Will Thomas - Some Danger Involved

I was running toward the house when our back door opened and Maccabee jumped out. He braced his back against the door and brought his shotgun to bear. I had just enough time to throw myself on the ground before both barrels went off, peppering the crowd with buckshot. There were oaths and cries aplenty after that.

I sat up and turned around, in time to see Barker shoot out of the crowd, running toward us. His hands were in the pockets of his overcoat, and just before he reached me, he stopped and turned back. His hands came out and suddenly the air was filled with pennies, dozens of copper pence, glittering in the light from the kitchen window. They flew across the enclosure, and wherever they landed, they stuck, whether in wood or plant or human flesh. The advance stopped as men reached for an injured limb or a cut forehead. One poor blighter was spinning around, trying to remove the coin from between his shoulder blades. It was too much for the visiting team, who, one by one, began to break and run. Barker inflicted more punishment on the retreating figures, while I rushed to shut the gate after them. In a moment, the latch clicked after the last of them, and we heard the men running away down the lane. It was over as quickly as it had begun.

"Are you hurt, lad?" Barker asked. We were both a little winded and still leaning against the gate.

"No, sir," I said, and it was true. I'd been thumped twice and would have bruises, but I felt rather good.

"Gave as well as got?"

"Broke one fellow's arm, sir," I said, as if it were something to take pride in. "And kicked another in the stomach."

"Mac?" he called. The butler had his shotgun broken open and was removing the shells. By his coolness one would think this was the standard Saturday night's fare.

"I am well, sir."

"Harm?" Barker called. "Harm?"

It was the first time I'd seen my employer actually look frightened. He stepped away from the gate, still calling the little dog's name. I'd felt it was silly at first, this big, rough fellow so fond of his little lapdog, but now I had to admit I was worried myself. I hadn't seen the little creature since he'd received the boot in the ribs. I feared the worst might have happened.

"In the bushes, there, sir," I said, pointing to the left. We both converged on the spot, and Barker pushed back the leaves. Harm was lying there, not moving, but his head was up and he was panting.

"Oh, Harm, what have they done to you?" Barker asked.

"He may have a broken rib or two," I hazarded. "That was quite some kick he received."

"Mac! Bring a large pillow!"

The butler nodded and glided into the house.

"Are you hurt, boy?" Barker asked, patting the little fellow on the head. The dog gave a feeble bark, almost like a cough. When Mac returned, we gently transferred him to the pillow. Despite our efforts to be careful, he gave a yip of pain. I knew nothing of dog anatomy, but I worried that a broken rib might have punctured a lung. I'm sure Barker was thinking much the same. We got him safely onto the pillow and Mac took him into the house.

Barker turned his head and seized my shoulder.

"What is it, sir?"

"I heard something."

The thought that they might return in greater numbers hadn't occurred to me. We would be overrun in that case. We listened closely to the gurgle of the stream and horses clopping in the streets. Then I heard it: a moan.

"Someone's still here!" I cried.

"Over there, behind the bath house. Hop it, lad!"

I ran over to the far side of the outbuilding, hands raised, ready to defend myself again if necessary. There was a man lying on the ground, moaning softly. My nose told me that he had been ill. Barker joined me, looking over my shoulder.

"Mac!" he called. "Bring a lamp!"

The butler came out into the garden again, an oil lamp in his hand, as placid-looking as if he were bringing the morning Times. If he didn't hurry up with the lamp, I thought, I was going to run up and take it out of his hand. He finally arrived and held the lamp high. The man lying against the side of the building looked like a day laborer, in an old suit, a cloth cap, and worn boots. I say man, but he couldn't have been much more than my own age, perhaps two and twenty. It wasn't until he turned his head and blinked into the light that I recognized him.

"It's the one that kicked Harm, sir," I stated. "The one I got in the stomach."

"By the looks of him, Thomas, I'd say you missed his stomach by a good margin." He reached forward and pulled the fellow up by the lapels of his flimsy jacket. "So, you're the fellow that kicks poor, defenseless little dogs. Who sent you?"

"Sod off, mate," the young man summoned the courage to say.

I saw Barker reach back his fist, ready to strike the man down, there and then, but he suddenly changed his mind.

"Mac, Thomas, take this fellow down to the cellar, and tie him up in a chair. We'll let him cool his heels awhile. Then afterwards, Mac, I want you to prepare a light supper. Is the bath ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Splendid. Then there is no need to alter our routine. We shall question this fellow at our leisure. But now, I must make a telephone call. Several, in fact. Take him, gentlemen."

Maccabee and I did as Barker asked. I used the approved Tokyo come-along hold. The man we carried down the stairs outweighed us each by three stone, but he was not in much shape to protest. Mac brought a spindle chair and some rope from the lumber room, and between the two of us we trussed him up rather snugly. Then we left him, as Barker had ordered. For his sake, I hoped the police arrived soon. He looked the very picture of misery.

Barker was still on the telephone by the front door when we came up into the hall. He was speaking rapidly in Chinese. Obviously, it wasn't the Yard he was speaking with. Finally, he set the earpiece back in its cradle.

"They shall be here within the hour," he said.

"Scotland Yard?"

"No, the gardening crew. My garden is a disaster! It shall take months to get it back the way it was. And someone shall be coming to take Harm away. I want you to handle that. They shall arrive in a black carriage. Carry him out on the pillow."

"Yes, sir," I said. "When will Scotland Yard come for the fellow in the basement?"

"I haven't called Scotland Yard just yet," Barker replied. "I wanted to question him myself first."

There was something in Barker's look that I didn't like. If he had been stone-faced before, he now looked like solid granite.

"But, sir, isn't it unlawful to detain a man against his will?"

"Mr. Llewelyn," Barker said, "I'm not sure of your meaning. The fellow is our guest."

It was several hours before we got back to our "guest." We ate a cold supper of French sausages, cheese, and hard-boiled eggs, then Barker had his bath, as if it were any other night. I sat in the front room, with Harm on his pillow, waiting for the carriage to arrive.

Almost an hour after Barker's phone call, as he'd predicted, a closed carriage arrived at the front door. No one got out to ring the bell. I opened the door and carried the pillow and Harm out to the vehicle. The driver got down from his box and opened the door; I got a glimpse of a female figure all in black, with a heavy veil. She took the dog, pillow and all, into her lap. The driver closed the door before I could speak, and they drove off without a word. I hoped Barker knew what he was doing, trusting Harm's health to these mysterious persons.

By the time I reached the back garden to tell Barker, the garden crew had arrived. They carried paper lanterns on long poles. There must have been twenty workers at least. They swarmed all over the garden, sweeping, clipping, digging and replanting, while Barker moved about in shirtsleeves, inspecting everything. I helped by picking up pence. They were in the path, on the lawn, and buried in the back wall. I only found about a dozen. Presumably, the rest went home with our attackers as souvenirs.