Spanish Gold/Chapter 17
CHAPTER XVII
MELDON flung open the door of the hut and entered. He at once took possession of the remaining cigar and lit it.
"I met Mary Kate," he said, "and I sent her on with the kettle. By the way, Mr. Willoughby, have you such a thing as half a crown about you?"
The Chief Secretary plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a number of coins, gold and silver.
"Take it all," he said; "I don't feel as if I should ever want money any more."
"Thanks," said Meldon. "I'll take half a crown. It's for Mary Kate. As a rule I only give her sixpence at a time, but she'll naturally expect more when she's fetching water for a Chief Secretary's tea. Higginbotham generally gives her sugar-candy."
Meldon's grin and the look of embarrassment on Higginbotham's face hinted to Mr. Willoughby of a joke behind.
"I wish," he said, "you'd tell me about Mary Kate and the sugar-candy."
"Oh, that story's hardly worth telling," said Meldon. "It was only that she nearly had the face ate off Higginbotham one afternoon."
"She ate his face! But surely"
"He wasn't trying to kiss her, if that's what you're thinking of. Higginbotham's not that kind of man at all. Besides, she's quite a little girl, though remarkably intelligent. No. There was some slight misunderstanding about some sugar-candy between her and Higginbotham. Both of them came to me and complained. I did what I could to set the matter right. You've not been troubled about it lately, have you, Higginbotham?"
"No; it's all right now."
"Is that all I'm to be told?" said Mr. Willoughby.
"There's really nothing more to tell, and besides I want, while I think of it, to warn Higginbotham about the condition of his bed. I happened to spill some broken glass and a few oars on to your bed this morning, Higginbotham. It doesn't really matter about the oars. You'd be sure to notice them as you got in, but you might not see the glass. What I advise you to do is to take the blankets and things outside the door and shake them well before you go to bed."
"I don't suppose it would be any use my asking," said Mr. Willoughby; "but I should greatly like to know how you came to strew Mr. Higginbotham's bed with oars and broken glass."
"I don't think it would interest you much," said Meldon.
"I assure you it would. I can't even imagine circumstances under which it would be any temptation to me to put oars—of all things in the world—and broken bottles into another man's bed."
"It wasn't broken bottles. It was a broken window-pane. The circumstances were these: This morning I wanted to conceal some oars"
"From?"
"From their owners, and"
"Oh, from their owners. I see. Stupid of me not to have guessed. Please go on."
"From their owners, who would, or at all events might, have made a very bad use of the oars if they had been able to get at them. Very well. I naturally thought at once of Higginbotham's bed."
"I don't see why you say 'naturally.' It doesn't seem to me at all a natural place to think of. I'm sure I should never have thought of it."
"It doesn't much matter in this case what you would have thought. Higginbotham's bed was the place I thought of at once; and I am still of opinion, in spite of anything you say, that it was a good place. I couldn't open the window, so I smashed it. That's the whole story. I don't suppose it's as good a one as you expected. But you would have it."
"It's better than I expected," said Mr. Willoughby, "and I'm much obliged to you for telling me."
There was a gentle tap at the door. Meldon jumped down from his seat on the table and took his cigar out of his mouth.
"That's Mary Kate, I expect, with the hot water."
It was Mary Kate. She entered the room with a sheepish grin on her face. In one hand she carried a kettle of hot water, in the other hand a loaf of soda-bread. The kettle was a good deal the heavier burden of the two, and she had evidently carried it first in one hand and then in the other. Its handle had some flour on it. The bread was mottled with black off the kettle.
"That's a good girl," said Meldon. "Here's half a crown for you. How much money is that you have now altogether?"
"It's four shillings," said Mary Kate.
"There," said Meldon, "I told you she was an intelligent child. Now listen to me, Mary Kate. The reason you're getting half a crown this time is that the gentleman over there in the chair is the Chief Secretary. Do you know what a Chief Secretary is?"
"I do not."
"Well, I haven't time to explain it to you now; but if you come up here to-morrow to Mr. Higginbotham he'll tell you all about the Chief Secretary. How's Michael Pat?"
Mary Kate grinned.
"If you're going to grin like that when I ask you questions," said Meldon, "you'd better go home."
He pushed her gently from the room and shut the door.
"Now, Higginbotham, put that kettle on your stove and bring it to the boil again. And you'd better take a note of your engagement with that child. It won't do for you to be out when she comes. Now for tea."
"Mr. Meldon," said the Chief Secretary, "I'd take it as a personal favour if you'd stay here and see me through the interview between Father Mulcrone and the old man who won't give up his land."
"Certainly. You're not expecting any sort of a fight, are you? If you are, I'd better go and borrow a stick somewhere."
"Oh, no. Nothing of that sort. It's only that the priest got rather the better of me yesterday. He made me promise what will cost the Government a thousand pounds and he'll probably want to get as much more out of me this afternoon."
"That'll be all right," said Meldon. "You leave it to me. Give me a free hand, that's all I ask. I'll manage him for you."
"Thank you," said the Chief Secretary; "he's a persistent man, but if anybody can get the better of him I'm sure you can."
"I suppose," said Meldon, "it was either a pier or seed potatoes he wanted the money for. Probably seed potatoes. The place must be rotten with piers already."
"He wanted both," said Mr. Willoughby. "It was the potatoes I promised."
"Well, I'll get you out of that if I can. But don't count on it. I may not be able to manage."
Mr. Willoughby looked rather doubtfully at the loaf of bread with the smears of kettle-black which Mary Kate's fingers left on it. He was not reassured by the way in which Meldon cut it up. The plan was simple. Grasping the loaf firmly, he sliced off long strips. These he laid one by one flat along the palm of his left hand and held them in position by pressing his thumb into the corners. Then he drew a buttery knife across them. Higginbotham laid out his two cups and his slop bowl. They were quite clean. Meldon's hands were not. When tea was over Meldon suggested that they should smoke.
"I'm sorry," said Mr. Willoughby, "that I've no more cigars with me. The rest of my supply is on board the Granuaile"
"Higginbotham," said Meldon, "stick your head outside the door and see if the steamer is coming into the bay yet. You must try a fill of my baccy, Mr. Willoughby. I'm sure Higginbotham will have a spare pipe."
He pulled a lump of black twist tobacco out of his trousers pocket and handed it to the Chief Secretary. Then he rose and began to search for a pipe. Mr. Willoughby eyed the tobacco, turning it over and over in his hand. Higginbotham returned with the news that the Granuaile had just appeared round the south point of the bay.
"I fear," said Mr. Willoughby, "that this tobacco is too strong for me. I think that as the Granuaile is so near I'll wait until I can get some more of my own cigars."
"All right," said Meldon. "I'll have a pipe. I'll step down to the pier as soon as I have it lighted and be ready to meet Father Mulcrone. I'll send the boat back for the cigars. In the meanwhile, Higginbotham, you'd better go and collar Thomas O'Flaherty Pat."
"He promised to come here," said Higginbotham, "as soon as ever the Granuaile dropped anchor."
"Don't you rely too much on his promises," said Meldon. "That old boy has taken you in once or twice already. You can't believe a word these people say," he explained to Mr. Willoughby. "Even Mary Kate would lie to you if she stood to gain anything by it. They simply don't know what truth is."
"Are they pragmatists?" asked Mr. Willoughby.
"No; they're not," said Meldon severely. "If you had listened to me when I was explaining to you what pragmatism is, you'd know that these people aren't pragmatists. I can't go into the whole question again now; but I'll just say this much: The pragmatists, according to their own idea, know what truth is. And what's more, they're the only people in the world who do. Now what I said about Thomas O'Flaherty Pat and Mary Kate is that they don't know; therefore they can't be pragmatists. That ought to be fairly obvious. I'm off now to meet Father Mulcrone. Goodbye."
"Mr. Higginbotham," said the Chief Secretary, "did you follow that reasoning about the pragmatists and Mary Kate?"
"Not—not quite. But I didn't take up ethics in College. Meldon did."
"Did you watch him cut the bread-and-butter for tea?"
"I did. I was sorry he insisted on cutting it. His hands were But he's a really good sort at bottom, though he has his peculiarities. I've known him for years."
"It must have been a great privilege. Did you see the bit of tobacco he offered me?"
"No; was there anything wrong with it?"
"He took it out of his trousers pocket," said Mr. Willoughby, "and it was quite warm. Mr. Meldon is certainly a very remarkable man. I wonder how he'll get on with Father Mulcrone. I wonder will he succeed in capturing all my cigars."
The Granuaile's boat, with Father Mulcrone seated in the stern, approached the pier. Meldon hailed her. The priest, a plump man, with a weather-beaten face and small, keen grey eyes, waved his hand in response.
"Delighted to see you," said Meldon, as the boat touched the pier and the priest stepped ashore. "I have heard a good deal about you. My name is Meldon—J. J. Meldon. I'm acting with the Chief Secretary here and he asked me to meet you."
"How do you do? How do you do?" said the priest.
"Quite well. I needn't ask how you are. Flowers in May are nothing to you in the matter of bloom of appearance."
Father Mulcrone seemed a little surprised at this warm compliment.
"What does the Chief Secretary want with me now?"
"We'll come to that in a minute. First of all I want to know is there nothing else that would do you except a pier?"
"A pier!"
"Well, seed potatoes, then. I forgot for the moment which it was."
"The season's very backward, very backward indeed," said the priest, "and the poor people will be badly off next spring. Unless we get some help from the Government there'll be starvation in our midst."
"Have you a Board of Guardians on the island?"
"We have not. And I wouldn't say but we're as well without one."
"I dare say you're right," said Meldon. "But about those seed potatoes. The thing for you to do is to get the nearest Board of Guardians to pass a good strong resolution."
"That might be done."
"Tell them to put something in about the representatives of the people and the inalienable rights of the tillers of the soil."
"They'll do that whether I ask them or not."
"Get that resolution forwarded to the Local Government Board in Dublin. Then wait three weeks."
"What for?"
"Oh, it's the usual thing. If these things aren't done properly the Chief Secretary can't act, simply can't. Then send a deputation to wait on the President of the Board. You understand me?"
"I do, of course."
"It'll be as well if you could spare the time to go up with the deputation yourself. Lay the matter before them in temperate language—strong but temperate. Then you'll see what'll happen about the seed potatoes."
Father Mulcrone winked at Meldon.
"Do you take me for a born fool," he said, "that you're talking that way to me?"
"As you've asked me the question straight, I may as well say that I don't take you for anything of the sort. I knew the kind of man you were the minute I set eyes on you. But I promised the Chief Secretary that I'd try and do you out of those seed potatoes if I could."
"So you thought you'd get him off if you persuaded me to have a lot of resolutions passed and go on a deputation."
"I did think that, and what's more I think it still. But you wouldn't fall in with the plan."
"I would not."
"Very well, then. We'll pass on, as they say, to the next business. There's an old fellow on this island called Thomas O'Flaherty Pat."
"I know him well," said the priest.
"Well, you'll hardly believe it, but that old fellow is holding out against the entire Congested Districts Board. He won't give up his wretched little house and the bit of land round it, hardly big enough to sod a lark, and it with a hole in the middle that would swallow a heifer."
"I'll talk to him," said the priest.
"I thought you would. That's the reason I sent for you. Come along. We have him set out waiting for you. At least I told Higginbotham to go and get him."
Taking Father Mulcrone's arm he walked up towards the hut.
"I almost forgot to tell you," he said, "that the great difficulty about old O'Flaherty is that he can't talk English."
"He'll talk it quick enough when I get at him."
"I just thought he would."
"For the matter of that I'm not sure that I wouldn't as soon sort him in Irish."
"Just as you like, of course," said Meldon. "It's all the same to us, so long as you bring him to his senses."
"What right has a man like him to be thwarting the excellent intentions of the Board?"
"None," said Meldon; "and poor Higginbotham, who's brimful of the most excellent intentions you can possibly imagine, is nearly heart-broken about it. You'd be sorry for Higginbotham if you saw him; he's growing thin."
"I have seen him," said the priest, "if he's the inspector the Board sent out. He was over at Inishmore this morning, just after the yacht left, looking out to see which of the people had consumption."
They reached the hut and found Mr. Willoughby seated in the hammock-chair. Higginbotham was absent in pursuit of the reluctant Thomas O'Flaherty Pat. Mr. Willoughby rose at once and offered the chair to the priest.
"No, thank you; no, thank you," said Father Mulcrone. "If I sat down in the like of that chair I'd never get out. I'm a heavy man."
"Father Mulcrone and I will sit on the bed," said Meldon. "Oh, it's all right, Mr. Willoughby. I'll move the oars and give the quilt a shake. I don't want to set Father Mulcrone down on a pile of broken glass. I've more respect for him than to do that."
He took the quilt outside the hut and flapped it vigorously up and down.
"I see Higginbotham and the old man coming down the hill together," he said. "There's quite a little crowd after them, but we needn't let anybody in unless we like. By the way, Mr. Willoughby, Father Mulcrone and I had a chat on the way up from the pier about those seed potatoes. He can't do without them. It's a case of potatoes or coffins for the people on those islands next spring."
"I feared so," said Mr. Willoughby with a sigh; "but I'm sure you did your best."
Higginbotham, with Thomas O'Flaherty Pat, a dignified captive, entered the hut. The old man took off his hat and bowed courteously to the men in front of him. He held himself erect. His fine eyes wandered gravely round the hut. His face expressed neither curiosity nor obsequiousness. Mr. Willoughby was a gentleman, accustomed to the society of titled hostesses and the manners of exclusive London clubs. Higginbotham could behave gracefully at suburban tennis parties. Meldon and Father Mulcrone were strong and self-assertive men. Thomas O'Flaherty Pat looked and behaved in this company like a genuine aristocrat. He waited for what was to be said to him with an air of courteous aloofness. He appeared fully conscious of a certain superiority in himself, a superiority so self-evident as to require neither assertion nor emphasis.
"You are Mr. Thomas O'Flaherty, I think," said Mr. Willoughby.
"Ni beurla agam," said the old man, bowing again.
Then Father Mulcrone began. He spoke in Irish, rapidly and at some length. Thomas O'Flaherty Pat replied in a few calm words. The priest spoke again, raising his voice indignantly. Again he received only the briefest of answers. A torrent of words followed from the priest. Father Mulcrone had made no idle boast when he said that he could deal with the old man in Irish. He never paused for an instant, never hesitated for a word. Thomas O'Flaherty was moved to quite a long reply. The priest interrupted him frequently, but the old man showed no sign of excitement and spoke all the time with gentle courtesy. When he stopped, Father Mulcrone rose from the bed and spoke with unabated volubility. He gesticulated violently, waving his arms and bringing the palms of his hands together with loud smacks. For half an hour the dispute continued, heated argument on the one side, dignified reply on the other. At last Thomas O'Flaherty Pat shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of despair.
"I have him persuaded at last," said Father Mulcrone, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, "but I had a tough job of it. A more obstinate man I never met in all my born days."
"I thought you'd get him in the end," said Meldon. "I couldn't understand a word you were saying, of course, but the way you said it made me feel that the poor old fellow hadn't half a chance."
"If you have the papers ready to-morrow morning," said Father Mulcrone to Higginbotham, "I'll see that he signs them."
"We're all greatly obliged to you," said Meldon. "Without your help I really don't know what we should have done."
"As Mr. Meldon says," added the Chief Secretary, "we're greatly obliged to you. And now, gentlemen, I hope you'll come and dine with me on the Granuaile. I can offer you a small cabin for the night, Father Mulcrone. It's too late to go back to Inishmore."
"Thanks," said Meldon. "We'll go, of course. What do you say, Father Mulcrone? I'm only sorry the Major won't be with us."
"The Major!" said Mr. Willoughby. "Oh, yes; Major Kent, of course, the geological expert. Go and fetch him, Mr. Meldon. I shall be delighted to see him."
"He wouldn't come if I did," said Meldon. "Apart altogether from the survey business he wouldn't come. Nothing would induce him to dine out without a dress-coat, and he hasn't got one on the yacht. That's the kind of man he is. In any case I don't want to go back to the yacht to ask him. There's a breeze getting up now and if the Major got me on board he'd want to up anchor and run home."
Meldon took possession of the Chief Secretary and led the way to the pier. He looked up at the sky and sniffed the air suspiciously.
"There's a change coming," he said. "It will be blowing hard before morning."
"Which of the two yachts is yours?" asked Mr. Willoughby.
"Do you mean which of the two actually belongs to me, or do you mean which do I happen to be cruising in at present?"
"That," said Mr. Willoughby, "sounds like another riddle. Does it by any chance illustrate the pragmatist philosophy?"
"It might, if properly worked out. But I'm too hungry to attempt that now. About those yachts—the one to the south is Major Kent's Spindrift. I'm with him for this cruise. The other is my Aureole. I've hired her to Sir Giles Buckley. I see him and his friend Euseby Langton coming ashore now in their punt. By Jove! That reminds me. Higginbotham!"
He stood still suddenly. The Chief Secretary also halted. His face expressed patient expectation and a determination not to be surprised. Higginbotham and Father Mulcrone overtook them.
"Higginbotham," said Meldon, "did you lock the door of your hut?"
"No, I didn't. I locked it this morning when I went"
"And you found your bed full of oars and broken glass," said Mr. Willoughby. "I think you're right to leave the door open this time."
"When I tell you," said Meldon, "that Sir Giles is coming ashore in his punt and that he went down the hole in Thomas O'Flaherty's field this morning, perhaps you will go back and lock your door."
"I will, if you like, but I don't know what you mean."
"If you don't understand what I'm telling you," said Meldon, "you needn't bother about the door; but in that case Thomas O'Flaherty Pat ought certainly to be warned."
"I thought when I first heard of you," said Mr. Willoughby, "that you were an impudent liar. Next I decided that you were a lunatic. Then I made sure you were a man of unusual force of character and mental agility. Now I'm getting puzzled about you again."
"Don't bother about me," said Meldon. "I'm sorry for Thomas O'Flaherty Pat, that's all. It makes me a bit nervous to see Sir Giles coming ashore in the dusk of the evening."
"Who is Sir Giles?" asked Mr. Willoughby.
"He's rather a hot lot. In fact, he's a bit of a lad. He'd"—Meldon paused and looked meaningly at the priest, then he whistled—"as soon as drink a pint of porter. You know what I mean, Father Mulcrone."
"I do," said the priest; "I do well."
"I don't," said Mr. Willoughby. "I wish you'd explain. Do you know, Mr. Higginbotham?"
"I do a little," said Higginbotham. "That's to say, I more or less guess."
"I suppose," said Mr. Willoughby plaintively, "that it's better for me not to know. I am a mere child compared to you two reverend gentlemen. I ought to be grateful to you for respecting my innocence and for not speaking more plainly than you do."
A boat from the Granuaile lay alongside the pier. The party embarked just as Sir Giles Buckley's punt reached the shore.
"Good-evening, Sir Giles," said Meldon. "Surely you're not going down that hole again to-night."
Sir Giles scowled in reply.
"That gentleman doesn't seem to be on very good terms with you," said Mr. Willoughby.
"He's not just at present," said Meldon. "I had a conversation with him this afternoon. He chose to assume that I wasn't speaking the truth, and he hasn't got over it since."
"I have a certain sympathy with him," said Mr. Willoughby. "I dare say he knows little or nothing about pragmatism. I went very near getting angry myself when I thought—just for the moment—that you had been deceiving Mr. Higginbotham."
"You got over it all right," said Meldon. "Nobody minds a man flaring out now and then as you did. You don't keep on sulking like that beast Sir Giles. You are a more or less reasonable man."