CHAPTER IV
A HORSEDEALING TRANSACTION
AS I hurried to the station I tried to think over the position coolly and carefully.
In the first place, I was now a fugitive from the police; but as I had done no wrong, the fact had a sort of fascination for me. The scent of adventure and the prospective excitement attracted me, and the idea of a trial of wits with the authorities roused every combative instinct in my nature.
Even had there been no one else involved, I should have gone through with the thing for its own sake. But there was Volna. Her safety and that of her mother depended upon me; and that fact was the most powerful incentive I could have had to urge me to my utmost effort. The thought of helping such a splendid girl was just a sheer delight.
Those papers had to be got to Cracow. The mother’s safety required this; and the risk involved in the attempt formed the spice of the adventure. I had powerful and influential friends both at home and on the continent who would readily help me to get out of any bother so far as matters had gone at present; but it might be a very difficult thing if in the present excited state of the empire, I was caught helping the “P.F.F.” by carrying seditious documents for revolutionary purposes. Volna also had run no great risk as yet. The mere fact that she was travelling with Count Peter Valdemar was not by itself likely to involve her in any serious consequences. If the papers could have been destroyed, therefore, we could easily have put an end to the complication. But this was impossible. Their delivery in Cracow was imperative.
We stood thus at the dividing line between safety and risk; and there was nothing for it but to go through with the matter to the end.
My experience at the inn had its lesson. I recognized that I must move very warily indeed in making any inquiries at the station. The fussy little stationmaster, Blauben, might recognize me despite the change in my appearance; and I did not at all relish the prospect of interviewing him.
But in this one respect the luck was with me. I was surprised to see a small crowd of people at the generally deserted station, and it was an easy matter to mingle with them without being observed.
That was all the luck there was, however, as the reason for the crowd spelt further disaster to my plans of escape. The place was in a hubbub of excitement; and I soon learnt that there had been a very serious accident on the line at a place called Pulta, some seven or eight miles west of Bratinsk.
As a result of this the line to Cracow was blocked. There would be no train going west that night.
The people in the station were travellers from the opposite direction who had been put out and told, with the usual courtesy of the railway authorities, that they must shift for themselves until the line was clear. They might think themselves lucky, I overheard little Blauben tell one man, if they got on by noon the following day.
This was check with a vengeance; if not checkmate.
I hung about for some time with the object of ascertaining the chance of getting a train in the other direction—anything to get out of Bratinsk—and was pretending to study one of the time bills when I caught my own name.
“Know the Englishman, Anstruther? Of course I do.” It was Blauben’s voice. “If he comes here, I’ll stop him.”
“We think he may try and bolt.”
“How’s he going to bolt? There’s no train west and nothing east except the midnight express. But what’s it all about?” The reply was given in low tone and escaped me. But part of the stationmaster’s answer was enough.
“Spy? Rubbish. Why he was here shooting last year. You people would find spies growing on gooseberry bushes. No. I have already told a hundred of you that there will be no train”—this to a questioner in a tone of exasperation; and I saw him hurry off gesticulating frantically. I could do no good by waiting longer, so I slipped out of the station, and went back to the village to meet Volna.
After all, the accident at Pulta might not prove an unmitigated evil. The few sentences I had overheard showed that the police were watching the station for me; and an attempt to leave would probably have landed us right into their hands.
Then it occurred to me that we might even turn the accident to good account. If we could get to Pulta soon, we could give an excellent reason for our presence; that we wished to inquire about some friend supposed to have been in the wrecked train; and, as the line from there to Cracow would be open, we could do the journey after all by rail.
Pulta by the road was some ten miles, and a rough hilly road it was. Too far and too rough for Volna to attempt to walk. To hire any kind of conveyance was of course out of the question; as it would lay a trail which even a blind policeman could follow. I had a spare horse at the inn; but for the same reason I dared not attempt to take it out of the stable.
In that part of Poland, however, one deal can always be made without exciting any comment or surprise. Any one will trade a horse with you, and at any time of the day or night. I believe a man would not be in the least surprised to be called out of bed at midnight for the purpose; and I am sure he would gladly get up for the sheer pleasure of the deal. It is the one great pastime, or as near to a pastime, as the older men of that district care to get.
But to obtain a saddle was another matter; while even to have asked for such a thing as a side saddle would have stirred enough curiosity to set the gossips’ tongues click-clacking all over the village. There was nothing for it therefore except that Volna should ride bare-back; and as I should have to lead her horse, there was no use in getting one for myself.
Volna was waiting for me when I reached the appointed place. She had made a considerable change in her appearance. A long fur cloak covered her dress, and in place of her former dainty headgear she was wearing a close fur turban.
Wishing to try the effect of my own altered appearance, I assumed a sort of slouching walk and made as if to pass her.
“Did you think I should not know you?” she asked.
“I was rather hoping you would not. I am supposed to be disguised.”
She laughed. “I should know you anywhere.”
“Then we must trust that other eyes are not so keen as yours,” said I, feeling a little crestfallen.
“Or that they are not so interested in recognizing you. What about the train?”
“None but bad news;” and I told her what had occurred and how I proposed to manage. She agreed at once, but was for walking.
“I think I can walk ten miles,” she declared readily.
“There is no need. It is a rough, hilly road; and there is a man at the other end of the village from whom I can buy a horse without any chance of rousing suspicions.”
“It would not be more hilly for me than for you, would it?”
“I think you had better have the horse.”
“Then I will say no more,” she agreed. “I am afraid my disguise is not much more successful than yours,” she added, as we walked on.
“It might have been awkward if neither had recognized the other, mightn’t it?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“You would have to hide your face, if you don’t want to be known.”
“I expect I look an awful fright.”
“The more disguised you are the better,” said I. She laughed. “It is good to hear you laugh in the midst of all—this uncertainty.”
“It cannot be so very dreadful if you can manage to pay such neat compliments Mr.—Anstruther.”
“You find that name a bit troublesome, eh?”
“Don’t you think you are worth taking some trouble for? But it is hard.”
“Lucky that I’m going to change it while we are together.”
“Change it?”
“We’ll talk that all over on the road to Pulta. Here’s the place where I hope to get the horse. It may take a little time. Will you wait for me?”
There is a rough kind of recognized procedure in horsedealing in that district; but as I had had more than one experience of the kind I knew how to act.
I crossed to the house and seeing a light in the stable behind, guessed I should find the man bedding his horses. He did not know me, but I had heard of him.
“Good-evening, Andreas,” I said in a rather surly tone, as if I had a grievance against him; and without another word I walked up to the four horses one after the other and looked them over. He took no notice, but went on forking the bedding. This was all strictly in accordance with etiquette.
I came out of the last stall shrugging my shoulders and laughing contemptuously. “Blauben is a little fool. He said I should find some horses here. Good-night. There isn’t one worth a couple of roubles.”
The last sentence he understood to mean that I might possibly deal. He dashed his fork on the ground and came toward me, saying very angrily: “What’s that? Who are you? Who sent you here?”
“Old Blauben at the station.”
“And do you think you know anything about horses? You don’t know even how to look at them?”
“I have a chestnut that’s worth the whole string. I thought there was something to buy here. I suppose he thought I wanted meat for a bouillon factory. Good-night.”
“Wait, there, wait, you long imp of ignorance. Do you want to make a match with your chestnut? Where is it?”
I laughed. “If these crocks of yours saw mine they’d learn how to move. Here, smoke, you old owner of dogs’ meat;” and I handed him a cigar.
“Holy Virgin, what do I hear?” he cried, throwing up his hands, and putting a lantern near my face. He knew well enough now that I had come to trade; and was happy. But we kept up the farce a little longer; he abusing my chestnut and I his four nags.
His next object was to find out which horse I had selected; but I kept this from him carefully. At length I pointed to one that I would not have had as a gift.
“I’m going to give my dogs a treat one day, I think they could manage with that. How much for it, if I give you back the hide and the feet?”
He grinned. “You know a fine horse when you see one, after all,” he said. “You shall have him—three hundred roubles.” About £30 this.
“Kopecks, you mean. Good-night.”
“Wait, wait. Was there ever such an impatient fool as you? Do you really want him?”
“No, only I didn’t want this long walk for nothing: and I’m taking some horses to Noshti Fair.”
“Isn’t there one of the others you’d care for? Don’t be in a hurry.”
“I’m in no hurry. What about these others?”
Then the real bargaining began. He put a price on the horse I wished to have; and we chaffered and smoked and swore and abused one another in the way these bargains are made. I dared not hurry the matter too much. He would boast all over the village the next day of the fool who had given him the price he asked; and the transaction would become public property, with the result that the police might get wind of it.
It was safer to waste the time necessary to drive a hard bargain. And so we wrangled until I had fought the amount down to a fair price, when we spent another ten minutes squabbling whether he should give me an old bridle or merely a rope halter.
When I had gained my point and was riding the horse away he swore so violently that he was a heavy loser by the deal, that I knew he had made enough profit to boast about. I thought it best to alter his opinion, therefore.
“Do you know the history of this horse?” I asked knowingly. “No, you can’t or you’d know that I’ve cheated you. Do you know that he came from General Kolwich’s stable and was sold for four hundred roubles? I should have paid that for him, had you pressed me. I shall get five for him. But you should learn to know a horse when you see one.”
He pushed his cap back and scratched his head, and invoked the name of the Deity in a despair that was almost pathetic.
I rode off with a chuckle. I knew that I had struck deep into his pride as a horse trader, and that he would now keep his lips as close as a rat trap about the whole transaction. He would brood over it, and wait for the day when he could get even with me; but though the skies fell, he would never speak of that horse again to any one.
The bargaining had taken nearly an hour, and I feared the sands of Volna’s patience would be running out fast.
She greeted me with a sigh of relief. “I had begun to fear all sorts of things.”
“You have never had to buy a horse in these parts. It’s an acquired art and can only be accomplished with many lies and much time. But we’ll be off now. You can manage to ride bare-back, I hope?”
She smiled. “I have ridden bare-back ever since I was a child.”
“Then you haven’t had time yet to forget.”
“Is that a reflection on my youth or another compliment?”
“It’s about the truth, that’s all.”
“I’m nearly one and twenty,” she declared with a delightful air of dignity.
“It is a great age,” I agreed. “I remember how I felt at the time. One is never so old again, they say, until quite late in life.”
I helped her to mount. “Bare-back riding is a little undignified for one and twenty, I’m afraid. Now we are really off and in our new characters. Do you know who you are?”
“Miss Margaret Garrett, an English girl who is very troubled what to do with the r’s in her name.”
“We can alter that. My friend always calls his sister Peg.”
“Peg! what a woodeny name.”
“Short for Peggy—we think that rather pretty.”
She repeated it several times and laughed.
“Why do you laugh?”
“You have queer notions of what is pretty.”
“Mine’s worse, I’m called Bob.”
“Bob! Yes, that is much worse. Bob. Bob. Bob. It’s very short, and easy; but it’s very funny.”
“My sister always calls me Bob—every one does, in fact.”
“You have a sister then. What is her name?”
“Sylvia.”
“Now that is a pretty name.”
“Not always. She gets called Silly, sometimes.”
“That’s monstrous. Is she angry?”
“Not a bit. You see these are really pet names.”
“Oh!” She was silent a moment, and then said: “And are we to be Bob and Peggy to one another?”
“I guess so, except when we quarrel. Then it will be Robert and Margaret. But it will only be until to-morrow.”
“To-morrow?”
“When we reach Cracow, you know.”
“Shall we get there to-morrow?”
“All right—Bob.” She said it with a sly little laugh.
“You’ll soon get used to it, Peggy. And now I’ll get you to carry my heavy coat, and if you’ll shake him up we’ll trot for a bit. The sooner we’ve put a mile or two between us and Bratinsk the better.”