A little company of men, three convicts and two warders, swung out under the great granite arch that leads into Dartmoor Prison. Turning to the left, they strode past the Governor's garden with its gay beds of tulips and hyacinths, and still keeping up a brisk pace, emerged a few minutes later into the main street of Princetown. Here they came to a halt in front of a depressing-looking stone building which bore an inscription announcing it to be the "Recreation Rooms."
Two villagers were standing chatting on the further side of the road, but beyond the briefest of brief glances they betrayed no interest in the arrival of the party. For the inhabitants of Princetown the spectacle of convicts and warders has lost that attraction which it still possesses for the citizens of less happily situated towns. It is only the visitors to the hotel who stare, and on the present occasion there were no visitors about. They were all out on the moor, getting the best of a fine spring morning, and as many trout as it might please Fate to deceive.
One of the warders unlocked the door, and the small party mounted the steps and entered the building. The interior certainly showed some traces of the recreation referred to outside. At the further end of the room was a stage set for an out-of-door scene, while a number of chairs piled up in the body of the hall suggested that an entertainment of some kind was under early contemplation.
"All them chairs have got to be set out in rows," remarked the warder who had opened the door. "Don't take the front lot too near the stage, and leave a space up the middle, so as folks can pass in and out. Bascombe, you come along with me!"
The convict addressed, a burly man of about sixty, with twinkling black eyes, followed the warder up a small flight of steps at the side of the stage into a room beyond.
It was a nondescript sort of apartment, serving apparently the triple purpose of a green-room, a dressing-room, and a scene-painter's studio. A large theatrical basket with Clarkson's label on it stood in the centre of the floor, and propped against the walls were several pieces of blank stage canvas awaiting the artist's hand.
"That's them, Bascombe," said the warder, jerking his thumb at the latter articles. "We want you to paint a room on 'em. It's supposed to be a scholar's room at Oxford College. D'ye think you can do it?"
The convict nodded his head.
"It's for 'Dick's Uncle,' ain't it, sir?" he drawled. "I remember the set. Saw it from the gallery at the old Strand."
"That's right," said the warder. "Well, you shove along with it. There are your paints and brushes."
He pointed to a small wooden table where a supply of scene-painter's accessories were neatly laid out.
The convict wandered slowly round the room, inspecting the various pieces of canvas with a critical eye. Then, selecting the largest, he pulled up the table alongside, and taking the palette in his hand began to prepare his colours.
It was soon evident that he was no novice at his business. The few bold strokes in charcoal with which he outlined his sketch had all that firmness and accuracy that only come from long practice.
With fascinated eyes the warder gazed upon the process. The gradual emergence of an interior at Oxford College, in reply to the apparently irresponsible dabs and daubs of a convict, seemed to him to savour of the miraculous. Only the iron sense of discipline which permeated their relations prevented him from openly expressing his admiration to the artist.
After watching the work for about a quarter of an hour, he at length rose reluctantly to his feet, picking up the rifle which he had balanced against a chair.
"I'm goin' on the stage to see about the gas brackets, Bascombe," he said. "I'll be back in a minute. You push on with that there paintin'. We want it ready for the re'earsal Friday, if you can manage it."
He crossed the room to a door, which apparently opened into the street, and, turning the handle, satisfied himself that it was properly locked. Then, after a final look round and a last approving glance at the canvas, he clumped off through the narrow exit that led to the stage.
For a minute or so after his departure the convict continued to paint. He was sketching in the rough outline of a fire-place, and the operation evidently engrossed his entire attention. As he worked he whistled softly and tunefully, stepping back every now and then to contemplate his labours. At last he laid down his brush, and, stretching himself with a prolonged yawn, gazed listlessly about him. His eye fell on the big basket in the centre of the room. He stared at it for a moment in a sort of idle curiosity, then with a swift glance at the door through which the warder had gone out he stepped noiselessly across and lifted the lid.
Inside were several suits of clothes neatly folded and tied into separate bundles. There were also two or three cardboard boxes, each one labelled with a different name. For a moment the convict contemplated them thoughtfully; then with a sudden grin he bent down and lifted up one of the boxes. A second glance at the door assured him that he was still unobserved. Opening his find he took out its contents—a carefully dressed wig of silver-grey hair. A moment later he was standing in front of a small looking-glass upon the wall, complacently regarding its effect upon his own cropped head.
The transformation was certainly a successful one. Coming right down on his forehead, without a scalp-piece to destroy the illusion, the wig altered his appearance to an extraordinary extent. But for the hideous broad-arrowed jacket below he might easily have passed for a rugged, good-natured-looking barrister or country parson.
Something of this incongruity of costume seemed to strike Mr. Bascombe. With a broadening grin, he retraced his steps to the basket and silently continued his researches.
The first bundle of clothes which he examined consisted of an old-fashioned suit of large checks, evidently intended for a comic gentleman of mature years. Placing them on one side, he next pulled out a blue and buff livery, gaily ornamented with brass buttons. It was a handsome costume, but with the sensibility of a true artist Mr. Bascombe realized at once that it was unsuited to the remainder of his appearance. Laying it carefully on top of the other, he again rummaged in the basket, his efforts on this occasion being rewarded by a roll of sombre garments tied round with a piece of red tape. He slipped off the latter, and, depositing a pair of trousers and waistcoat on the ground, held up a long black coat of clerical cut.
Now, Mr. Bascombe was the possessor of a richly-developed sense of humour, which for five years had been suffering from a deplorable lack of exercise. Even with the certainty of punishment ahead, he was quite unable to resist the temptation offered by this outfit. The sight of the warder's face when that gentleman returned would, he felt, be more than sufficient compensation for the reduced diet and loss of marks that would inevitably follow.
Five minutes' swift and silent work, and the metamorphosis was complete. He stood before the glass smiling hugely at his reflection—a perfect specimen of a weather-beaten parson of the Jack Russell school.
Up till then no idea but that of startling the warder had entered his head. He had drifted into the jest quite undeliberately, dressing himself up solely out of a sense of mischievous amusement. It was the unexpected perfection of his disguise that suddenly suggested to him the possibilities of the situation.
He turned a rapid glance on the locked door, and another on the pile of convict clothes that lay huddled together beside the basket. For an instant he stood undecided, then stealthily as a cat he again stepped across the room and picked up his discarded garments. Tying them round with the piece of red tape, he thrust them down into the bottom of the basket, covering them over with the two suits and the box that he had previously taken out. This done, he shut the lid, and once more stood motionless, listening intently to the sounds that reached him from the hall. He could hear nothing but the dull tramp of his fellow-convicts' feet passing up and down, and the clatter of the chairs as they were set in their places.
With the grin still embedded on his countenance he slipped noiselessly across to the outer door. Bending down, he examined the lock. It was a simple affair—almost insultingly simple for a gentleman of Mr. Bascombe's capabilities.
He straightened himself and cast a quick look round the room. On the wall hung a large coloured portrait of King Edward VII, poorly disguised as a British Admiral. Mr. Bascombe lifted it down with a delicate care that may have been due to loyalty, and swiftly unfastened the thick wire by which it had been suspended. From this he twisted off a piece about ten inches in length, and, picking up the palette knife from the table, resumed his crouching position in front of the door.
For about a minute and a half he remained in this attitude, a faint scratching noise and his own heavy breathing being the only audible indications of his labour. Then suddenly came a grating sound, followed a moment later by a sharp click.
Mr. Bascombe did not wait to see if he had been overheard. Rising quickly and silently to his feet, he opened the door just wide enough to enable him to reconnoitre his position. Except for a black cat luxuriously scratching herself in the sunshine, the roadway opposite was empty. A swift glance up and down showed him there was no one nearer than the post office. Without a trace of hurry or nervousness he stepped out and closed the door behind him. A moment later with magnificent unconcern he was sauntering slowly down the street.
The few people that he passed paid no particular attention to him. A sunburned, holiday-making clergyman, with smiling countenance and leisurely gait, is almost as common a sight in Princetown as a convict. Stopping now and then to look into the shop windows, he pursued his unhurried way until he reached the corner of the street opposite the Moorlands Hotel.
Till that moment the problem of what to do with his liberty had not crossed Mr. Bascombe's mind. His faculties had been wholly absorbed in the delicious and unwonted sense of freedom to which he had been so long a stranger. But the sight of that large gold-lettered inscription upon the white building on the other side of the street brought him back to more practical considerations. It suggested to him that liberty, especially liberty of such a precarious nature as his was likely to prove, should be put to prompt and satisfactory service.
Being a gentleman of action, he did not wait upon his thoughts. Moistening his lips, he crossed the road, and still with the same deliberate dignity mounted the two or three stone steps that led into the hotel.
A large, fat-faced waiter who was standing just inside saw him coming and pulled open the door of the comfortably furnished lounge, bowing obsequiously as he did so. Mr. Bascombe entered, and looked round with the air of a man well pleased with his environment.
"I want to see the landlord," he remarked.
Again the waiter bowed.
"Yes, sir, I will fetch him, sir. Will you take a seat for a moment?"
He indicated a large, comfortable-looking ottoman upholstered in green leather.
With a little grunt of satisfaction Mr. Bascombe settled himself down upon the article in question. His enjoyment of its comfortable cushions was heightened by the remembrance of the hard wooden stool which for five years had constituted his only form of sitting accommodation. Half closing his eyes, he leaned back in an attitude of luxurious abandonment. There was no one in the lounge beside himself, the only sound that reached him being a faint murmur of voices from the bar beyond varied once by the sharp popping of a cork. At the latter noise a slow smile crept over the convict's face, and once more he thoughtfully passed his tongue across his lips.
His solitude was broken by the entrance of the landlord, a cheery-looking little man with grey side-whiskers and a slight stammer.
"G-good morning, sir," he began; "sorry to have k-kept you waiting."
"That's all right," replied Mr. Bascombe graciously. "I want to know if you can let me have a room."
"Oh, yes, sir—n-no difficulty about that. Just for the night, or will you be staying for a f-f-few days?"
"I'm in no hurry," returned Mr. Bascombe, stretching himself contentedly; then, thinking that perhaps he ought to be more explicit, he added with a touch of native humour, "It's pleasant to to be in a comfortable hotel again after what I've had to put up with lately."
"Indeed, sir!" said the landlord. "Perhaps you're on a w-w-walking tour?"
He looked round as though expecting to see the inevitable knapsack.
Mr. Bascombe interpreted the glance correctly.
"Yes," he said, "that's it. I've got my baggage coming on by train."
The landlord nodded his head.
"Nothing like walking light," he commented.
"You're right," said Mr. Bascombe, rising to his feet. "By the way, can I have something to eat? It's a bit early, I know, but the fact is I didn't have much of a breakfast this morning."
"Why, c-certainly, sir, of course. Lunch won't be ready till one o'clock, but you can have anything c-c-cold, or a chop, or s-s-steak, if you pre-prefer it."
"Ah! a steak will do me proud," said Mr. Bascombe with enthusiasm. "A big 'un for choice, with plenty of potatoes."
"Anything to drink, sir?"
Mr. Bascombe paused a moment so as to let the full beauty of the question sink into his understanding. Then he replied playfully:
"Well, I think a drop of Burgundy might help it down."
The landlord, whose previous experience of touring clergymen had led him to regard them as a joyless and unprofitable brood, was delighted at the mingled geniality and broad-mindedness of his guest. With a "Certainly, sir; I'll fetch it you myself," he led the way across the lounge and threw open the door of the coffee-room.
"Perhaps you'd like to g-go to your room first, sir?" he suggested.
Mr. Bascombe cast a contemplative look at his hands.
"I could do with a wash, couldn't I?" he admitted cheerfully. "Dirty work climbing these hills."
"Oh, we'll soon remedy that, sir!" laughed the landlord. He rang the bell, and an undersized youth with a shock of red hair appeared from somewhere in the back regions.
"T-t-take this gentleman up to Number Six, Albert, and g-get him some hot water. I'll order your lunch, sir," he added. "It will be ready almost as soon as you are."
Ten minutes later, with comparatively clean hands and a superlatively acute appetite, Mr. Bascombe re-entered the coffee-room.
The fat waiter, who was just putting the finishing touches to a small table by the window, looked up as he came in.
"I've laid your lunch 'ere, sir," he remarked. "It's more cheerful like."
Mr. Bascombe regarded the preparations with an approving eye.
"Good lad," he said, seating himself in the comfortable arm-chair set out for him. "This'll just about suit my complaint. Now you bung along and hurry up the cook."
A momentary flicker of surprise illumined the fat waiter's face, but with the true philosophy of his order he recovered himself immediately.
"Yes, sir," he remarked with an ingratiating smile. "Shan't keep you waiting a minute, sir."
He shuffled out into the kitchen, where he repeated the phrase to the cook.
"Told me to bung along and 'urry up 'is dinner. Fancy a parson speaking like that!"
"P'r'aps 'e's a Roman Catholic," suggested the cook.
Left to himself, Mr. Bascombe extracted a toothpick from the wine-glass on the table, and, leaning back in his chair, directed his gaze out of the window. He perceived at once that for some reason or other the usually placid main thoroughfare of Princetown was in a state of no little animation. Outside the grocer's shop opposite the hotel a group of six or seven men and women stood in the roadway talking eagerly and staring up the street. Their agitation seemed to be in some way connected with the prison, for as a warder came running hastily past they all turned and followed him with their eyes. Mr. Bascombe instinctively pushed back his chair.
At that moment the door of the coffee-room swung open and the landlord hurried in, carrying a bottle of Burgundy in his hand. His face was flushed and excited.
"I'm sorry to have been so long, sir," he began, "but the fact is we've had a b-b-bit of a shock. A warder has just been round to tell us that there's a c-c-convict loose in Princetown."
"Gawd bless my soul!" cried Mr. Bascombe, "you don't say so!" Picking up the bottle of Burgundy, he poured himself out a glass, and drained it at a gulp. "Give me quite a turn," he explained, filling it up again.
The landlord regarded him sympathetically.
"Yes, sir, I d-don't wonder. The whole of P-P-Princetown's in a rare state about it."
Mr. Bascombe, who still seemed to be suffering from the shock, raised his glass a second time and took two or three long, deliberate sips.
"How did the beggar get away?" he inquired, setting it down again with a deep breath.
"Well, sir, it seems as how, b-being a scene-painter by trade, the warders had taken him down to the Recreation Rooms to p-paint a bit o' stuff for the p-p-play they're doing next week. They left him for a minute in the room behind the stage, and when they came back they found he'd f-forced the door and slipped out."
"Careless! careless!" interpolated Mr. Bascombe, filling up his glass.
"Yes, sir, but the amazing thing is, what's happened to him? Being in c-c-convict clothes, one would think he must have been spotted directly he showed his nose outside."
A slow smile stole across Mr. Bascombe's face.
"It's a fair puzzler," he admitted. "If he'd got some sort of a disguise like, now, one could understand it; but——"
There was a clatter of hoofs, and several uniformed men on horseback galloped past the hotel. The landlord ran to the window.
"There g-goes the civil g-g-guard," he stammered.
Mr. Bascombe again raised his glass.
"Here's luck to 'em!" he remarked generously.
As he drank the toast the fat waiter re-entered bearing a well-laden tray, which he put down on the neighbouring table.
"Ah! Here's your lunch, sir," said the landlord. "I told them to send you up the c-c-cold tart and a bit of cheese as well. I thought you'd be able to manage a square meal after your walk."
"You thought correct," said Mr. Bascombe gratefully.
The waiter deposited a dish in front of him, and removed the cover. From a large steak, crowned with little brown curls of onion, a most exquisite flavour mounted into the air. Mr. Bascombe reverently transferred the entire pile to his own plate, and then helped himself to a majestic hoard of chipped potatoes.
"You're sure you've got everything you want, sir?" inquired the landlord with unintentional sarcasm.
His guest gazed meditatively round the table,
"Well, I think we might say a cigar, and a glass of port wine to top up with," he observed. "No hurry about 'em."
"I'll bring them in, sir, if you'll just tell the waiter when you're ready."
"Right-o," murmured Mr. Bascombe, lifting a huge forkful to his mouth.
"Shall I fill your glass, sir?" inquired the waiter, as the landlord departed.
Mr. Bascombe nodded.
"You needn't stop here, Percy," he remarked when the operation was completed. "I can get through this little lot on my own."
"Very well, sir," said the waiter. "There's a bell on the mantelpiece, sir, if you want me."
He withdrew to the kitchen, pondering darkly on the unconventional habits of the Roman Catholic clergy.
Unembarrassed by company, Mr. Bascombe gave himself up without reserve to the enjoyment of his meal. Having finished the steak and mopped up the gravy with a bit of bread, he reluctantly pushed back his plate and turned his attention to the tart. Two generous helpings of this luxury sufficed him, his repast concluding with a slab of bread-and-cheese that must effectually have filled up any spare corners remaining.
While he ate he kept an amused eye on the window, noting the various symptoms of unrest which were still apparent in the street. It seemed as though most of the able-bodied men in Princetown were joining in the search. Armed with sticks or pitchforks, they came hurrying past one after another to offer their services. In every case Mr. Bascombe gravely drank the health of the new arrival.
Finally, when the Burgundy was finished, he got up a little unsteadily from the table and rang the bell. It was answered by the waiter.
Mr. Bascombe looked at him affectionately.
"'Ullo, Percy!" he remarked; "back again, eh?"
"Yes, sir; you rang, sir."
"So I did. You're quite right, Percy. What was it I wanted?" His face brightened. "Oh, yes, the port wine and a cigar—the best quality cigar, mark you. None of your penny stinkers. You tell old whiskers; he'll see to it."
"Yes, sir," murmured the waiter with a gasp.
He retired from the room, to be succeeded a minute later by the landlord, bearing an aged-looking black bottle in one hand and a large cigar-box in the other.
"I hope you enjoyed your lunch, sir," he said, placing these treasures on the table.
"First-rate," replied Mr. Bascombe, smacking his lips.
"You found the wine all right, sir?"
Mr. Bascombe nodded humorously.
"Yes, he was hiding in the bottle, but I got him out."
This witticism was much to the taste of the landlord, who laughed uproariously.
"That's g-good, sir! G-g-got him out! Well, I've got something here that I think you'll find the right sort. A drop of real g-g-genuine '58—c-c-comet year, you know, sir. I don't offer it to many gentlemen."
He carefully poured out a glassful and held it up to the light.
Mr. Bascombe sniffed it, took a long sip, and then set down the wineglass with a wink.
"A little bit of orlright," was his verdict. "Have a glass yourself, landlord?"
"Thank you, sir; I don't mind if I do."
While he was translating his words into action Mr. Bascombe opened the cigar-box, which was full of long, light brown Havanas.
"I d-don't know if these are too large, sir?" observed the landlord. "I can g-g-get you a smaller brand if you pre-prefer it."
"Don't you trouble yourself," replied his obliging guest.
He selected one, bit off the end, and, lighting it with a match from a stand on the mantelpiece, blew out a thick cloud of fragrant smoke. It was the supreme moment of his adventure. He felt that Fate had nothing more to offer him.
"N-no news of the convict yet, sir," remarked the landlord. "The whole of P-Princetown's out hunting for him."
"Yes," said Mr. Bascombe with a chuckle. "I've been watching 'em go by. Very handy lot o' chaps they looked." He was silent for a moment, then suddenly an idea—a terrific; dazzling idea—flooded his imagination. "Can you let me have a carriage?" he inquired.
"Why, c-certainly, sir. How far are you thinking of going?"
Mr. Bascombe puffed thoughtfully at his cigar.
"I want to go and see the Governor of Princetown. He's a pal o' mine, old Marshall is. He'd be cut up something horrid if he heard I'd gone away without looking him up."
At the mention of Colonel Marshall's name the landlord's respect for his unconventional visitor visibly increased.
"I'll s-s-send out and order the victoria at once, sir," he said. "It's only about half a mile to the Governor's house, but I expect you've had enough walking for to-day."
"You're right," said Mr. Bascombe. "Driving's more my mark this afternoon."
"And w-what train shall we meet your luggage by, sir? The six-thirty?"
This seemed as good a train as any other to the owner of this imaginary encumbrance, so he nodded his head.
"Tell 'em to be careful with it, won't you?" he added.
"Oh, yes, sir! That will be all right. You'll be wanting d-d-dinner, I suppose, sir?"
A sad, prophetic smile flitted across Mr. Bascombe's face.
"I expect I shall," he said simply.
An interval of about seven minutes ensued between the landlord's departure and the clatter of the victoria as it drew up at the front door. That this time was not wholly wasted by Mr. Bascombe might have been gathered either from the reduced weight of the port bottle or the increased unsteadiness of his own gait as he crossed the hall. He managed to reach the vehicle without disaster, however, and climbing in smiled a dignified farewell at the landlord, who had come out to see him off.
The latter watched his guest drive away with a slightly puzzled expression.
"Blessed if I don't b-believe his Reverence had a d-drop too much," he muttered.
His Reverence certainly had. He lay back in the victoria as it rolled up the main street feeling immeasurably at peace with mankind. A gracious haze blurred the animated little groups of women that still clustered in front of the doorways and mellowed their excited chatter into a drowsy and not unpleasing murmur. Had the drive been a few hundred yards longer he would probably have arrived in a state of slumber, but the jerk of the carriage as it drew up in front of the Governor's gate just saved him from this social solecism. He blinked doubtfully for a moment, and then, recognizing his surroundings, clambered cautiously out.
"Am I to wait, sir?" inquired the driver.
The question seemed to afford Mr. Bascombe some amusement.
"Yes, you wait, old sport," he replied; "shan't be longer than I can help."
Then, before the astonished driver had recovered from the shock of this unexpected address, he pushed open the wooden gate that led into the Governor's garden and advanced in graceful spirals up the well-kept drive. A vigorous pull at the front-door bell resulted in the appearance of a neat, dark-eyed housemaid. Mr. Bascombe gazed at her with approval.
"Good morning, my dear," he remarked affably, holding on to the doorpost to steady himself. "Is the Colonel at home?"
"Yes, sir," said the maid.
"Well, tell him that an old college friend of his would like to see him."
For an instant the girl looked at him doubtfully; then, reassured by the clerical costume, invited him to step inside. Abandoning his support with extreme care, Mr. Bascombe followed her into a comfortably-furnished study on the left-hand side of the hall.
"Will you take a seat, sir?" she said.
The invitation was a shade superfluous, for his legs having suddenly failed him, the visitor had already sat down abruptly in a large easy chair against the wall.
The uncertainty in the girl's face deepened into dismay.
"I will tell Colonel Marshall you are here," she said shortly, and with that she hastened from the room, shutting the door behind her.
Mr. Bascombe just had time to pull himself together before the Governor entered. Colonel Marshall was a tall, soldierly-looking man with upturned grey moustache and humorous eyes of a keen blue. The maid had evidently apprised him of her experience, for he looked over his caller with mingled curiosity, amusement, and suspicion.
"Well, sir," he said, "and what can I do for you?"
Mr. Bascombe, feeling that it would be tempting Providence, made no attempt to rise. He just sat still and smiled.
"You don't know me?" he observed affably.
"I am afraid not," said the Governor.
"Ah," replied Mr. Bascombe with a chuckle, "that's the disguise, sir!"
Lifting up his hand he removed the wig.
The Governor stared at him for a moment in amazement.
"Good heavens!" he cried, "it's Bascombe!"
The convict bowed.
"You'll excuse my not getting up, sir. No intention of being disrespectful—been lunching at the Moorlands Hotel."
The Governor sat down in a chair and burst into a roar of laughter.
"You scoundrel!" he chuckled. "You've given us a nice chase. Half the warders are out after you now. What on earth induced you to bolt, and where did you get those clothes?"
He broke down again and shook with suppressed merriment.
Thus adjured, Mr. Bascombe unfolded his story. He told it quite simply, making no attempt to apologize for his escape, or to seek avoidance in any way of the punishment that awaited him. The Governor listened with vast interest and amusement, his sense of humour temporarily overcoming the amazing irregularity of the whole proceedings. When Mr. Bascombe described his lunch, and the production of the '58 port, he lay back in his chair and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
Finally, when the narrative was finished, he got up.
"Well, Bascombe," he said, with a smile, "you've had your fun, and now you've got to pay for it."
The convict, who was beginning to feel better, rose instantly to his feet and saluted.
The Governor not unkindly laid his hand upon the old sinner's shoulder.
"You're a disgrace to the prison, Bascombe," he said, "but I'll do my best for you."
And Colonel Marshall kept his word.