Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (944 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“And pray, sir, what may this service be?”

“To make Lord Barrymore the laughing-stock of the town.”

Sir Charles, in spite of himself, lost for an instant the absolute serenity of his self-control.  He started, and his face expressed his surprise.  By what devilish instinct did this raw undergraduate find the one chink in his armour?  Deep in his heart, unacknowledged to any one, there was the will to pay many a thousand pounds to the man who would bring ridicule upon this his most dangerous rival, who was challenging his supremacy in fashionable London.

“Did you come from Oxford with this precious project?” he asked, after a pause.

“No, sir.  I chanced to see the man himself last night, and I conceived an ill-will to him, and would do him a mischief.”

“Where did you see him?”

“I spent the evening, sir, at the Vauxhall Gardens.”

“No doubt you would,” interpolated his uncle.

“My Lord Barrymore was there.  He was attended by one who was dressed as a clergyman, but who was, as I am told, none other than Hooper the Tinman, who acts as his bully and thrashes all who may offend him.  Together they passed down the central path, insulting the women and browbeating the men.  They actually hustled me.  I was offended, sir — so much so that I nearly took the matter in hand then and there.”

“It is as well that you did not.  The prizefighter would have beaten you.”

“Perhaps so, sir — and also, perhaps not.”

“Ah, you add pugilism to your elegant accomplishments?”

The young man laughed pleasantly.

“William Ball is the only professor of my Alma Mater who has ever had occasion to compliment me, sir.  He is better known as the Oxford Pet.  I think, with all modesty, that I could hold him for a dozen rounds.  But last night I suffered the annoyance without protest, for since it is said that the same scene is enacted every evening, there is always time to act.”

“And how would you act, may I ask?”

“That, sir, I should prefer to keep to myself; but my aim, as I say, would be to make Lord Barrymore a laughing-stock to all London.”

Sir Charles cogitated for a moment.

“Pray, sir,” said he, “why did you imagine that any humiliation to Lord Barrymore would be pleasing to me?”

“Even in the provinces we know something of what passes in polite circles.  Your antagonism to this man is to be found in every column of fashionable gossip.  The town is divided between you.  It is impossible that any public slight upon him should be unpleasing to you.”

Sir Charles smiled.

“You are a shrewd reasoner,” said he.  “We will suppose for the instant that you are right.  Can you give me no hint what means you would adopt to attain this very desirable end?”

“I would merely make the remark, sir, that many women have been wronged by this fellow.  That is a matter of common knowledge.  If one of these damsels were to upbraid him in public in such a fashion that the sympathy of the bystanders should be with her, then I can imagine, if she were sufficiently persistent, that his lordship’s position might become an unenviable one.”

“And you know such a woman?”

“I think, sir, that I do.”

“Well, my good Vereker, if any such attempt is in your mind, I see no reason why I should stand between Lord Barrymore and the angry fair.  As to whether the result is worth a thousand pounds, I can make no promise.”

“You shall yourself be the judge, sir.”

“I will be an exacting judge, nephew.”

“Very good, sir; I should not desire otherwise.  If things go as I hope, his lordship will not show face in St. James’s Street for a year to come.  I will now, if I may, give you your instructions.”

“My instructions!  What do you mean?  I have nothing to do with the matter.”

“You are the judge, sir, and therefore must be present.”

“I can play no part.”

“No, sir.  I would not ask you to do more than be a witness.”

“What, then, are my instructions, as you are pleased to call them?”

“You will come to the Gardens to-night, uncle, at nine o’clock precisely.  You will walk down the centre path, and you will seat yourself upon one of the rustic seats which are beside the statue of Aphrodite.  You will wait and you will observe.”

“Very good; I will do so.  I begin to perceive, nephew, that the breed of Tregellis has
not yet lost some of the points which have made it famous.”

It was at the stroke of nine that night when Sir Charles, throwing his reins to the groom, descended from his high yellow phaeton, which forthwith turned to take its place in the long line of fashionable carriages waiting for their owners.  As he entered the gate of the Gardens, the centre at that time of the dissipation and revelry of London, he turned up the collar of his driving-cape and drew his hat over his eyes, for he had no desire to be personally associated with what might well prove to be a public scandal.  In spite of his attempted disguise, however, there was that in his walk and his carriage which caused many an eye to be turned after him as he passed and many a hand to be raised in salute.  Sir Charles walked on, and, seating himself upon the rustic bench in front of the famous statue, which was in the very middle of the Gardens, he waited in amused suspense to see the next act in this comedy.

From the pavilion, whence the paths radiated, there came the strains of the band of the Foot Guards, and by the many-coloured lamps twinkling from every tree Sir Charles could see the confused whirl of the dancers.  Suddenly the music stopped.  The quadrilles were at an end.

An instant afterwards the central path by
which he sat was thronged by the revellers.  In a many-coloured crowd, stocked and cravated with all the bravery of buff and plum-colour and blue, the bucks of the town passed and repassed with their high-waisted, straight-skirted, be-bonneted ladies upon their arms.

It was not a decorous assembly.  Many of the men, flushed and noisy, had come straight from their potations.  The women, too, were loud and aggressive.  Now and then, with a rush and a swirl, amid a chorus of screams from the girls and good-humoured laughter from their escorts, some band of high-blooded, noisy youths would break their way across the moving throng.  It was no place for the prim or demure, and there was a spirit of good-nature and merriment among the crowd which condoned the wildest liberty.

And yet there were some limits to what could be tolerated even by so Bohemian an assembly.  A murmur of anger followed in the wake of two roisterers who were making their way down the path.  It would, perhaps, be fairer to say one roisterer; for of the two it was only the first who carried himself with such insolence, although it was the second who ensured that he could do it with impunity.

The leader was a very tall, hatchet-faced man, dressed in the very height of fashion, whose evil, handsome features were flushed
with wine and arrogance.  He shouldered his way roughly through the crowd, peering with an abominable smile into the faces of the women, and occasionally, where the weakness of the escort invited an insult, stretching out his hand and caressing the cheek or neck of some passing girl, laughing loudly as she winced away from his touch.

Close at his heels walked his hired attendant, whom, out of insolent caprice and with a desire to show his contempt for the prejudices of others, he had dressed as a rough country clergyman.  This fellow slouched along with frowning brows and surly, challenging eyes, like some faithful, hideous human bulldog, his knotted hands protruding from his rusty cassock, his great underhung jaw turning slowly from right to left as he menaced the crowd with his sinister gaze.  Already a close observer might have marked upon his face a heaviness and looseness of feature, the first signs of that physical decay which in a very few years was to stretch him, a helpless wreck, too weak to utter his own name, upon the causeway of the London streets.  At present, however, he was still an unbeaten man, the terror of the Ring, and as his ill-omened face was seen behind his infamous master many a half-raised cane was lowered and many a hot word was checked, while the whisper of “Hooper!  ‘Ware Bully
Hooper!” warned all who were aggrieved that it might be best to pocket their injuries lest some even worse thing should befall them.  Many a maimed and disfigured man had carried away from Vauxhall the handiwork of the Tinman and his patron.

Moving in insolent slowness through the crowd, the bully and his master had just come opposite to the bench upon which sat Sir Charles Tregellis.  At this place the path opened up into a circular space, brilliantly illuminated and surrounded by rustic seats.  From one of these an elderly, ringleted woman, deeply veiled, rose suddenly and barred the path of the swaggering nobleman.  Her voice sounded clear and strident above the babel of tongues, which hushed suddenly that their owners might hear it.

“Marry her, my lord!  I entreat you to marry her!  Oh, surely you will marry my poor Amelia!” said the voice.

Lord Barrymore stood aghast.  From all sides folk were closing in and heads were peering over shoulders.  He tried to push on, but the lady barred his way and two palms pressed upon his beruffled front.

“Surely, surely you would not desert her!  Take the advice of that good, kind clergyman behind you!” wailed the voice.  “Oh, be a man of honour and marry her!”

The elderly lady thrust out her hand and
drew forward a lumpish-looking young woman, who sobbed and mopped her eyes with her handkerchief.

“The plague take you!” roared his lordship, in a fury.  “Who is the wench?  I vow that I never clapped eyes on either of you in my life!”

“It is my niece Amelia,” cried the lady, “your own loving Amelia!  Oh, my lord, can you pretend that you have forgotten poor, trusting Amelia, of Woodbine Cottage at Lichfield.”

“I never set foot in Lichfield in my life!” cried the peer.  “You are two impostors who should be whipped at the cart’s tail.”

“Oh, wicked!  Oh, Amelia!” screamed the lady, in a voice that resounded through the Gardens.  “Oh, my darling, try to soften his hard heart; pray him that he make an honest woman of you at last.”

With a lurch the stout young woman fell forward and embraced Lord Barrymore with the hug of a bear.  He would have raised his cane, but his arms were pinned to his sides.

“Hooper!  Hooper!” screamed the furious peer, craning his neck in horror, for the girl seemed to be trying to kiss him.

But the bruiser, as he ran forward, found himself entangled with the old lady.

“Out o’ the way, marm!” he cried.  “Out
o’ the way, I say!” and pushed her violently aside.

“Oh, you rude, rude man!” she shrieked, springing back in front of him.  “He hustled me, good people; you saw him hustle me!  A clergyman, but no gentleman!  What! you would treat a lady so — you would do it again?  Oh, I could slap, slap, slap you!”

And with each repetition of the word, with extraordinary swiftness, her open palm rang upon the prizefighter’s cheek.

The crowd buzzed with amazement and delight.

“Hooper!  Hooper!” cried Lord Barrymore once more, for he was still struggling in the ever-closer embrace of the unwieldy and amorous Amelia.

The bully again pushed forward to the aid of his patron, but again the elderly lady confronted him, her head back, her left arm extended, her whole attitude, to his amazement, that of an expert boxer.

The prizefighter’s brutal nature was roused.  Woman or no woman, he would show the murmuring crowd what it meant to cross the path of the Tinman.  She had struck him.  She must take the consequence.  No one should square up to him with impunity.  He swung his right with a curse.  The bonnet instantly ducked under his arm, and a line of razor-like knuckles left an open cut under his eye.

Amid wild cries of delight and encouragement from the dense circle of spectators, the lady danced round the sham clergyman, dodging his ponderous blows, slipping under his arms, and smacking back at him most successfully.  Once she tripped and fell over her own skirt, but was up and at him again in an instant.

“You vulgar fellow!” she shrieked.  “Would you strike a helpless woman!  Take that!  Oh, you rude and ill-bred man!”

Bully Hooper was cowed for the first time in his life by the extraordinary thing that he was fighting.  The creature was as elusive as a shadow, and yet the blood was dripping down his chin from the effects of the blows.  He shrank back with an amazed face from so uncanny an antagonist.  And in the moment that he did so his spell was for ever broken.  Only success could hold it.  A check was fatal.  In all the crowd there was scarce one who was not nursing some grievance against master or man, and waiting for that moment of weakness in which to revenge it.