The Fire Trumpet Part 2

"But this time you've hit the right nail on the head. There _is_ something you can do for me, if any one can. You can put me in the way of doubling a given sum in the shortest possible time."

"That all?" answered the other, almost disappointedly. "Reckon I can-- and I'd do more than that for you--as you know. Silas B. Mork.u.m ain't the boy to forget--well, we know what. Now let's hear all about it."

Claverton told him. The tie of grat.i.tude to which Mork.u.m had referred went back to the time of the former's earlier wanderings, when our friend had by the merest chance been able to do him a most important service, and the American had never forgotten it. He was a curious unit. By profession broker, money-lender, and half-a-dozen other things; in reality, such of his dealings as were most remunerative were known only to himself and to those immediately concerned.

"Well, then," he said, reflectively, lighting up a long Havana and pus.h.i.+ng the box across to his companion, "well, then--you want to turn over this sum and ain't particular how?"

"Not in the least."

"Then I can lay you on to something. But you are open to putting your hide pretty considerably in p.a.w.n?"

"Quite open. What is it? Mines in Sonora?"

"No. 'Tain't that. Two years ago I sent a party on that lay.

Twenty-three Western men, all well armed and mounted. Game chickens all round."

"What then?"

"They are there yet. No one ever saw or heard of them again. Beckon the Apaches wiped 'em out. No. This is less risky; still, it is risky--tarnation so."

"What is it?"

The other fixed his keen grey eyes upon Claverton for a moment. Then he delivered himself of just three words.

"The devil!" exclaimed Claverton, astonished, "I thought that game was played out long ago."

"No, it ain't; not a bit of it. And it's sure profits, quick returns; but-all-fired risk."

"Well, let's hear all about it."

The other left the papers which he had been sorting, and, drawing his chair to the fire, began to lay out his scheme. And at last the dingy office grew shadowy, and the boy came in to know if he shouldn't lock up.

"Yes," a.s.sented Mork.u.m. "Come along and dine somewhere, Claverton, and you shall tell me what you've been doing all this time. We can talk business to-morrow."

The clocks were chiming a quarter to twelve as they separated at King's Cross Station.

"Going to walk home, are you?" said the American, reflectively. "Queer city, this. Many a man disappears, and is never more heard of by his inquiring relatives."

"It would be a precious risky job for any enterprising spirits to try and conceal my whereabouts. They'd get hurt," answered Claverton, with a meaning laugh.

"That's right," said the other, approvingly. "Never have your hand far from your coat-pocket, and you'll do. Good-night."

The wind howls dismally round a cosy old country rectory on this gloomy March evening, but, within, all is snugness and warmth. From one well-lighted room comes a sound of many cheerful voices; but pa.s.sing by this, let us take a look into the library, where sits a girl all alone.

She is a lovely girl, as far as we can see by the uncertain firelight, and may be nineteen or twenty. Her well-shaped head is crowned with an abundance of soft, dark hair, tinted with strange lights as the flickering glow plays upon it. Her sweet, l.u.s.trous eyes are gazing pensively at the clock on the mantelpiece, while the rain rolls in gusts against the old-fas.h.i.+oned cas.e.m.e.nt.

"Past six. Uncle George should be back by now. The train must be late.

Ah, there he is!" as the sound of wheels is audible on the gravel outside.

She hears the occupants of the other room rush to the front door to welcome their father; but with a hasty kiss all round, the rector goes straight to the library.

"Here I am, Uncle George," says the girl, meeting him in the doorway, for she heard him inquiring for her. "But do go and change first, you must be very wet."

"No, I'm not, my dear; not in the least. Come in here and shut the door; I want to tell you about this."

Then he hesitates, clears his throat, manages to knock down the tongs with a hideous clatter, and jerks out:

"I could do nothing."

His niece waits for him to continue.

"Nothing. He says he intends to stick to the money, every penny of it.

Why, when I put it to him fairly, he laughed in my face; made some ill-chosen jest about it being only a question of time. He's a scamp, a downright scamp, and will come to no good. Mark my words."

"Who is he, Uncle George? What's his name?"

"Some adventurer. I was going to say _low_ adventurer, but he isn't that; the man's a gentleman by birth, unmistakably. Name! Why, bless my soul, I've quite forgotten. What is it again? Clinton--Emerson-- something like that--I forget exactly."

The girl stood silently gazing into the fire, with one arm on the old man's shoulder. She was an orphan niece, whom he had welcomed to his home, nominally until it could be decided what should be done with her; actually he had already decided this, and his decision was that that home should be a permanent one. He was a very soft-hearted man, was the Rev. George Wainwright, in spite of his quick temper and aggressive exterior. But the girl, for her part, was equally determined in her own mind not to remain a burden on him. He had a large family of his own, and she must manage to earn her own livelihood. Then came the news of the death of her distant cousin, Herbert Spalding, and of the legacy which would revert to her, contingent upon the nuptials of a stranger.

The rector, with characteristic hot-headedness, had voted the contingency absolutely monstrous. No man of honour, he had said, could possibly accept a bequest subject to it, especially as by doing so he would be robbing a penniless orphan--and had started for town there and then with the intention of inducing the legatee to forego his claim. In which laudable mission he had signally failed, as we have seen--a failure due in no small measure to his own hot temper and want of tact.

"Never mind, Uncle George; we are only where we were before, you see, and I think I shall get that situation I advertised for."

"No you won't, my dear. We shan't let you go away from us."

She kisses him affectionately. She is determined to carry her point, but does not press it to-night. "Now you must go and talk to the others, Uncle George; I've been keeping you from them quite long enough." And with her arm still on the old man's shoulder she leads him to the door, and they join the family circle in the cheerful lamplight.

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER THREE.

THE SLAVE SETTLEMENT.

"Idiot! Don't you see that the poor devil can't move an inch further to save his wretched life. Leave him alone. You're the greatest brute even in this b.e.s.t.i.a.l land?"

"Am I? And if I am, what's that to you?" is the defiant reply.

The first speaker is a young Englishman, whose face, tanned to a coppery brown by exposure to a torrid sun, bears a stamp of recklessness and determination. His bearded lips are set firm as he confronts the other, a powerful, savage-looking mulatto, and his eyes are ablaze with wrathful contempt. Around stretches a wide, sun-baked desert in Central Africa. A few palms, dotted about here and there, throw a faint pretence of a shadow, and not far from the cloudless horizon hangs the now declining sun. A gang of black men and women, weary and emaciated, and a few of them tied together, are standing wearily contemplating one of their number who lies p.r.o.ne upon the earth, sick, footsore, and unable to move another step. It is a slave-gang on the march.

"Here, you two," goes on the first speaker, addressing a couple of the strongest-looking among the slaves, "pick him up and carry him along."

The two fellows designated pause, and look hesitatingly from one to the other of their drivers. They stand in mortal fear of the ruffianly mulatto, and prefer to chance the wrath of the Englishman.

"Do you hear what I say? Let him alone, Sharkey," repeats the latter in a warning tone.

For all answer the ruffian addressed advances upon the fallen slave, and with a frightful grin, disclosing two pointed, shark-like teeth--whence his hideous _sobriquet_--curls his raw-hide lash round the naked body of the emaciated wretch. But a terrific blow full in the face sends him reeling half-a-dozen paces.