XXXV

Eline Simpson with a large handkerchief tied round her face, turned on her bed and groaned. It was unfortunate for all concerned that Eline’s bedroom was immediately above that occupied by Mr. John Stott and his wife, although Eline’s groans had no serious effect upon that lady.

Mr. Stott had reached the stage where he waited with agonized expectancy for the next boom of anguish; when it did not come he was frantic, when it finally shivered the walls of his room, he was maddened. Eline was an irregular groaner.

“Eline goes tomorrow!” he roared, and even Mrs. Stott heard him.

“She’s had her tooth out,” said Mrs. Stott sleepily.

“Go upstairs and tell that girl to get up and walk about⁠—no, no, not to walk about, to sit still.”

“M’m,” said Mrs. Stott, and sighed happily.

Mr. Stott glared at her and then came another groan from above. He got out of bed and into his dressing-gown⁠—it was really a kimono⁠—and trotted up the stairs.

“Eline!” he called in a hushed intense voice, suitable to the hour and the occasion.

“Yes, sir,” pathetically.

“What the he⁠—why are you making such a⁠—such a hullabaloo?”

“Oh, my tooth does ache, sir!” she wailed jerkily.

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Scott, “how can it ache when it is at the dentist’s? Don’t be a baby. Get up and take something, come downstairs, dress yourself decently,” he warned her.

He went down into the dining-room and from a secret cupboard produced a bottle with a boastful label. Into a tumbler he splashed a very generous portion.

Eline came in a flannel dressing-gown and skirt. She looked scarcely human.

“Drink this,” commanded Mr. Stott.

Eline took the glass timidly and examined it.

“I could never drink that, sir,” she said, awestricken.

“Drink it!” commanded Mr. Stott fiercely, “it is nothing.”

To prove that it was nothing, he poured himself out an even more impressive quantity and tossed it down. In retaliation, the whiskey almost tossed down Mr. Stott. At any rate, he staggered under the shock. Fortunately for his reputation as a hard and easy drinker, Eline was oblivious to everything except a sense of complete suffocation accompanied by a feeling that she had swallowed a large ladleful of molten lead. So she did not see Mr. Stott gasping like a fish and clutching his throat.

“Oh, sir⁠—what was it?” she found voice to ask.

“Whiskey,” said Mr. Stott in a strangled voice, “neat whiskey! It is nothing.”

Eline had never drunk neat whiskey before. It seemed to her, as whiskey, distinctly untidy. It had sharp edges. She could only look upon her employer with a new born respect.

“It is nothing,” said Mr. Stott again. Now that it was all over it seemed at any rate, easy. He was an abstemious man and in truth had never tasted whiskey in its undiluted state. Bravado had made him do it, but now that it was done, he had no regrets.

“How’s your tooth?”

“Fine, sir,” said Eline gratefully. She experienced a wonderful sense of exhilaration. So did Mr. Stott.

“Sit down, Eline,” he pointed grandly to a chair.

Eline smiled foolishly and sat.

“I have always been a very heavy drinker,” said Mr. Stott gravely. “My father was before me. I am what is known as a three-bottle man.”

He wondered at himself as he spoke. His maligned parent had been a Baptist minister.

“Goodness!” said Eline impressed, “and there are only two bottles on the sideboard!”

Mr. Stott looked.

“There is only one, Eline,” he said severely, and looked again. “Yes, perhaps you’re right.” He closed first one eye and then the other. “Only one,” he said.

“Two,” murmured Eline defiantly.

“We Stotts have always been devil-may-care fellows,” said Mr. Stott moodily. “Into one scrape and out of another. Hard drinking, hard riding, hard living men, the salt of the earth, Eline.”

“There are three bottles!” said Eline in wonderment.

“My father fought Kid McGinty for twenty-five rounds.” Mt. Stott shook his head. “And beat him to⁠—to⁠—a jelly. Hard fighters every one of us. By heaven,” he said, his pugilistic mood reviving certain memories, “if I had laid my hands on that scoun’rel⁠ ⁠… !”

He walked heavily, rose and walked with long strides into the hall. Eline scenting action, followed. Her strides were not so long, but longer than she expected. Mr. Stott was standing on the doorstep, his hands on his hip, his legs apart, and he was looking disparagingly at Mayfield.

“Come any more of your tricks⁠—and look out!” he challenged. “You’ll find a Stott⁠—”

Eline clutched his arm frenziedly.

“Oh sir⁠—there’s somebody there!”

Undoubtedly there was somebody there; a light was showing in the front room, a red and uncertain light. And then a door closed loudly.

“Somebody there⁠—?”

Mr. Stott strode down the steps furiously. Even when he strode down a step that wasn’t there, he did not lose his poise.

“Somebody there⁠—?”

He remembered mistily that the gardener had a lazy habit of leaving his spade beneath the trimmed hedge that marked the boundaries of his property.

“You’ll catch your death of cold, dear,” wailed Eline outrageously.

But Mr. Stott neither observed the uncalled-for endearment, nor the rain that soaked him, nor the wind that flapped his dressing-gown loose. He groped for the spade and found it, just as a car came smashing through the frail gate of Mayfield.

“Hi, you, sir!” shouted Mr. Stott fiercely, “what in hell do you mean, sir!”

He stood in the centre of the road, brandishing his spade⁠—the mudguard of the car just missed him.

Mr. Stott turned and stared after.

“Disgusting⁠—no lights!” he said.

But there were lights in Mayfield, white and red and yellow lights, that flickered up in long caressing tongues.

“Fire!” said Mr. Stott thickly.

He staggered up to the door of Mayfield and brought his spade down upon the narrow glass panel with a crash. Putting in his hand, he found the knob of the door and fell into the passage.

“Fire!” boomed Mr. Stott.

He had an idea that something ought to be done⁠—a feeling that somebody should be rescued. The dining-room was blazing at the window end and by the light he saw an open door. Below was a glow of steady illumination.

“Anybody there?” shouted Mr. Stott.

And then a shiver ran down his spine for a distant voice called:

“Here!”

“Fire!” yelled Mr. Stott, and stumbled down the steps. The voice came from a door.

“Wait, I’ll kick out the key.”⁠ ⁠…

There was a sound of metallic scraping and something hit the brickwork at his feet.

Mr. Stott frowned at it. A key.

“Open the door,” said the voice urgently.

Mr. Stott stooped and picked it up, made three shots at the keyhole and at last got it.

A man doubled up as if in pain, shuffled out.

“Unfasten the strap,” he commanded.

“There’s a fire,” said Mr. Stott impressively.

“So I observe, quick!”

Stott unbuckled the strap and the man stood up.

“Get those papers⁠—on the table,” said the strange man. “I can’t touch them, I’m handcuffed behind.”

The rescuer obeyed.

The passage was thick with smoke and suddenly all lights went out.

“Now run!” hissed Tab and Mr. Stott, still gripping his spade, groped forward. At the foot of the steps he paused. The heat was fierce, the flames were curling down over the top step.

“Whack the floor⁠—the carpet with your spade and run⁠—don’t worry about me!”

Mr. Stott made a wild rush up the stairs, striking more wildly at the floor. The smoke blinded him; he was scorched, he felt his few locks shrivel in the heat.

And then Tab Holland behind pushed him with his shoulder and it seemed to Mr. Stott that he was being thrown into the fiery furnace. He uttered one yell and leapt. In a fraction of a second he was in the passage⁠—gasping and alive.

“Outside⁠ ⁠… !”

Tab thrust his shoulder again at the dazed man and Mr. Stott walked out into the rain just as the first fire engine came clanging into the street.

“There is a fire,” said Mr. Stott with satisfaction. “Come and have a drink.”

Tab wanted something more than a drink. He saw a running policeman and hailed him.

“Officer, can you unlock these handcuffs? I’m Holland of the Megaphone. Good business!”

A turn of the key and he was free.

He stretched his aching arms.

“Com’n have a drink,” urged Mr. Stott, and Tab thought that the suggestion was not altogether foolish.

They came to Mr. Stott’s dining-room to find Eline singing in a high falsetto voice, a voice which had aroused even Mrs. Stott, for that good lady, in deshabille, was regarding the musical Eline with wonder and shame when they arrived.

The good lady staggered at the appearance of her husband. Tab seemed a less notable phenomenon⁠—even the vocal Eline faded from the picture.

“What is the meaning of this?” she asked tearfully.

“There’s been a fire,” murmured her husband.

He glared at Eline fiendishly and pointed to the door.

“Shut up, girl! Go to bed! You’re fired⁠—you’re the secon’ fire tonight!”

He was so overcome by his witticism that he relapsed into what promised to be continuous laughter. The clang of another engine arrested his merriment, and he stalked out of the house.

“I don’t think Mr. Stott is quite well,” said Mrs. Stott in a tremulous voice. “I⁠—be quiet, Eline! Singing sacred songs at this hour of the morning!”

And then came Mr. Stott in a hurry, and behind him, Carver.

“Thank God, my boy⁠—I never expected⁠—!”

Carver found a difficulty in speaking.

“I rescued ’m,” said Mr. Stott loudly.

His face was black, what of his dressing-gown was not singed, was sodden. He flourished the spade.

“I rescued ’m,” said Mr. Stott with dignity. “We Stotts come of a hard bit’n race. My father was a firem’n⁠—he rescued thousan’s from burnin’.”

Here he was getting near to the truth, for, as had been before remarked, Mr. Stott’s father was a Baptist minister.