Presently I laid down my head and stared at the sky.
At least the place was lovely, and the day as fine and smooth as a day could be. The fluting of birds and the steady hum of insects soothed the ear: and the wet grass was cool and fragrant against my cheek.
My head was aching, and I was parched with thirst: the gag was most hard on my jaws, and my wrists were already sore: but I was very tired, and, since Nature is a governess not easily put about, the murmur of the insects grew more and more slumberous, and, after a little space, I fell asleep.
“I reckon he’s sweating,” said Rose Noble.
I was wide awake in an instant. With the tail of my eye I could see that, except that Bunch was eating and Punter had taken his place, nothing had changed.
“Sweating blood,” said Rose Noble. “One Willie up on the drop, and, unless he gets a move on, the other walks into our arms as soon as it’s dark.”
“Complete with car,” said Bunch, licking his lips.
Rose Noble shrugged his shoulders.
“Maybe,” he said. “But I guess they’ll give us the cars before we’re through.”
Punter looked down from his post on the lip of the dell.
“He can lay to meeting ’is Gawd, if he comes out.”
“That’s why he’s sweating,” said Rose Noble. “This ⸻ garden’s all right from the castle wall, but it’s just a shade too wild for a good closeup.”
“Suicide ’All,” said Bunch. “But ’e won’t ’ave a dart by daylight. ’E knows—”
“Yes, he will,” said Rose Noble. “He’ll never wait ten hours, while his Willies are getting wet. He’ll bring two o’ the servants with him, an’ they’ll come right up in a line.”
Punter looked round.
“Didn’t we ought to spread, Rose?”
The other shook his head.
“Stop one, an’ you stop the lot. Say we lay out a servant—well, what’ll Big Willie do? Fall on his ⸻ stomach an’ pray to God. He’s only the wood to shoot at, an’ he’s three down instead of two. An’ that’s when we move. By the time he’s got his soul straight, I guess I’ll be ready to flip a fly off his nose.”
“You don’ wan’ to kill ’im,” said Bunch. “If you—”
“ ‘Kill him?’ ” breathed Rose Noble. “ ‘Kill him?’ ” I could hear him suck in his breath. “No, I’m not going to kill him. And if I were you, I wouldn’t so much as loose off, if you see his face—in case you killed him, for, if you did, by ⸻, I’d feed your tripe to a mongrel before your eyes.”
A prudent silence succeeded this horrid threat, which was not so much spoken as snarled and suggested a return of the temper with which the monster was ridden a while before. For my part, I would have welcomed that cold, black mood, for now his manner argued a confidence so rich and ripe and lazy as made me twice as hopeless as I had been before.
“I’m going to sell him,” said Rose Noble. “Hang him up on a wall of that court—expose him for sale … with a bucket on either foot—the way they made ‘Poky’ remember the name of his ‘bank.’ If he won’t buy himself in, I guess the Willies’ll think when they see the weights. An’ before we reach the reserve, I guess the goods will ask him to change his mind.”
“But see here, Rose,” said Punter. “They won’t ’ave the cash to pay with, an’ ’ow can we wait? That blasted chemist—”
“Who wants to wait?” said Rose Noble. “I’ll take their ⸻ word. Oh, I guess they’ve got false bottoms, the same as anyone else. I wouldn’t trust Mansel a foot—if none of his like could hear. But let one of ’em pass his word in front of his ⸻ kind, an’ he hasn’t the spunk to break it for fear they’ll think he’s a swab. That’s what they mean when they talk of Noblesse Oblige; if you want plain English, Don’ let ’em see your dirt.”
The venom with which he uttered this ugly argument declared the deadly hatred he bore us all, and I could not help wondering what was the fellow’s history, for he had a commanding presence and was by no means common, as Punter and Bunch, while his speech was constantly betraying a considerable education which for some unaccountable reason he seemed to despise.
Punter took a deep breath.
“This time tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll be on the ⸻ road.”
“Out of the country, you mean, and pushing for France.”
Bunch looked up from his victuals.
“Wot price the Customs?” he said. “I’ll shift the ⸻ Rolls, but there’s photos stuck on to ’er papers, an’ I don’ wan’ to be asked why I’m drivin’ a stolen car.”
Rose Noble yawned.
“I guess we’ll give one of the Willies a lift to France. They’ll have to go back to London to raise the wind. An’ he’ll put us through the Customs—if we remember to ask him while Mansel’s up on the wall.”
Punter spoke over his shoulder.
“What ‘Poky’ was that you mentioned? There was a ‘Poky’ Barrett I saw in a Boston bar. But he, was a little old screw, with a jerky leg.”
Rose Noble laughed.
“ ‘Poky’ Barrett,” he said, “is forty-two.”
“Go on,” said Punter, incredulously.
“Forty-two,” said Rose Noble. “But he had … an illness … not quite seven years ago …”
Somehow I got to my knees and tried to speak.
The three watched me curiously.
I threw myself down and rubbed my head on the ground in a wild endeavour to tear the gag from my mouth. I heard Punter laugh and say something about a dog. The attempt exhausted me and was utterly vain. When I got again
