“Exactly. I expect our friend Lloyd was rather disgusted at his small luck—probably gave the brooch to some female connection in London, and she realized on it. Such persons don’t always trouble to give a correct address.”
The two smoked in silence for a few minutes, and then Hewitt continued: “I don’t expect our friend has had an easy job altogether with that bird. His successes at most have only been three, and I suspect he had many failures and not a few anxious moments that we know nothing of. I should judge as much merely from what the groom told me of frequently meeting Lloyd with his parrot. But the plan was not a bad one—not at all. Even if the bird had been caught in the act, it would only have been ‘That mischievous parrot!’ you see. And his master would only have been looking for him.”
The Loss of Sammy Crockett
IT was, of course, always a part of Martin Hewitt’s business to be thoroughly at home among any and every class of people, and to be able to interest himself intelligently, or to appear to do so, in their various pursuits. In one of the most important cases ever placed in his hands he could have gone but a short way toward success had he not displayed some knowledge of the more sordid aspects of professional sport, and a great interest in the undertakings of a certain dealer therein.
The great case itself had nothing to do with sport, and, indeed, from a narrative point of view, was somewhat uninteresting, but the man who alone held the one piece of information wanted was a keeper, backer, or “gaffer” of professional pedestrians, and it was through the medium of his pecuniary interest in such matters that Hewitt was enabled to strike a bargain with him.
The man was a publican on the outskirts of Padfield, a northern town, pretty famous for its sporting tastes, and to Padfield, therefore, Hewitt betook himself, and, arrayed in a way to indicate some inclination of his own toward sport, he began to frequent the bar of the Hare and Hounds. Kentish, the landlord, was a stout, bull-necked man, of no great communicativeness at first; but after a little acquaintance he opened out wonderfully, became quite a jolly (and rather intelligent) companion, and came out with innumerable anecdotes of his sporting adventures. He could put a very decent dinner on the table, too, at the Hare and Hounds, and Hewitt’s frequent invitation to him to join therein and divide a bottle of the best in the cellar soon put the two on the very best of terms. Good terms with Mr. Kentish was Hewitt’s great desire, for the information he wanted was of a sort that could never be extracted by casual questioning, but must be a matter of open communication by the publican, extracted in what way it might be.
“Look here,” said Kentish one day, “I’ll put you on to a good thing, my boy—a real good thing. Of course you know all about the Padfield 135 Yards Handicap being run off now?”
“Well, I haven’t looked into it much,” Hewitt replied. “Ran the first round of heats last Saturday and Monday, didn’t they?”
“They did. Well”—Kentish spoke in a stage whisper as he leaned over and rapped the table—“I’ve got the final winner in this house.” He nodded his head, took a puff at his cigar, and added, in his ordinary voice. “Don’t say nothing.”
“No, of course not. Got something on, of course?”
“Rather! What do you think? Got any price I liked. Been saving him up for this. Why, he’s got twenty-one yards, and he can do even time all the way! Fact! Why, he could win runnin’ back’ards. He won his heat on Monday like—like—like that!” The gaffer snapped his fingers, in default of a better illustration, and went on. “He might ha’ took it a little easier, I think; it’s shortened his price, of course, him jumpin’ in by two yards. But you can get decent odds now, if you go about it right. You take my tip—back him for his heat next Saturday, in the second round, and for the final. You’ll get a good price for the final, if you pop it down at once. But don’t go makin’ a song of it, will you, now? I’m givin’ you a tip I wouldn’t give anybody else.”
“Thanks, very much; it’s awfully good of you. I’ll do what you advise. But isn’t there a dark horse anywhere else?”
“Not dark to me, my boy, not dark to me. I know every man runnin’ like a book. Old Taylor—him over at the Cop—he’s got a very good lad at eighteen yards, a very good lad indeed; and he’s a tryer this time, I know. But, bless you, my lad could give him ten, instead o’ taking three, and beat him then! When I’m runnin’ a real tryer, I’m generally runnin’ something very near a winner, you bet; and this time, mind this time, I’m runnin’ the certainest winner I ever run—and I don’t often make a mistake. You back him.”
“I shall, if you’re as sure as that. But who is he?”
“Oh, Crockett’s his name—Sammy Crockett. He’s quite a new lad. I’ve got young Steggles looking after him—sticks to him like wax. Takes his little breathers in my bit o’ ground at the back here. I’ve got a cinder-sprint path there, over behind the trees. I don’t let him out o’ sight much, I can tell you. He’s a straight lad, and he knows it’ll be worth his while to stick to me; but there’s some ‘ud poison him, if they thought he’d spoil their books.”
Soon afterward the two strolled toward the tap-room. “I expect Sammy’ll be there,” the landlord said, “with Steggles. I don’t hide him too much—they’d think I’d got something extra on if I did.”
In the tap-room sat a lean, wire-drawn-looking youth, with sloping shoulders and a thin face, and by his side was a rather short, thick-set man, who had an odd air, no matter what he did, of proprietorship and surveillance of the lean youth. Several other men sat about, and there was loud laughter, under which the lean youth looked sheepishly angry.
“‘Tarn’t no good, Sammy, lad,” some one was saying, “you a-makin’ after Nancy Webb—she’ll ha’ nowt to do with ‘ee.”
“Don’ like ‘em so thread-papery,” added another. “No, Sammy, you aren’t the lad for she. I see her—”
“What about Nancy Webb?” asked Kentish, pushing open the door. “Sammy’s all right, any way. You keep fit, my lad, an’ go on improving, and some day you’ll have as good a house as me. Never mind the lasses. Had his glass o’ beer, has he?” This to Raggy Steggles, who, answering in the affirmative, viewed his charge as though he were a post, and the beer a recent coat of paint.
“Has two glasses of mild a day,” the landlord said to Hewitt. “Never puts on flesh, so he can stand it. Come out now.” He nodded to Steggles, who rose and marched Sammy Crockett away for exercise.
On the following afternoon (it was Thursday), as Hewitt and Kentish chatted in the landlord’s own snuggery, Steggles burst into the room in a great state of agitation and spluttered out: “He—he’s bolted; gone away!”
“What?”
“Sammy—gone! Hooked it! I can’t find him.”
The landlord stared blankly at the trainer, who stood with a sweater dangling from his hand and stared blankly back. “What d’ye mean?” Kentish said, at last. “Don’t be a fool! He’s in the place somewhere. Find him!”
But this Steggles defied anybody to do. He had looked already. He had left Crockett at the cinder-path behind the trees in his running-gear, with the addition of the long overcoat and cap he used in going between the path and the house to guard against chill. “I was goin’ to give him a bust or two with the pistol,”