected a royal welcome. You know.
Genial host, scurrying maids, foaming tankards, venison pasty,
raspberries and cream–and the rest. The place suggested it. I was
never more mistaken. I got no welcome at all. The goods were there
all right, but they weren’t delivered. I couldn’t get any attention.
The host was–well, preoccupied and perspiring. The maids certainly
scurried, but not for me. The tankard only foamed because I filled it
myself. I actually had to force my way into the kitchen to get any
food…. Anybody would have thought the devil was in the house. _As a
matter of fact, he was_.

“D’you remember, when Dumas’ Musketeers honoured a tavern in an ill
humour, how they made things hum? Well, there you are. Porthos was in
the parlour and the deuce of a rage. Only one or other of that Big
Four could possibly have raised such Cain–and got away with it. The
house was bewitched … terrorized. The one idea of every soul in that
inn was to gratify ‘his’ desires the instant they were expressed–‘lest
a worse thing befall.’ Did ‘he’ want cream, there was a rush for the
dairy. Did ‘he’ want pepper, the boots was hounded to the grocer’s.
Did ‘he’ want ale, the bar was stormed. And as ‘he’ was never
satisfied, it was a constant _Sauve qui peut_. All the time Porthos
was bellowing like twenty bulls. The inn was no longer an inn, but
Porthos’ temple. All other custom went by the board. I could have
eaten and drunk as much as I liked. As a matter of fact, I did–and
put five bob in the till by way of payment. If I’d taken out ten,
instead, it wouldn’t have mattered….

“Well, I was so much entertained–that’s an unhappy expression, but you
can guess what I mean–that I almost forgot about my summons…. Some
one was yelling ‘Maunsel’ as I came in.

“‘Here,’ said I….

“There was a full Bench–I couldn’t think why. You know. The usual
crowd: retired colonel, couple of grocers, lord o’ the manor, a
carpet-knight or two, and an earnest, throaty gent, wearing a pained
expression and a black bow-tie.

“The Clerk had just asked me whether I was guilty of exceeding the
speed limit or not, and I’d just said ‘No,’ when there was what sounded
like a first-class row outside the Court, and the next moment Porthos
appeared–in the flesh.

“Sir Andrew Plague, K.C.! I knew him at once. Brought down specially
to do some motor-car case … a point of law, of course. If those
seven magistrates had known him by anything but name–well, the Bench
wouldn’t have been full.

“Of course, everything stopped dead. And old Plague just flounced his
way to the table like a great sea-lion. Some wretched fellow’s hat was
on the chair he chose–a bowler hat. When Plague got up cursing, it
looked more like a game. Plague just snorted and pitched it over his
shoulder… As for the Bench–well, Porthos had just changed temples.
That was all.

“They got back to me at last.

“As if I was going to ‘plead’ to sixty-five! I told you I knew the
police had bungled the thing.

“Well, I got up at once and asked that the witnesses might be out of
Court. The Bench stared. My presumption amazed them: clearly they
thought it bad form. They began to consider whether it would be decent
to accede to my odious request.

“‘Put ’em out,’ says Plague. ‘You heard what he said. Put ’em out.’

“Those magistrates just collapsed. They sat like seven stuck pigs,
while a solitary constable elbowed his way to the door.

“By way of attempting to save the situation–

“‘You ought to have been out of Court,’ blustered the chairman.

“‘No, he oughtn’t,’ snaps Plague. ‘Read your Manual.’

“Well, the case against me went bust.

“The first policeman described my car; the second, some other fellow’s.
They gave different times. They lost their places in their notes. The
Bench did their best to help them, but, when they saw it was hopeless,
they lost their temper and tore the idiots up. I wasn’t called upon.

“I could have gone, but I didn’t. I had a stall for a show you can’t
pay to see…. It was worth waiting for.

“Some chap had left his car standing in the street, and had been
summoned for obstruction. The A.A. had taken it up and briefed old
Plague to go down and fight the case.

“My word, that man’s a marvel. He never looked at a paper or made a
note. When he was sitting down, his eyes were closed. But–when he
got up… It’s difficult to explain, but there were certain answers he
wanted–meant to have. It was perfectly obvious. You could see them
coming. The witnesses could, too. They didn’t want to give them, but
they just had to. With it all, he was as quiet as a lamb–except once.
The solicitor for the police interrupted.

“‘Silence!’ says Plague, in a voice of thunder.

“The Bench just quivered, and the wretched solicitor crumpled like a
wisp of foil on a red-hot plate….

“Presently he–Plague–got up to speak.

“I’d always heard that he hated a country Bench, but … talk about
Contempt of Court…. I could hardly believe my ears. As for those
magistrates’, they must be burning now.

“‘There’s a Court up in London,’ he said, ‘called the Divisional Court.
It’s a pillory, where they set Country Justice by the ears. ‘S often
as not, I’m the hangman. I dare say you’ve been there before. You can
go there now, if you like–and be hanged. I don’t care. Or you can
save your bacon. Understand this. You can convict–if you like: you
can impose a fine–if you like: you can all sign the record, like so
many sheep–if you like. But the conviction will be quashed: the fine
will never be paid: the record will have to be corrected–by so many
sheep as signed it. I know what I’m talking about. You can’t touch
this man because the law’s against you–good, sound law, laid down by
men who are dead, the more’s the pity. For what it’s worth, I’ll try
to make plain what it says…’

“He gave them those cases with a spoon, as you feed a baby. I
understood every word. You couldn’t miss it.

“When he’d finished, he chucked the last book down.

“‘And now,’ he said, ‘sit still, and continue to sit. Or go to the
Court–and be hanged.’

“Yes, the summons was dismissed.

“Well, you might think that was enough for one afternoon. But not at
all. The show was to come.

“You know the sort of upheaval that takes place in Court at the end of
some _cause célèbre_? Well, that was in full blast. Everybody was
either trying to get out, or passing somebody else, or changing his
place: four of the justices were on their feet: a superintendent was
leaning across the table talking to the Clerk: I was half-way to the
door: Plague was demanding his hat, and a constable was yelling
‘Silence!’ In the middle of it all, a door was flung open, and some
prisoner or other was hustled into the dock. As he stepped up, he
looked round, and the moment I saw him I was certain I’d seen him
before. Tall, good-looking chap: a bit on the thin side, and roughly
dressed: obviously unfamiliar with docks and rather worried. Now, the
dock was directly between me and where counsel had been sitting, and,
as I was staring at his back, wondering what he was there for and where
the deuce I’d seen the fellow before, I suddenly realized that I wasn’t
alone in my interest. _From the solicitors’ table old Plague was
gazing at that chap as if he’d seen an apparition_. His mouth was
open, and he looked like a great red fish….

“I heard the Clerk’s voice–

“‘…loitering upon enclosed premises, with intent to commit a felony.
Are you guilty, or—-‘

“‘I appear for the defence,’ says Plague thickly. ‘And I plead “Not
guilty.”‘ Then he turned to his solicitor and jerked his head at the
dock. ‘Take his instructions,’ he said.

“The hush that fell upon that Court was supernatural.

“‘Sensation’ ‘s no use. I want a bigger word.

“Look at the ingredients of this amazing stew. First, Plague’s
terrific personality. Hang it, the man’s only got to ask somebody to
pass the salt, to create a sensation. Then the neurotic condition the
Court was in–thanks to Plague’s conduct of the last case: ready to
scream if a cow lowed. Thirdly, the appearance in the dock of an
obvious gentleman. Fourthly, Plague’s sudden announcement that he
proposed to defend a case of whose existence–much less details–until
that moment he had manifestly never dreamed…. Plague…. Plague
himself…. Sir Andrew Plague….

“So soon as I’d recovered my wits, I just slid back to my old seat and
sat down tight. It’s as well I was quick about it, for every one else
in the building was seized with the same idea. The news must have
spread like wildfire. Within one minute I’ll swear you couldn’t ‘ve
got an umbrella inside that room.

“Well, Bench, police and Clerk were obviously swept off their feet.
They weren’t expecting this, and you can’t blame them. The first thing
they realized was that they must have time. They told one another so
in hoarse, excited whispers–especially the superintendent. If
perspiration’s anything to go by, I fancy the wretched fellow felt that
his hour was come. All the time the solicitor was coolly taking the
prisoner’s instructions, and Plague was sitting in his seat with his
eyes closed.

“Presently the chairman leaned over and, wreathing his face into a
winning smile, inquired if Plague wouldn’t like an adjournment as he
had ‘only been so recently instructed.’

“‘No,’ says Plague, ‘I wouldn’t. Proceed with the case.’

“‘Then,’ says the chairman, ‘we’ll hear evidence of arrest.’

“‘You’ll hear the case,’ says Plague.

“Evidence of arrest was given.

“By the time Plague had done with him, I’ll bet that policeman cursed
the hour he was born. The way he perspired was frightful.

“Then the superintendent got up, fairly streaming with sweat, and asked
for a remand.

“‘Why?’ says Plague.

“‘To make inquiries.’

“‘What inquiries?’

“The superintendent boggled and said it was usual.

“Plague fairly let fly.

“‘Usual?’ he blazed. ‘By gad, it’s as well I’m here. Usual to clap a
gentleman in gaol for seven days while you rake over your dunghills to
scratch up some lies against him?’ He threw up his head and looked the
Bench up and down. ‘I demand,’ he barked, ‘to be told if that is the
Prosecution’s case. If it isn’t, let them go on. If they can’t, then
it’s closed.’

“The superintendent tried, stammering, to stick to his rotten guns.
The Bench, who had always looked upon him as a sort of Rock of Ages,
shivered and writhed….

“‘Enough,’ says Plague. ‘He presses for a remand. I say it’s an
iniquitous request. I’ll address you on this point now.

“‘Loitering, _per se_, is no offence. We’re all of us loitering here,
the more fools we. It only becomes an offence when it is proved that
he who is loitering is loitering with a definite, wicked object–that
of stealing, or murdering, or committing some other felony. The police
must satisfy you that the defendant was loitering in the flesh, with
felony in his heart. They’ve not done the one, and they can’t do the
other. I’m assuming you’re reasonable men with reasonable minds. I’m
bound to. Now listen to me….

“‘_Loitering in the flesh_. The ball some children are using falls
into a yard. They cry. The defendant climbs into the yard and
restores them their ball. He goes on his way. Half an hour later he
finds he has lost some money. He thinks it fell out of his pocket when
he was scaling the wall. He returns to look for it. While he is
looking, he’s found–by the vigilant police. They ask and are told his
business. _He is not believed_. I asked that ornament why. What did
he say? _Because the defendant could not produce the money which he
said he had lost, for which he was looking_.

“‘There goes one half of the charge. Now for the other.

“‘_With felony in his heart_. No evidence forthcoming: but if you will
imprison the defendant for seven days, some might be procured…. I’ve
every right to stamp this board-school argument underfoot, but I’m not
going to. I’m going to pretend it needs a proper reply, and I’m going
to blow it into atoms about as small as the greasy brains that
conceived it….

“‘Which looks most like a felon–the accused or the fool who accused
him? Or that ass of a superintendent, for the matter of that? Don’t
be afraid. I’m not going to go any further. But, if you’re hard up
for sense, for Heaven’s sake use your eyes. D’you think those
finger-tips there are recorded at Scotland Yard? ‘But,’ whine the
police, ‘he gives no account of himself.’ Why should he? He’s not
even trespassing. I’m half a lawyer–I take it you won’t dispute that.
And I say he’s not even trespassing. Why should he give an account?
Yet give an account he did–which is more than I would have done. He
gave his name and he said he had no address. He told them where he was
going and whence he had come. He said he was looking for work, and
asked if they could tell him where hands were wanted…. But that
pelting Jack-in-office won’t be beat. He’s out to find a worm–an evil
worm. The more evil worms he finds, the better for him. He’s looking
so hard for worms that he never sees that the very soil he’s sifting is
fuller’s earth. Probably he doesn’t recognize the fuller’s earth of
honesty. But he knows a worm in a minute–an evil worm. Discretion
doesn’t count with him. Worms count. And evil worms count two. But
you’re not police, and that’s where you come in….

“‘If, in the face of these facts, you like to grant a remand, do so.
But, so sure as you do, I’ll post up to London, have a Judge out of his
bed and a Writ of _Habeas Corpus_ to-night. Please yourselves. I was
at school with his father, the famous surgeon, and I’m not going to
have my godson…’

“He let the sentence go and flung himself down in his seat.

“I thought those wretched Justices were going to faint. For a moment
there was absolute silence. Then the earnest, throaty gent gave a
gurgle of dismay…. With a superhuman effort, the chairman pulled
himself together.

“‘Of co-course,’ he stammered, with a frightful grin, ‘I ne-need hardly
say, Sir Andrew, that we had n-no idea—-‘

“‘Not the faintest,’ whimpers another Justice.

“Plague waved them away.

“‘Dismiss the charge,’ he says. ‘Dismiss the charge.’

“‘Of course,’ says the chairman, watching the superintendent being
helped out of Court. ‘The charge is dismissed, and–er—-‘

“‘Should never have been brought,’ howls another Beak.

“‘Oh, shameful!’ wails Throaty, raising his eyes to heaven.

“‘I trust, Sir Andrew,’ mouths the chairman, ‘I sincerely hope—-‘

“‘Where’s my hat?’ says Plague, and follows the late defendant out of
Court….

“Well, there you are.

“I found out the fellow’s name–same as my own, curiously enough.
‘Jonathan.’ Surname, ‘Wood.’ And, after a lot of thinking, I
remembered who he was like–that fellow Valerie French took such a toss
over. But it obviously wasn’t him. His name was ‘Lyveden,’ wasn’t it?
Besides, they found his body…. Yes, I remember.”

The sweet o’ the day had come in, and the village of Ruby Green was
looking its best.

At noon the place had been superb–a beautiful, clear-cut study in
black and brilliant white–a thing for strangers to photograph. Now
that the sun was sinking, the clear-cut study was gone. The shadows
were there still, but they were grey and blurred: the brilliancy had
faded to a glow: the white had become rosy. The place was alive with
tones no camera could ever catch. Always the village was lovely–a
perfect sheet out of the folio of Time: but while at midday it had worn
the lasting beauty of a rare old print, now at even it was a piece of
exquisite tapestry–delicate, memorable. There was a peace, too, which
had displaced its noon-tide sleepiness–a mellow, dulcet atmosphere of
labour done. Sounds that had gone unnoticed during the business of the
day stole into earshot: the steady rush of water over a sluice, the
lisp of the wind in elm-tops, the distant drone of a thresher….

Seated upon a bench outside _The Yew Tree_, Jonathan cared for these
things with a full heart.

Sir Andrew Plague had given him three commands. The first was to find
the man upon whose hat he had sat, and to pay him two pounds. The
second, to go to the inn and get a square meal. The third, to await
instructions.

The first two orders had been obeyed, and now he was waiting at ease
till Porthos should have finished his tea. A dozen paces away, Hamlet,
who had had enough of prison yards, was making horseplay with a
retriever.

If Jonathan felt thankful, he also was greatly moved. This is not to
be wondered at. He was upon the edge of great matters. The interview,
the summons to which he was awaiting, must be momentous. Thereat, for
better or for worse, he would learn his identity and his past. His
future, too, would in some sort be settled in that same small room
where Plague–his godfather–was having tea … _his godfather_….

Not that he cared about his future. His past was the thing. ‘His
father, the famous surgeon….’

Jonathan began to wonder what he had done.

He had an uneasy feeling that he had done wrong. There was some
mystery about him. If Sir Andrew had known him in Court, he had known
him equally well that day by the side of the road. Yet he had never
declared himself–would not have done so now, but to save his
(Jonathan’s) skin. That was as clear as daylight. Oh, indubitably he
had erred–in some way. So much the nicer of Plague to have befriended
him. But for his intervention…

He wondered what Plague would say to his loss of memory. A thousand to
one he’ld call him ‘a lying hound.’ Still, he’ld believe what he said.

Here his thoughts flew back–as far as they could. He remembered that
terrible night when he had walked with Death. He thought of that
morning, a short four days ago, when he had first discovered the virtue
of his misfortune–perceived the excellence of his lot in all its
glory….

With a shock Jonathan realized that that very freedom from care, which
he had found so precious, was about to be withdrawn. The thought of
such subversive dispossession daunted him. For a second of time,
indeed, he was minded to rise up and go. His state was blessed. Why,
then, should he surrender it? He had no real desire to know the past.
If such knowledge was to cost him his freedom from care…

Jonathan started to his feet.

Then he sat down again and shook his head.

“No,” he said, frowning. “No, I can’t run away. I’m sorry it’s come
so soon, but I can’t run away. Besides…”

Here the spruce little chauffeur appeared in the inn’s doorway….

Jonathan called Hamlet and put him under his arm.

A moment later he was ushered into the presence.

Stretched luxuriously upon two easy-chairs, Sir Andrew, cigar in hand,
regarded the pair.

“Didn’t I tell you,” he said, “never to help anyone?”

“You did, sir.”

“Then why the devil d’you do it?”

Jonathan shrugged his shoulders.

“I suppose I forgot, sir.”

“Don’t lie to me,” snapped the other. “You’ld do it again to-morrow.
You know you would. And next time I shan’t be by, to pull you out of
the fire. I wouldn’t have done it to-day, if I’d thought twice. And
turn that dog round. I don’t like his ugly face.”

Obediently Jonathan reversed the Sealyham.

“I should like to—-“

“Ugh! He’s still looking at me, the brute. Put him down, can’t you?”

Placed upon the floor, Hamlet advanced upon Sir Andrew and, fixing his
eyes upon him, sat up and begged.

The K.C. covered his face.

“I have to thank you, sir,” said Jonathan, subduing a smile, “for a
most handsome action. But for your generous—-“

“That’ll do. I enjoyed myself. Besides, I’ve a weakness for seeing
justice done.” He plucked a case from his pocket and pulled out some
notes. “Here’s twenty pounds. Don’t go and drink it. If you aren’t
on your feet again by the time that’s finished, you ought to be
flogged.”

Jonathan stared at the money with saucer eyes.

“Take it, you fool, take it. I’m not going to hold it all day.”

Jonathan took the notes with trembling fingers.

“You’re very kind, sir,” he stammered. “Of course I’ll pay you back.”

“As you please,” jerked the other, and fell a-whistling. “Good-bye.”

Jonathan could hardly believe his ears. The interview, which was to be
so memorable, was at an end. His fortune had not been told…. It
occurred to him in a flash that he must be a very black sheep–a family
skeleton, in fact. Recalling Sir Andrew’s charge, he began to wonder
if liquor had been his downfall….

For a moment he hesitated. Then he turned dully away….

Arrived at the door, he swung round.

“Tell me one thing,” he said quietly. “Who was my father?”

Sir Andrew stared at him.

“How the devil should I know?”

Jonathan put a hand to his head.

“But you were at school with him. You must have known him well to be
my godfa—-“

The other leapt to his feet, kicking over a chair.

“Is this blackmail?” he demanded.

“‘Blackmail’?” echoed Jonathan. “_Blackmail?_”

“Because,” said Sir Andrew, advancing, “because, if it is…”

The cold, deliberate tone was more terrible than any rage. The
countenance had lost its grossness and become a grim mask. The keen
blue eyes had narrowed to mere points of steel.

Jonathan felt as though he had crossed a king.

Then–

“I may be a waster,” he said, “but I’ve not sunk so low as that.” He
threw the notes on the floor between the two of them. “I’m deep enough
in your debt. I suppose I’ve given you cause to think this vile thing
of me, though why, if I have, you didn’t spare your talent this
afternoon, I fail to see.”

With that, he called the dog and turned again to the door.

“Stop!” Jonathan stood still. “Why on earth did you ask me your
father’s name?”

“Because you know it, and I do not.”

“Why should I know it?”

Jonathan wheeled about.

“Two hours ago you stated in Court—-“

Sir Andrew waved his arms.

“Lies, you fool. All lies.” The other recoiled. “I had to say
something to shake those Justices up. Up to that moment I hadn’t a rag
of a case.”

Jonathan stared and stared. Then he leaned against the wall and began
to laugh….

After a long look at him, Sir Andrew returned to his chairs. Sitting
down, he proceeded, snorting, to mop his face.

“There’s something wrong with you,” he burst out suddenly. “What is
it?”

“This,” said Jonathan weakly. “I’ve lost my memory.”

He told his tale there and then. The eminent lawyer listened with
closed eyes. When the recital was over–

“And what,” he demanded, “do you propose to do?”

Jonathan shrugged his shoulders.

“Work,” he said simply. “At least, I’ve one recommendation. I’ve got
a clean sheet.”

“You haven’t a sheet at all,” snapped Sir Andrew. “And that’s what’ll
lay you low. That and your cursed folly of helping fools.”

“If I’m believed when I say—-“

“Would you believe such a tale?”

“I would,” said Jonathan.

Sir Andrew let out a squeal, as though suddenly stung, and Hamlet,
considerably startled, began to bark.

“I knew it,” yelled Plague. “I knew it. In spite of all I’ve said,
you’ld help the liar that told it.” He turned upon Hamlet with a roar.
“Stop it, you venomous swine! Don’t yap at me.” He snatched _The
Times_ from the floor and flung himself back in his seat. “What of
your friends?” he demanded.

“I don’t even know if I have any, much less who they are.”

“You can make inquiries.”

“I think that’s for them to do. They’ve something to go on. I
haven’t. Besides, I’ve got to live.”

“In fact, you’re content as you are?”

“Perfectly. The past has been taken from me. I don’t want it back.”

“You may be a millionaire.”

Jonathan smiled.

“Felicitate me,” he said, “upon my release.”

A ghost of a grin stole into the great red face….

Then, as though to obliterate the impression that he knew how to smile,
the giant snorted like a wild beast and beat and wrung _The Times_ into
the shape he desired.

For a moment his eyes were scanning a column of print. Then–

“There’s a fool’s advertisement here,” he announced, “for a secretary.
I happen to know the fool. If you like to offer yourself, I’ll get you
the job.”

Jonathan hesitated.

“D’you think I could give satisfaction? I don’t want to let your
friend down. You see, I’ve no idea of what I can do.”

“Fools go with fools.” Sir Andrew dabbed at the paragraph. “You’ll
suit him admirably.” He nodded at pen and ink. “Write a reply now,
and I’ll take it to Town.”

Jonathan did as he was bid.

_The Yew Tree,
Ruby Green.
August 5th._

_SIR,_

_In reply to your advertisement, appearing in to-day’s issue of_ The
Times, _I beg to apply for the post you are seeking to fill._

_An interview will better enable you to appraise such qualifications as
I may have, so, if you entertain this application, will you be good
enough to write to me c/o The Poste Restante, Oxford, giving me an
appointment?_

_I am, Sir,
Your obedient servant,
JONATHAN WOOD._

He addressed the letter to the Box, and, rising, humbly offered it to
Plague for his inspection.

The latter read it carefully.

“You’ve told me a pretty tale,” he said, without raising his eyes. “As
I’ve tried to point out, not one in a million fools would ever believe
you. A sudden loss of memory’s too convenient.”

Jonathan nodded.

“I see that now,” he said slowly. “I realize that. I shall always
proudly remember that you believed what I said.”

“‘M not sure that I do,” grunted Plague. “An’ now take up that money
you flung in my face. Those clothes won’t win an appointment, and
there’s your fare to Town. You’ll have to get rid of that beastly dog,
you know.”

Jonathan started. A finger flew to his lip.

“Hamlet!” he breathed. “Hamlet! I quite forgot.”

A touch made him look down. It was the terrier’s ‘_Adsum_.’

One paw raised, his soft, brown eyes alight with eagerness, the dog was
awaiting his bidding with a heart no wages can buy. As their eyes met,
his tail began to move to and fro. Surely never squire so hung upon
the lips of his lord….

Jonathan stooped and patted the small rough head.

“Perhaps they’ld let me keep him,” he said lamely. “We’re rather
friends.”

“You’re mad,” said Plague shortly. “The advertisement asks for a man,
not a menagerie.”

Jonathan straightened his back.

“I can’t give him up,” he said.

Sir Andrew Plague rose and clawed at the air.

“You blithering fool!” he roared. “It’s the dog or the post.”

“I choose the dog,” said Jonathan quietly enough.

With a fearful effort, the other mastered his voice.

“So,” he said hoarsely. “Vagabonds and rogues hang together. Well,
I’ll keep my word. I’ll send your letter along. If you like to cut
your own throat, that’s your affair.”

“I’m afraid you think me ungrateful.”

“Never mind what I think,” snarled Plague. “But learn of me. Never
help anyone.” He turned on his heel. “And now go,” he added. “I’m
tired of fools.”

Jonathan went.

* * * * *

On the morning of August the eighth he was given a letter.

He thrust this into his pocket and left the Post Office. Crossing St.
Aldate’s, he passed into the meadows….

Presently pacing that majestic nave–that peerless robing-room where
youth, panting, barelegged and thoughtless, unconsciously puts on the
magic mantle of Tradition to his own use for ever, Jonathan drew out
the letter and turned it about meditatively.

Blithely Hamlet preceded him, going upon three legs–indisputable
evidence of his approval of The Broad Walk. Abstractedly his master
watched him…. After a little while he shook his head.

“I can’t give him up,” he said shortly. “It’s out of the question.”

With that, he ripped open the envelope.

_45 Kensington Palace Gardens, W.
August 6th._

_SIR,_

_We have had our interview._

_I am satisfied that you are stubborn, sentimental, and
credulous–three most abominable failings._

_Upon the understanding that you will correct your behaviour in these
respects, you may become my secretary at a salary of five hundred
pounds a year._

_Yours faithfully,
ANDREW PLAGUE._

_Jonathan Wood, Esq._

_P.S.–Acknowledge this letter and be here in three days’ time. I have
told the steward that your dog will eat sausage-rolls. If this diet is
wrong, you had better instruct him direct._