moved to the lock-up. He could hear Peter whimpering from three
yards away, and when he opened the door the ex-prizefighter scuttled out at
once, his face wet with tears.
“I’m sorry, Mr Armstrong, I
won’t drive like that again, I promise, only . . .”
“Mr Armstrong is not here,”
Mendick told him. “He wants to leave you inside all night.” He watched Peter
glance over his shoulder at the crowding dark. “But I don’t agree.”
Peter looked up, his face
crumpled as he waited for orders.
“So this is what we’ll do,”
Mendick told him. “I’ll let you out, and you will stay in the cottage with me
tonight, but tomorrow morning, before Mr Armstrong arrives, we’ll put you back
in the black hole and pretend that you’ve been there all night.”
Peter nodded eagerly. “And we
won’t tell Mr Armstrong?”
“No, we won’t,” Mendick said,
“or he’ll put us both in the black hole.” He held out his hand, knowing that if
Armstrong put him in a hole, it would be with a shovelful of dirt on his face
and a pistol ball in his brain.
For a moment Peter stared at
Mendick’s hand, and then he smiled as innocently as a baby and extended his
own.
“After all, Peter, we’re both
fellow Chartists.” Mendick felt Peter’s paw slide around his like a huge iron
glove.
“Fellow Chartists,” Peter said,
gently shaking hands and repeating the phrase he obviously liked, “Fellow
Chartists.”
Mendick smiled tautly; he had
hoped to slip away during the night and find Sergeant Ogden, but his own
weakness had spoiled that idea. He should have attended to his duty and left
Peter exactly where he was. Now he would have to manoeuvre his way around the
giant.
Once inside the cottage, Peter
closed the door.
“In case the night gets in,” he
said and grinned. “We’ll be like brothers, Mr Mendick. Fellow Chartists.”
Sitting on one of the two chairs beside the deal table, he produced a pack of
cards. “We’ll play for the bed,” he said. “Loser gets the floor.”
Glancing at the wooden
floorboards with their scattering of straw, Mendick grunted. He had slept on
worse, but he had never enjoyed suffering for its own sake. However, when Peter
began a clumsy shuffle of the cards, sweating with the effort, and Mendick saw
the breadth of his forearms, he looked again at the bed, wondered which
unfortunate had last infested it and decided that it would be no hardship to
lose. He would prefer a few hours of discomfort to a collection of broken
bones, and anyway, he had no intention of spending the night indoors.
“Is there anything to drink in
the house?”
In a lightning change of mood,
Peter frowned at him.
“A lush, are you? The last
soldier-boy was a lush too.” He shook his massive head disapprovingly. “Tell
you what, let’s share the bed and play for the blue ruin. There’s nothing better
than a flash of lightning at this time of night.”
“You have the bed,” Mendick
decided. “I just want a bottle of Old Tom.”
Peter ruffled the cards. “You’ll
have to win it, first.” His laugh was loud and unpleasant. “Come on
soldier-boy; let’s see how good you are.”
Gliding to a corner of the
dresser, Peter produced a large bottle of gin and placed it carefully in front
of him, where it tempted Mendick with its memories.
“Twenty-one.”
It was probably the simplest
card game of all, and one that Mendick had played from Calcutta to Canton, but
it was best not to let Peter know that. He avoided looking at the gin.
“What are the rules?”
“Don’t you know?” Peter
emphasised his superiority with a laugh. “It’s all right, I’ll teach you.”
Removing the cork from the bottle with his teeth, he took a preliminary swig
while Mendick watched, fighting his desire. “The winner of each hand gets a
drink.” He leaned over the table, grinning hideously, “but the loser gets
nothing.”
Mendick nodded and played
deliberately poorly for the next half hour, while Peter enjoyed
yards away, and when he opened the door the ex-prizefighter scuttled out at
once, his face wet with tears.
“I’m sorry, Mr Armstrong, I
won’t drive like that again, I promise, only . . .”
“Mr Armstrong is not here,”
Mendick told him. “He wants to leave you inside all night.” He watched Peter
glance over his shoulder at the crowding dark. “But I don’t agree.”
Peter looked up, his face
crumpled as he waited for orders.
“So this is what we’ll do,”
Mendick told him. “I’ll let you out, and you will stay in the cottage with me
tonight, but tomorrow morning, before Mr Armstrong arrives, we’ll put you back
in the black hole and pretend that you’ve been there all night.”
Peter nodded eagerly. “And we
won’t tell Mr Armstrong?”
“No, we won’t,” Mendick said,
“or he’ll put us both in the black hole.” He held out his hand, knowing that if
Armstrong put him in a hole, it would be with a shovelful of dirt on his face
and a pistol ball in his brain.
For a moment Peter stared at
Mendick’s hand, and then he smiled as innocently as a baby and extended his
own.
“After all, Peter, we’re both
fellow Chartists.” Mendick felt Peter’s paw slide around his like a huge iron
glove.
“Fellow Chartists,” Peter said,
gently shaking hands and repeating the phrase he obviously liked, “Fellow
Chartists.”
Mendick smiled tautly; he had
hoped to slip away during the night and find Sergeant Ogden, but his own
weakness had spoiled that idea. He should have attended to his duty and left
Peter exactly where he was. Now he would have to manoeuvre his way around the
giant.
Once inside the cottage, Peter
closed the door.
“In case the night gets in,” he
said and grinned. “We’ll be like brothers, Mr Mendick. Fellow Chartists.”
Sitting on one of the two chairs beside the deal table, he produced a pack of
cards. “We’ll play for the bed,” he said. “Loser gets the floor.”
Glancing at the wooden
floorboards with their scattering of straw, Mendick grunted. He had slept on
worse, but he had never enjoyed suffering for its own sake. However, when Peter
began a clumsy shuffle of the cards, sweating with the effort, and Mendick saw
the breadth of his forearms, he looked again at the bed, wondered which
unfortunate had last infested it and decided that it would be no hardship to
lose. He would prefer a few hours of discomfort to a collection of broken
bones, and anyway, he had no intention of spending the night indoors.
“Is there anything to drink in
the house?”
In a lightning change of mood,
Peter frowned at him.
“A lush, are you? The last
soldier-boy was a lush too.” He shook his massive head disapprovingly. “Tell
you what, let’s share the bed and play for the blue ruin. There’s nothing better
than a flash of lightning at this time of night.”
“You have the bed,” Mendick
decided. “I just want a bottle of Old Tom.”
Peter ruffled the cards. “You’ll
have to win it, first.” His laugh was loud and unpleasant. “Come on
soldier-boy; let’s see how good you are.”
Gliding to a corner of the
dresser, Peter produced a large bottle of gin and placed it carefully in front
of him, where it tempted Mendick with its memories.
“Twenty-one.”
It was probably the simplest
card game of all, and one that Mendick had played from Calcutta to Canton, but
it was best not to let Peter know that. He avoided looking at the gin.
“What are the rules?”
“Don’t you know?” Peter
emphasised his superiority with a laugh. “It’s all right, I’ll teach you.”
Removing the cork from the bottle with his teeth, he took a preliminary swig
while Mendick watched, fighting his desire. “The winner of each hand gets a
drink.” He leaned over the table, grinning hideously, “but the loser gets
nothing.”
Mendick nodded and played
deliberately poorly for the next half hour, while Peter enjoyed
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