Boys -- Fiction; Country homes -- England -- Fiction; Household employees -- Fiction
“And if one did they’d shoot ’im....
“After this if ever I get a chance to land a dog a oner with a stone
I’ll land ’im one. I been too sorft with dogs....”
Towards dawn Bealby slept uneasily, to be awakened by the loud snorting
curiosity of three lively young horses. He sat up in a blinding sunshine
and saw the tramp looking very filthy and contorted, sleeping with his
mouth wide open and an expression of dismay and despair on his face.
§ 8
Bealby took his chance to steal away next morning while the tramp was
engaged in artificial epilepsy.
“I feel like fits this morning,” said the tramp. “I could do it well. I
want a bit of human kindness again. After that brasted dog.
“I expect soon I’ll ’ave the foam all right withat any soap.”
They marked down a little cottage before which a benevolent-looking
spectacled old gentleman in a large straw hat and a thin alpaca jacket
was engaged in budding roses. Then they retired to prepare. The tramp
handed over to Bealby various compromising possessions, which might
embarrass an afflicted person under the searching hands of charity.
There was for example the piece of soap after he had taken sufficient
for his immediate needs, there was ninepence in money, there were the
pack of cards with which they had played Euchre, a key or so and some
wires, much assorted string, three tins, a large piece of bread, the end
of a composite candle, a box of sulphur matches, list slippers, a pair
of gloves, a clasp knife, sundry grey rags. They all seemed to have the
distinctive flavour of the tramp....
“If you do a bunk with these,” said the tramp. “By Gawd—.”
He drew his finger across his throat.
(King’s Evidence.)
Bealby from a safe distance watched the beginnings of the fit and it
impressed him as a thoroughly nasty kind of fit. He saw the elderly
gentleman hurry out of the cottage and stand for a moment looking over
his little green garden gate, surveying the sufferings of the tramp with
an expression of intense yet discreet commiseration. Then suddenly he
was struck by an idea; he darted in among his rose bushes and reappeared
with a big watering-can and an enormous syringe. Still keeping the gate
between himself and the sufferer he loaded his syringe very carefully
and deliberately....
Bealby would have liked to have seen more but he felt his moment had
come. Another instant and it might be gone again. Very softly he dropped
from the gate on which he was sitting and made off like a running
partridge along the hedge of the field.
Just for a moment did he halt—at a strange sharp yelp that came from the
direction of the little cottage. Then his purpose of flight resumed its
control of him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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