Messenger’s Million - T.C. Bridges - ebook

Messenger’s Million ebook

T.C. Bridges

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Fat Mr. Horner might have changed his mind if he could have watched Gilbert’s face as he drove his rattling old motorcycle over the bridge and climbed the steep slope beyond. The young man’s lips were clenched and his eyes were hard. These weekly trips to Taverton were the only gap in the deadly monotony of life in the works of Carnaby Clay, and he hated to return there, like a boy hates to return to school.

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Liczba stron: 257

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Contents

CHAPTER 1. IN THE FOG

CHAPTER 2. SUNDAY

CHAPTER 3. THE TRESPASSER

CHAPTER 4. GILBERT GETS A SHOCK

CHAPTER 5. S.O.S

CHAPTER 6. A BULL AND A BIKE

CHAPTER 7. THE VAMP

CHAPTER 8. DEAD MAN'S SWIM

CHAPTER 9. THE LAST MINUTE

CHAPTER 10. JAMES TRIES AGAIN.JAMES TRIES AGAIN

CHAPTER 11. GILBERT LEARNS ABOUT WOMEN

CHAPTER 12. SNIPE AND SHELCOTT

CHAPTER 13. GILBERT PUTS HIS FOOT IN IT

CHAPTER 14. A NIGHT OUT

CHAPTER 15. BOBBY HOLDS OUT HOPE

CHAPTER 16. THE ONE-MAN WAY

CHAPTER 17. DECOY DUCKS

CHAPTER 18. THE MAN IN THE LOFT

CHAPTER 19. STOLEN MONEY.STOLEN MONEY

CHAPTER 20. JAMES MERRILL SHOWS HIS TEETH

CHAPTER 21. THE BARGAIN

CHAPTER 22. ROGUES FALL OUT

CHAPTER 23. NANCE TELLS THE TRUTH

CHAPTER 24. WHEN PUNCH PLAYED UP

CHAPTER 25. WHAT GILBERT FOUND IN THE GULLY

CHAPTER 26. NEXT MORNING

CHAPTER 1. IN THE FOG

THE eyes of the plump, pink-faced manager of the Great Southern Bank widened as they fell upon the figures on the cheque which young Gilbert Stratton had pushed across the counter.

“ONE hundred and eighty-seven pounds and ten shillings!” he said. “Shelcott’s doing well, Gilbert. Has he raised your screw yet?”

“Not he!” returned Gilbert, with a smile that made his square, brown face very attractive. “I’m still drawing three quid a week–and likely to.” Tom Horner’s lip curled.

“He’s a stingy swine.” Then a shocked look crossed his genial face, and he looked round quickly to be sure no one else was within hearing. “I oughtn’t to have said that,” he added quickly. “Especially as Shelcott is one of the bank’s best customers.”

“Don’t worry,” grinned Gilbert. “I shan’t give you away. But some day I shall probably tell him so myself.”

“I shouldn’t blame you if you did,” said Horner. “Why don’t you chuck it, and try for something else?”

“Because I don’t want to starve,” said Gilbert curtly. “There aren’t half a dozen clay pits in the county, and you can bet your boots that Shelcott would take precious good care I didn’t get into one of them if I left him.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve just got to carry on, Mr. Horner.”

While they talked the manager’s fingers were busy counting notes and silver. Most of it was silver, for that was what Shelcott needed for paying his men in the clay works. The money was packed in a canvas bag, and when the whole amount was settled and checked Gilbert picked up the bag. Horner came round the counter and accompanied him to the door.

“Fog on Mist Tor, Gilbert,” he said. “You’ll have a bad journey, I’m afraid.” Gilbert glanced at the thick grey cloud that shrouded the top of the moor.

“I’ve been in too many fogs to worry about ‘em, Mr. Horner. But I’ll get on before it grows worse. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye. See you next Friday, I suppose?”

“I hope so,” smiled Gilbert, as he got on the saddle of his ancient motor bicycle and dumped the bag of money in the side- car. He started up the engine and roared away. Horner watched him go.

“A real good lad,” he observed. “And always cheerful. Never seems to realise what a rotten life he leads up there on top of the moor. No society, no amusement, and practically seven days’ work a week.” He shivered in the raw air of the November afternoon and went back into the bank.

Stout Mr. Horner might have changed his mind had he been able to watch Gilbert’s face as he drove his rattling old motor bicycle over the bridge and up the steep hill beyond. The young man’s lips were set and his eyes hard. These weekly trips to Taverton were the only break in the deadly monotony of life up at the Carnaby Clay works and he hated going back there as a boy hates going back to school.

In spite of the noise it made, the old bike travelled well, and presently Gilbert was entering the mist cloud, the grey fingers of which were reaching further and further down into the valleys. Here he had to switch on his headlight and drop to lower gear. He came to Slipper Hill and crawled slowly upwards. The road was cut along the side of the steep tor, and above it the hillside was strewn with boulders.

A dark lump loomed up in the misty glare of his headlight. It was a big stone lying in the very middle of the road, and Gilbert stopped at once, and got off. Though he could have passed it easily enough the stone was a death trap for any car or lorry, and in common decency it was up to him to move it. Gilbert was tough as wire; but the rock weighed at least a hundred-weight, and took a deal of shifting. He was breathless by the time he had rolled it into the gutter.

A sound behind him caught his ear, and turning he saw a man bending over the side-car. With a shout he rushed at him, but before he could reach him the man had grabbed the bag and was racing away down hill.

The mist was so thick that Gilbert could barely see the flying figure ahead; but he kept hard after him, and began to gain. Suddenly the man stopped, swung round, and his right hand flashed out. A small bag of pepper struck Gilbert full in the face and burst, filling his eyes and mouth. As he staggered back half choked and completely blinded, he heard a mocking laugh, then the quick rattle of boot soles on the hard road as the thief raced away.

While Gilbert stood gasping, trying in vain to clear the stinging powder from his eyes, he became aware of another sound, a quick click of shod hoofs.

“Hullo, what’s up?” came a man’s voice.

“A thief. He’s got my bag of money,” Gilbert managed to answer.

“Where did he go?”

“Straight down the hill.”

“What’s he done to you? What’s the matter with your face?”

“Pepper–but don’t mind me. Catch him if you can. He’s got nearly two hundred pounds.”

“Pepper–what a swine! There’s water by the roadside. Here, let me lead you.”

“Don’t bother about me,” said Gilbert sharply. “Get the thief.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get him safe enough,” the other answered. He was already off his horse, and leading Gilbert across the road, made him kneel down and dip his hands in a little rill which ran down the gutter.

“Now you’ll be all right,” he said. “Stay where you are. I’ll collar the blighter.” Next moment he was riding hard down hill.

Gilbert, in such pain he could hardly think, splashed the ice- cold water into his burning eyes, and presently found himself able to see again. But now he was all alone. Dusk was closing down, and the raw fog hung round him like a shroud. He got to his feet and stood listening hard, but not a sound broke the clammy stillness.

“A nice mess-up!” groaned poor Gilbert. “What will Shelcott say? Odds are he’ll accuse me of stealing his pay roll. He’ll sack me anyhow–that’s a cert.” The more he thought the more unhappy he felt. Losing the sort of job Gilbert had would not worry the average young man, but, as Gilbert had told Horner, it was the only work he knew, the only thing that stood between him and the Labor Exchange. He was perfectly certain that Paul Shelcott would send him packing the minute he told him he had lost the pay roll. As for getting it back, the odds against it were a thousand to one, for in a fog like this the thief would have all the chances in the world of getting clear away.

Minutes dragged by, each seeming like an hour, and still nothing happened. Gilbert went back to his machine. He decided that he had best go straight back to Taverton and tell the police what had happened. He was in the act of turning the bicycle when he heard the klop-klop of a trotting horse, and next moment horse and rider loomed out of the smother. For a moment Gilbert’s hopes soared, then when he saw the rider was alone they fell again with a bump.

“You didn’t get him,” he said.

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