RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
"HE'S a common liar," said York.
"I don't think it," said the Club secretary, judicially. "He may have exaggerated in the details; he probably has done; any man with a tongue in his head would do with such an opportunity; but I'm inclined to believe he'd got ordinary truth for a foundation. And mark you, I've known Felton off and on for a long time. I was only a year senior to him at Cambridge."
"My dear boy," said York, "I've known him intimately ever since he was Johnny Felton in knickerbockers and tears at a dame school. There was nothing heroic about him then, and I've never noticed a change grow in that respect during all the years that have edged in since. He was no good at games or anything when he was a kid; he's been nothing but a petticoat pendant ever since he came down from the 'varsity. No, Johnny's always been the most nervous, effeminate little creature imaginable. But," York added, thoughtfully, "I must confess that I have never found him to be much of a liar either. He hadn't the necessary inventiveness. Whenever he told a tale that was anything beyond the most ordinary gossip, it was the dreariest thing imaginable—up to the present outbreak, that is."
"And now, because he comes out with a startler, you don't believe him."
"There's something wrong about this tale," said York, obstinately. "It doesn't hang together right."
"Well," said the club secretary, "I've had some experience of liars at this shop, and I always notice that the one prominent feature in all their yarns is the beautiful way in which all the pieces dovetail in with one another. But letting that alone, there's another thing to remember. When Felton left London two months ago for the States his hair was dark brown; he comes back with it gray as a badger's; there's no getting over that."
"And that's the only thing which stumps me," said York, thoughtfully. "Men do not get completely gray in eight short weeks without a good solid reason. Hullo, though, look. There he is, off button-holing Methuen. He's telling his yarn over again; and that must be the fourteenth time this blessed day. Now look here. I'll bet you Methuen stumps him. Methuen's been all over the world, and he'll pick out the weak points which we don't see. Come on and listen."
"Can't," said the club secretary. "I've got work to do."
"Oh, come along."
"Work!" said the club secretary solemnly, and helped himself to matches and went off to his own den.
YORK got up and stretched his arms. He smiled like a man who is going to be entertained, and then he crossed the room and took the deep chair close to Methuen's. He ordered a large whisky and soda from the waiter who had just come in, and settled himself down to listen. Felton was fairly into the swing of his tale.
"Oh, we wandered all about North Carolina and Tennessee," he was saying. "In the Allegheny country for the most part. Know it?"
"Not a bit," said Methuen, "except vaguely, by reputation. I've merely passed through there from Richmond, Virginia, down to New Orleans, on the cars."
"Remember Ashville in North Carolina?"
"Can't say I do."
"Well, you must have passed through it, but perhaps were there at night. The Ashville. Poor old chap! Poor old Sugden!"
"What's the matter with Sugden, Johnny?"
"Handed in his checks," said Felton, darkly.
"Thought they only did that out west. But it's a good phrase anyway. What did Sugden meddle with checks for?"
"It was moonlighting," said Felton.
"I thought it was America you were talking about," York cut in. "'Moonlighting' sounds as if you'd got to Ireland."
Felton ignored the suggestion.
"You know what moonlight whisky is, Methuen, don't you?"
"Real mean corn?"
"Illicit whisky made by the tarheelers up in the mountains. It's awful stuff to drink, and nobody but a mountaineer could swallow it, or make it."
"Hard stuff to brew?"
"No, dangerous. It's against the law, you know. And when the sheriff and his gang raid a still, they shoot first and ask questions afterwards."
"Ah!" said Methuen, "I've heard they were a pretty tough crowd up in the mountains there, and especially on the Tennessee side, in the Great Smokies."
"Do you know the ground then?" Felton asked quickly.
"I've told you no. Trot out your yarn, Johnny. I can't contradict."
"Oh, you think I came back here to tell lies," said Felton, and York from the depths of the big chair laughed. "But you needn't suppose that I went in and out of a business that turned my hair this colour merely because I liked it."
He passed a hand over his gray head with a gesture that was entirely pathetic.
"Before I left England on that horrible trip to the Alleghenies, you know I got on with the women as well as any fellow in London. You are neither of you ladies' men, and I know you despise me for it; but that was my hobby, and no one can deny that I was well up in the front rank. Well, I came back a cauliflower-headed fogey. Do you suppose any of this year's debutantes will care to do a flirtation with me like half the last batch did?"
"Of course they'll all jump at the chance," said York. "Veal always adores the hero of wild romantic adventure."
Felton gave a slow and mournful shake of the head, but his eyes distinctly brightened.
"Do you really think so?" he said.
"Sure of it," said York, briskly. "Look how the little dears all trot after Methuen there."
"Skittles!" said Methuen. "I don't know ten women in London, and don't want to. 'My love is on a distant shore,' or, to be more accurate, on several distant shores. So you see they don't clash. I once tried spooning with two women at once in this village, and they met and compared notes and both came and clawed me. I had to clear in a hurry, and I haven't dared to tackle the London female since. But York's right, Johnny. Spin your yarn and show your scars; curdle 'em, and they'll adore you. It's funny why they should, but that's the way they're built."
Felton shook his head and tried not to look pleased.
"But what induced you of all people to brew moonlight whisky?" Methuen asked. "Some women been scratching you here, and you ran away and got desperate?"
"I went out to the States merely to see an old friend," said Felton. "You won't know him, either of you. His name was Sugden, and he lived in the north before he left England. We had always kept up a good correspondence ever since he was abroad, and he was always wanting me to go over and look him up.
"So a couple of months ago when the season here came to an end, I sent him a cable and followed it myself in the next steamer. He was living in Ashville, North Carolina; and he'd been most things, from clerk in a store—counter-jumper that is, y'know—to conductor of a trolley car. But just before I got there he'd been bringing off one or two operations in real estate which had left him in funds, and he said he wanted a holiday. We agreed to go off together. It was a toss-up between one of the sea-bathing places up north and a trip to the mountains, and I gave my bean for the dose of savagery."
"Oh, come now, Johnny!" said York.
"It's a fact," said Felton, "and if you want to know the reason I must own to being a horrible snob. You see, poor old Sugden's clothes were so awfully behind date that I should have been ashamed to go with him to any place where we might meet smart people. So now you see."
"Beg pardon," said York, "that sounds more likely."
"I don't know why you fellows should be so sceptical," said Felton. "You don't suppose I went off, and got into a mess, and earned this infernal gray hair, for the sheer fun of the thing, do you?"
"Go on with the yarn," said Methuen. "Never mind York. He's jealous."
"Well, at first we were going to take a jersey, or a buckboard, or some sort of vehicle, and drive along in that, and have a tent and be fairly comfortable. But Sugden said we should have much better fun if we rode, and be able to see far more of the country.
"The nights are very hot at that time of the year, and it didn't a bit matter about sleeping in the open. And as for grub, we must buy what we could as we went along. He was to take a kettle, a frying pan, and each of us had a blanket on the front of his saddle, and a bag slung behind to carry anything we were forced to take. You should have seen poor old Sugden on that Kentucky horse of his, with flap stirrups, and a big felt hat! Buffalo Bill was a fool to him.
"We struck straight out for the mountains. We were going past Bill Nye's place at Buck Shoals on the French Broad River, then to Bowman's Bluff, where there is the English colony, and then way up to Caesar's Head, and on down the other side into Tennessee. We weren't going to have any settled plans past that; we were going just where the spirit and the trails took us; and we were going to forget that such things as real estate or stiff collars had ever been invented. It was all Sugden's scheme, he just bristled with it; he said it would be a regular trip in Arcadia. Poor old Alfred!
"Well, you know, you chaps, I'm no hand at describing scenery. You've got to read that in books if you want to find out about it, or else go out there and stare for yourselves. But I will say it was all fine; great forests, y'know, with big red cliffs sticking out of them, and red soil on the roads, and red water in the rivers. Occasionally we came across a village, and got apples and peaches and chickens, and filled up the corn bag, and bought a fresh tin of baking powder, and at night we made fast the horses to tree boughs, and built a fire to cook at, and camped out under the stars. Am I boring you?"
Methuen yawned.
"Er—no," he said. "But never mind the landscape and the commissariat, Johnny. I'm a hit pushed for time now, and you can tell that some other day. Get on to the shooting. I want to hear how you earned those venerable looks."
Felton sighed.
"It's a hard thing to have to talk about," he said, "especially as nothing but my curiosity took us up there at all. You see moonlight whisky was not new to Sugden. It was merely bad liquor and nothing more. But it was just like a now story book to me then. It was filthy stuff to drink; sort of mixture between paraffin and methylated spirit; but it gave you a delicious kind of creeps when you remembered the murderous outlaws who had brewed it. At least that was the way it struck me, when I didn't know anything about them."
"Fancy Johnny getting enthusiastic about anything so badly dressed as outlaws," York murmured.
"Give the man a chance," said Methuen. "Go on, Johnny."
"And after a good deal of fishing for it, we were given the tip as to where one of the finest stills in all the mountains was hidden; and we got set on to the end of the horse trail, and rode away for it through the trees.
"Now it turned out that the revenue had been trying hard to discover this still for many a year; but that we didn't know, and the tarheelers we'd asked questions from got it into their frowsy heads that we were revenue spies, and had sent word; which also of course we didn't guess. But we got the news given to us mighty suddenly. We had gone a matter of a dozen miles, maybe, when we came upon a big black pine felled across the horse trail. We pulled up, and someone told us to hold our hands above our heads. There was no help for it. There were a dozen gun-barrels pointing at us from cover; and some fellows came with ropes, and in another minute they had us trussed up like a couple of fowls on a game dealer's slab.
"We told them we were nothing but harmless tourists, but they only jeered and banged us about with their feet. They'd quite persuaded themselves that we were revenue spies, and not all the talking in the world would have made them change their minds. But they didn't even give us a chance to talk. They tied up the mouths of each of us with his own handkerchief, and then held a trial over us. Fancy that! And then there was no foolery about it either. In ten minutes they had condemned the pair of us to death, and I felt a sort of empty feeling grow where my stomach ought to have been that was quite new to me. I don't mind telling you I was in the deuce of a funk. You fellows may think me a coward if you like, but I don't mind telling you I was horribly frightened."
"Don't apologise," said Methuen. "Any man would have been. But I suppose when you were both thoroughly sorry for yourselves, they gave you a kick and sent you on your way, or else you would not be here now!"
"Oh, did they?" said Felton. "You don't understand these brutes. A few of them were for stringing us up there and then, but someone suggested that they would make a better example of us if they hanged us by the side of the high-road; and the rest picked up the idea at once. They took us back down the trail on led horses, and halted when we got to the road, under a big white oak.
"'It will carry the pair of them,' said somebody.
"'No, one at a time,' said somebody else. "We will string up the tall fellow here, and tote the other one down the grade and hang him on that big magnolia tree below the bend.'
"Up till then I'd a wild hope that we were only going to be scared; but when I saw they intended to murder the pair of us I very near fainted. I saw them put a rope round Sugden's neck and pull him up to a branch of the white oak, and the brutes made me look on till he was stone dead. Poor old Alfred! And I was as powerless as a fly to help him! And then we moved off down the road, and left him dangling behind us, and I expected to be dead, too, within another hour!"
"Phew!" said Methuen. "That was a tight corner. And so I suppose you got desperate, and made a break for it, and got clear?"
"I'd all the will to do that," said Felton, "but not the chance. I'd my wrists tied behind me, and my feet coupled together beneath the horse's belly. Otherwise I should have made a dash for it, even with the certainty of being shot down before I got a dozen yards away. Anything is better than being strung up like a dog. But, as I say, they took care that escape of that kind was impossible.
"And the way I did get free was unexpected. We met a fellow on the road to the bend by the magnolia who had travelled down with me in the cars (so it seems) from New York; and he vouched that I was a Britisher newly landed, and could not be a revenue spy. They were half in mind to hang me still, so that I should not bother them further, but at I last they said if I'd give my word of honour to clear from the country and not try to take any vengeance, they'd let me go. And I did that. Poor old Alfred was dead and couldn't be helped. And so I didn't think shame in looking after the saving of my own life.
"I suppose," he added, with a shrug of the shoulders, "a man in a book would have saved Sugden and exterminated the moonlighters; but then I'm only an ordinary individual, and merely human. I hadn't a chance given me to do anything. And I rode back to Ashville and looked in the glass. My hair had been brown when I started out ten days before, it was the colour you see it now then, and I wasn't surprised. I felt as if I'd lived five and forty years between the two dates. Well, it's seven o'clock, and I must be going. Goodbye, you fellows. Don't tell everybody what a mess I've been in."
"Which being interpreted," said York, as the little gray-haired man went wearily out of the room, "is a request to advertise the matter most thoroughly far and wide. What do you think of the yarn?"
"Don't quite know," said Methuen. "It seems a bit improbable somehow, but there's no getting over that grey hair. He couldn't have invented that—Hullo, look here there, it can't be. Yes, it is. I say, Cospatric"—a man who had just come into the room walked across laughing—"what on earth are you doing here."
"I landed in England yesterday from the States, and came to this club to dine with a steamer acquaintance."
"Sit down and talk," said Methuen. "This is Mr. York—Mr. Cospatric. Fancy stumbling across you, here of all places."
"It is a horrible small world," said Cospatric. "On the stairs coming up to this room I met a little fellow I saw only the other day in Ashville, North Carolina. He was staying in one of the big summer hotels there, to pick up local colour, and also for another purpose which made onlookers laugh. He'd evidently been in the habit of dying his hair, and had got sick of it. Consequently as the daily dose was discontinued, his locks were gray close to the head, and brown at the ends. It made him a most comic sight, and watching the gray sub-stratum get deeper day by day provided cheap amusement for the whole hotel. We concluded he was some sort of a novelist, because he was very eager about the blood and thunder tales in the local papers, and keen to be told all the details.
"There was one affair which especially fascinated him. A truculent deputy sheriff called Sugden went up to raid some moonlight whisky mills, and made himself disliked by the local tarheelers, and was hanged by them out of revenge on a tree by the roadside. It was quite a three days' sensation in the local rags, with scare-headings and woodcuts all complete. Felton just revelled in it. I shouldn't mind betting he dishes up that Sugden episode for English fiction before many months are over."
York was gasping with laughter in the depth of the big armchair. "He's done it already," he said.
"Oh, you know the man, do you?" said Cospatric.
"We know him, all right, and he isn't a good storyteller. He gave us the yarn with tons of detail, only he got mixed up about the names. Oh, Johnny, Johnny, I didn't think you could rise to heights like this!"
Methuen lifted his tumbler.
"Here's to him," he said. "And we won't give him away. It would be sheer cruelty to cut the ground from under him now that he has gone to all this trouble and expense to build up his yarn. And besides, female London is in my debt. I owe them a score."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.