§ 6
Bobby’s mind was fresh and bright that morning. He had wandered out to the asylum simply because he could lie in bed in a fever of regrets no longer. His extreme luck in encountering Sargon had restored all his confidence in himself and in the propitiousness of things. He made his plans quickly and with decision. It would be impossible to take Sargon back to the inn and give him coffee. So soon as he was missed they would surely go to the village. And every one would note this queer little figure with its dressing-gown and slippers and scarred ankles. He must get the little man into hiding somewhere close at hand. In that small beech-wood just over the next crest. (Pity he was so scantily clad!) Then the motor bicycle must be fetched as quickly as possible.
Sargon was absolutely trustful and obedient. “It is cold I know,” said Bobby, “but unavoidable. I wish there were not so many wet dead leaves.”
“Only be quick and fetch help,” said Sargon.
“Don’t stir from here,” said Bobby.
It was not the most perfect hiding-place in the world, a ditch, a clump of holly on the edge of a bare beech-wood, but it was all that downland was likely to provide. “So long,” said Bobby and set off at a smart trot for the inn and the motor bicycle. He arrived flushed, dishevelled, and out of breath and found the inn suspicious and reluctant when he announced that he wanted his bill instantly, refused any breakfast but a cup of tea and a chunk of bread and butter, and set about packing his little roll. There seemed endless things to do, taking an interminable time. To cap a score of irritating delays the inn was short of change and had to send out to the village shop. Billy’s motor bicycle, always a temperamental creature, gave great trouble with its kick starter. And meanwhile Sargon was shivering amidst the mud and dead leaves under the dripping trees or worse, being recaptured and led back into captivity.
It was nearly eight before Bobby came back along the cart-track into sight of the little beech-wood, and his heart jumped when he saw two heavy-looking men advancing towards him. He knew them for asylum men at once; they had the unmistakable flavour of subaltern authority that distinguishes prison warders, ex-policemen, time-keepers, and the keepers of the insane. As he throbbed near them they came into the middle of the road and made signs for him to stop. “Hell!” said Bobby, and pulled up.
They came alongside and without evident hostility.
“Excuse me, sir,” said one—and Bobby felt better.
“That large place you see there, sir, is Cummerdown Asylum. Perhaps you know it, sir?”
“No. Which is the asylum? All of it?” Bobby felt he was being really clever and his spirits rose.
“Yesir.”
“Damn great place!” said Bobby.
“We’ve got one of our inmates astray this morning. Harmless little man, he is, and we ventured to stop you and ask you if you’ve seen him.”
Bobby had an inspiration. “I believe I have. Was he in a sort of brown robe and slippers with nothing on his head?”
“That’s ’im, sir. Where did you see him?”
Bobby turned round and pointed in the direction from which he had come. “He was making off along the edge of a field,” he said. “I saw him not—oh, not five minutes ago. Mile, or a bit more, away from here. Running he was. Along a hedge to the right—left I mean—near a chestnut plantation.”
“That’s ’im all right, Jim. Where did you say, sir?”
Bobby’s brilliance increased. “If one of you will sit behind me and the other get into this contraption—bit of a load, but we can manage it—I’ll run you back to the very place. Right away.” And without more ado he set about turning round. “That’s a real help, sir,” said Jim. “Don’t mention it,” said Bobby.
Bobby was now at the top of his form. He loaded them in with helpful words—even the smaller of the two was a tight fit for the side-car and the other sat like a sack on the luggage carrier—he took them back a mile and a half until he found the suitable hedge by the chestnut tree. He unloaded them carefully, received their hearty but hasty thanks with a generous gesture and sent them off at a smart trot across the fields. “He can’t have a mile’s start,” he said. “And he wasn’t going particularly fast. Sort of limping.”
“That’s ’im,” said Jim.
Bobby kissed his hand to their retreating backs. “That’s you,” said Bobby. “God help you both and cleanse your hearts. And now for Sargon.”
He buzzed back to the place where he had left Sargon, turned his machine round again and then looked towards the corner of the wood by the holly clump where the little man ought to have been waiting. But there was no sign of a peeping head. “Queer!” said Bobby, and ran up to the place where he had left Sargon crouching in the ditch. Not a sign was there of him. Bobby looked about him, baffled and frightened. After all, after everything, could things go wrong now?
“Sargon,” he called, and then louder, “Sargon!”
Not a sound, not a rustle came in reply.
“He’s hidden! Can he have crawled away and fainted? Exhausted perhaps!”
Fear touched Bobby with a chilly finger. Had he mistaken the place perhaps? Had Sargon strayed away in spite of his promise, or crept back numbed and wretched to the warmth and shelter of the asylum? Bobby followed the ditch down to the corner of the wood, and beyond the corner in the ditch to the right he suddenly beheld a little old woman, a little old woman sitting bunched in a heap on a litter of dry straw and fast asleep. She was wearing a battered black straw hat adorned with a broken black feather, a small black jacket bodice; a sack was drawn over her feet and a second sack thrown shawlwise over her shoulders. She was so crumpled up her face was hidden, all except one bright red ear, and behind her on the bank lay two large stakes tied in the form of a cross. To Bobby she was the most astonishing of apparitions. It was disconcerting enough to discover Sargon gone. It was still more amazing to find him so oddly replaced.
Bobby stood hesitating for the better part of a minute. Should he wake the old thing up and ask her about Sargon, or should he steal away? Nothing, he decided, would be lost by asking.
He went close up to her and coughed. “Excuse me, Madam,” he said.
The sleeper did not awake.
Bobby rustled among the leaves, coughed louder, and asked to be excused again. The sleeper muttered a choking snore, woke with a start, looked up, and revealed the face of Sargon. He stared at Bobby without recognition for a moment and then gave way to an enormous yawn. While he yawned, his blue eyes gathered intelligence and understanding. “I was so cold,” he said. “I took these things from the scarecrow. And the straw was nice and dry to sit on. Shall we put it all back?”
“Oh, glorious idea!” cried Bobby, with all his spirits restored. “It makes an honest woman of you. Can you walk in that sack? No, we haven’t time to put it back. Shake it down off your legs and bring it with you. The side-car isn’t two hundred yards away. You’ll be able to put it on again then. This is magnificent! This is wonderful! Certainly we won’t put it back. Off we’ll go, and when we’ve a good ten miles between us and the asylum we’ll stop and get some hot coffee and something to eat.”
“Hot coffee!” said Sargon, brightening visibly. “And bacon and eggs?”
“Hot coffee and bacon and eggs,” said Bobby.
“The coffee there is—beastly,” said Sargon.
Bobby helped Sargon into the side-car and raised the hood over him, erected the wind-screen, and so packed him away. He became a quite passable aunt, dimly seen. And in another minute Bobby had kicked the engine into an impatient fuss and was in the saddle.
He felt himself now the cleverest fellow that ever stole a lunatic. Not that it wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to get a lunatic away. If you knew how.... They quivered and jolted along the little minor road and so on to the smooth main highway to Ashford and Folkestone. The accelerator was urged to do its best. “Good-bye, Cummerdown,” sang Bobby. “Cummerdown Hill, good-bye!”
The little old motor bike was going beautifully.