The Shadow of Dr Syn - Thorndike Russell - Страница 20
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Doctor Syn returned his bow with a cheery ‘Good night, Mr. Hyde, and thank you. Your confidence is flattering — and most enlightening.’ But had Mr. Hyde known just how enlightening his confidence had been he would not, upon leaving the Vicarage, have been quite so pleased with himself.
Chapter 10
With the Scarecrow’s Compliments
Doctor Syn closed the front door and chuckled at the assurance of the Revenue man, and after reflecting how completely his play-acting had succeeded, the chuckle grew into a laugh, and when he thought that had Mr. Sheridan seen his performance he would certainly have recommended him as a comedian, his laughter grew the louder. Indeed, he was laughing so hilariously that he did not notice that Mipps had returned and was standing beside him.
The Sexton’s tone was plaintive. ‘You might, at least, tell me the joke. I don’t see nothin’ to laugh at. Least, not at a Revenue man. Funny — never liked ’em. Never saw nothin’ funny in ’em, neither. And if he ain’t goin’ to get no rest, he ain’t goin’ to keep awake doin’ nothin’ funny under our windows.’ And with this philosophical resolve Mr. Mipps went briskly to the curtains and pulled them close with an extra tug or two to show his indignation. By this time Doctor Syn’s laughter had dwindled back into chuckles.
‘Oh well, p’raps it was Wraight’s Building Yard you was laughin’ at,’ pleaded Mipps, trying to get some sort of response from his master. This had the desired effect, for the Vicar raised a questioning eyebrow. Mr. Mipps knew what it asked and proceeded to explain. ‘Oh, begging you pardon but anticipatin’ nothin’ humorous knowin’ what Revenue men are, me ear didn’t seem to want to get away from the key’ole. “Mr. Mipps,” it said to me, quite jealous-like, “you’re always thinkin’ of your weather eye, now pay a little attention to your weather ear.” I couldn’t get it off, sir. Got paid itself out. It was burnin’ fiery ’ot at the things he said about the Squire, and it positively blushed when you got on to them piebald sheep.’
‘Then your sensitive ear has saved me the trouble of repeating it,’ said the Vicar quietly, and then dropping his voice still lower, spoke quickly and urgently: ‘You know the plans for tonight, but warn the men to keep clear of Wraight’s Yard. Put sentries round to report any movement of the Dragoons. Tell Vulture and Eagle to be in the Dry Dyke under the sea-wall in a quarter of an hour. And now we know which way the cat is likely to jump, tell Jimmie Bone when he returns as the Scarecrow from the false run to ride out again and see that the remaining Dragoons upon the Marsh are well and truly lost. I shall not need him as the Scarecrow tonight for the “run proper”. I must do that myself. There will be too many decisions to be taken on the spur. That’s all, I think. The horses were all listed. Ah, yes. That reminds me. The Squire’s stable. The horse called Stardust. See no one touches it.’
It was now Mipps’s turn to look quizzical. ‘Oh! In case someone wants to ride it tomorrow?’
‘Yes, Mr. Mipps,’ replied the Vicar. ‘In case someone wants to ride it tomorrow.’
‘I see.’ The only thing Mr. Mipps really did see at the moment was that he was thirsty, and knowing that their thirsts were usually simultaneous, he asked the Vicar hopefully if there was anything he wanted, adding as an extra hint that laughing was thirsty work. But this time, however, their thirsts did not coincide — for Mipps had certainly no taste for what the Vicar wanted.
‘Water?’ Mr. Mipps could hardly believe his ears.
‘Yes, Mr. Mipps. Water. I asked you to fetch me a ewer of water.’
‘Oh, water.’ His tone conveyed that he had never heard of it, and although he went upstairs to find some, he continued to mutter question and answers during his search. ‘“Water?” I says. “Yes, Mr. Mipps. Water”, he says. “Water?” says I. “I asked you to fetch me a ewer of water.”’ Mr. Mipps shuddered. ‘Ernful stuff.’ He was extremely glad that he had had the foresight to refill his flask with brandy. He felt in his pocket for comfort, then remembered that he had left it in the kitchen, so with a fervent hope that Mrs. Honeyballs hadn’t been at it, he decided that the only thing to do in this emergency was to go and find out if she had. By this time he had forgotten what he was looking for, so having wandered aimlessly into the Vicar’s bedroom — wondering why he was upstairs and not downstairs, he looked wildly about him for assistance. ‘Come up for something,’ he muttered. ‘Come up for wot? I dunno — brandy?’ No. No. Downstairs — hope she hasn’t been at it…. Now what am I ’ere for?’ He had asked himself this question several times before his weather eye decided to befriend him. It came to rest upon the Vicar’s washstand, where, reposing innocently in its basin, was the object of his mutual stress. Water. So before it could elude him again he seized it and hurried downstairs, with a twofold prayer that it would not finish the Vicar, and that Mrs. Honeyballs hadn’t finished his brandy.
The first part of his prayer was answered when, upon handing over the bedroom ewer, Doctor Syn did not drink it. Instead, after a polite, ‘Thank you, Mr. Mipps, I began to fear that perhaps my well had run dry,’ he did a stranger thing. Lifting a corner of the heavy cloth that covered the refectory table, he threw the ernful contents under it. Upon the instant, Mipps understood. With a long-drawn sigh of relief he said to the Vicar: ‘You did give me a fright, sir. I thought you wanted water. Silly of me. I see. Better go. Your well ain’t dry, but mine is. Least, I ’ope it ain’t.’ And hurrying off, he discovered that Bacchus was on his side and that the second part of his prayer had been fulfilled. Mrs. Honeyballs’s weather eye had let her down.
From beneath the refectory table came the protests of a disturbed sleeper. Oaths, yawns and splutterings, and in a short while there appeared the rubicund face of the Squire, his bald head bereft of wig and folds of the tablecloth draped about him like a toga. Doctor Syn regarded him with affectionate amusement. ‘Not Caesar’s wife, Tony. Egad, you’re more like Nero himself.’
Not having heard him mixing his metaphors to the Revenue man, Sir Antony did not appreciate the allusion. Instead, he expressed his customary surprise at finding himself in this position and began as usual to find the reason, before exerting himself to get up. With the assurance of one who has just discovered a great truth, he announced: ‘D’you know, I have an idea. The second bin is stronger than the first.’ The excuse found and not contradicted, he crawled back under the table, found his wig and reappeared again with: ‘What’s the time?’
‘You’ve had your usual hour’s nap, Tony,’ said Doctor Syn.
Again this appeared to surprise Sir Tony. ‘The devil I have. Did I snore? D’you know I had a most remarkable dream. Dreamt I was at one of her ladyship’s putting parties — on the lawn. I was partnering the Bishop’s wife and she kept fouling my ball. So I tu-quo-qued her and she turned into the Scarecrow, and I found I’d got no clothes on. Damned silly when you come to think of it.’
‘Well, Tony,’ replied the Vicar, still regarding him with amusement, ‘while you were — er, partnering the Bishop’s wife, the new Revenue man paid me a social call.’
‘The devil he did,’ said Sir Antony, putting on his wig and slowly getting to his feet. ‘Thought I heard voices. Thought it was Lady Cobtree agitatin’ me to put me breeches on.’ Then the full truth of what Christopher had said dawned upon him.
‘What?’ he shouted. ‘Revenue Officer at this time of night? What did he want? Why didn’t he come to me? New man, eh? Doesn’t know the ropes. Should have come to me. Suppose he thinks I can’t keep order. Suppose he was criticizing my jurisdiction. Damned unfair. Mean advantage. Me, standin’ there shiverin’ with nothin’ on.’ His dream had evidently been so vivid that he was still in it, and Doctor Syn, knowing of old that his friend was like to become quarrelsome if not placated, said in all sincerity: ‘Now really, Tony; you should have heard the things he said about you.’
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