A Strange Reunion.

Evening Post, Volume XLVI, Issue 19, 22 July 1893, Page 1 (Supplement)

A Strange Reunion.

In a poor little hoase In a wretched little town on a miserable day in November, two men sat by a small wood fire warming their hands at the tiny blaze, and silently watching the flicker of the flames. They were both young men ; the elder was not more than twenty-six or seven, and the ) ounger Was perhaps a year behind One of them was plain Charlie Osborne ; the other rejoiced in the more anstocratio soubriquet of Eustace Marsrraf. But it mattered little by what different names they were called, since Fortune had forgotten to call on both alike. In short, they ■were " broke," — almost "stony broke." There had been a look-out at the works at •which they were both employed, and although they had neither of them joined the combination, they were none the less out of a job, and the fact of their former employment at the works that had locked them out told heavily against their chance of proCuring other work in the town. Neither was there much likelihood of their going back to the works, for the owners were rich men who could afford a long struggle, and the men obstinate ; and oven if the strikers ever got back, Osborne and Margraf were in the awkward position of being blacklegs. Thus it was that Fortune had forgotten these two young men who sat by the little fire, doggedly Bilont, too low - hearted even to curse Fortune. "I shall go to London, Charlie," said the other, suddenly, without looking up " What shall we do there ?" growled the other. Osborne and Margraf had been more inseparable than brothers since the death of each of their parents, ten years ago. Therefore it was that, -when the latter announced his intention of going to London, the former instantly assumed his own share in the venture, and asked : — " What shall we do in London ?" " Don't know till I get there," answered Margraf, who, be it observed, did not encourage tho first person plural. First person singular was a good deal more in his line. Yet he loved his chum, too, in his own way, but it was not the best way. " What the use of going, then ?" " What's the use of staying in this d khow P What's the uso of tramping round day and night after a job that never comes? What's the use of anything- ? I'm tired of mill-work ; it isn't wjat I was made for. I'm going to try my luck at something else. You needn't come." But because Charlie Oiborne was acoußtomed to be led by his comrade, he too gave out his intention to try his fortunes in London. This was not quite what Margraf wanted. He evidently had a scheme in contemplation in which he would prefer to be alone. ■*' " I'll tell you what, Charlie, old fellow," he said after a while. " I've got a plan I Want you to help carry out. I want you and me to separate for three years— only three years — and try our luck alone. At the end of the three years we will meet again, see how each has got on, and divide takings." "Not see each other at all?" asked Charlie, ruefully. His love for his chum was of tho better kind ; the second person singular species. "No, not at all," answered the other, firmly, as though he were laying down a painful but apparent duty. " Not have any communication with each othor except in case of extreme necessity. In that case we can put an advertisement in the Daily Telegraph. We -will make a point oi always seeing that paper." After a longer demur than he was accustomed to raise to any scheme of Margraf's, however wild and chimerical, Charlie at last let his usual submission, and a vague suspicion that his companionship might be dragging Margraf back from attaining a position more worthy of that gentleman's talents, get the better of him. He mado a hard fight for the privilege of exchanging letters during the three years, but Eustace remained obdurate. There was to be no communication except under the circumstances and in the manner named. Each was to take care to see the Daily Telegraph every morning, in case of such communications ; and ut tho exact expiration of the three years, that is, on the 16th November, 188 — , they -were to meet at twelve o'clock noon at Charing Cross station. So theso two men divided up their little Stock of belongings and smaller capital of money, took a third-class ticket each for London, went together to Charing Cross to verify the scene of th«ir.-fucure reunion, and shook hands. "We meet here in three years from today." "We do, all being well. Good-bye, Charlie." " Good-bye, old fellow." Thus they parted, each on his separate %aest for fortune. On the evening of the 14th November, 188 — , Eustace Margraf, Esq., Director and Chairman of the Anglican Debenture Corporation, Ltd., eke of the General Stock and Sharebrokers' Protective Union, Ltd , and various other like speculative companies, sat in the luxurious dining-room of his well-appointed residence in Lewißham Park. He had finished his sumptuous but solitary meal, and, reclining in a spacious armchair, sipped his rare old wine. It was three years all but a day since he had parted from Charlie Osborne on Charing Cross Station, and 6et out with eighteenpence in his pocket to seek his fortune. Threeyears ago he was a penniless mechanic, forsaken by Fortune and discontented with his life ; to-day he was a rich man ; smiled on and courted by Fortune, and envied by all hor minions, and still he was discontented With his life. It -was strange that he should cherish this discontent, for Eustace Margraf, mindful of the fact that be was made for something better than mill- work, had matriculated and graduated at the World's University in the Department of Forgery and Theft. He had taken the highest diplomas in fraud; ha had passed with honours the test of an accomplished swindler ; and in the intricacies of embezzlement he was Senior Wrangler. Yet he was not content ; some people are never satisfied. This evening, as he sat sampling his '18 Oporto, with the daily paper at his elbow, he actually felt some amount of regret that he had entered the course far such distinctions—which, by the way, his modesty forbade him publishing to the world at large. Only a select few- knew the extent of his accomplishments. In tho paper at his side there was a little paragraph which had given his memory a rather unpleasant jog. It was in the perBonal column, aud ran as follows : "E. M. •—Don't forftet to-morrow, noon, C. O. Station, — Charlie." He wanted to see Charlie, for he still loved him after his own fashion ; but the memories which the advertisement called up, and a doubt as to Whether Charlie would appreciate his accomplishments, made him fidgety ; and the recollection of all that must pass between now and noon to-morrow filled him with uneasiness. For to-night he was to stake •verything in one tremendous venture. If he succeeded, he would need to do nothing more all his life ; if he failed To-night, at eight o'clock, the Continental mail would start from Charing Cross Station with sevsnty-five thousand pounds worth of bullion for the Bank of France. If Eustaco Margraf succeeded in his enterprise, it would reaoh Paris with the same weight of valueless shot in the Strong iron boxes. Everything had been nicely and minutely arranged. The shot had been carefully weighed to a quarter of a grain, and portioned into three equal lots to match the cases of bullion, which would be weighed on leaving London, again at Dover, once more at Calais, and finally on arrival at Paris. A key to fit the casts had been secretly made from a wax impression of the original, how obtained none but Margraf knew. This key he would hand to his confederates this evening at Charing Cross Station, after which he would go down by the 7 o'clock train preceding the mail. The stoker of the mail, an old railway hand, had been bribed, together with the guard in whoso compartment tho bullion would travel. It had been thought desirable to deal differently with the front guard and tho driver ; a specially-prepared aud powerful drug was to be given them in a pint of brer just before starting, which -would take effect after administration and last till the sleepers should be aroused by brandy. During their slumber the stoker would pull up at convenient places on the line to. allow the robbers to enter the guard's oarriage and leave it with their booty, when they would make off to where Margraf had arranged to meet them, ho would manage the rest. The front guard and the driver, meanwhile, would for their own Bakes be glad enough to say nothing about their long slumber. All these arrangements had been made with great nicety, and told over twice; and yet Margraf was uneasy and nervous as he thought of all the risk he ran. Twice he stretched out his hand for the bell-rope for telegram forms to stay the whole business ; once he went so far as to ring the bell, but he altered his mind by the time the servant answered it, and ordered hot brandy instead. It was now 6 o'clock, in another hour he must hand over the duplicate key to his accomplices, and board the train for Dover. Every moment he grew more nervous. His hand became so shaky that brandy failed to steady it ; his face grew pale and haggard ; his nerves were strung to a painful tension ; aud all sorts of possibilities of failure in his scheme haunted him till ne could have cried ont from sheer nervousness. , . , , " God !" he exclaimed, as he drained a glass of brandy and water and rose to go. " A life like this would kill me. W«l,

\\\U shnll be the la«t rNk. If it turns out »ll rif^ht — n« it must 1 i-hull prive tlitH Mud of btisiuesi up. I shall have plenty then, and old Charlie will go off and live quietly and comfortably." The roar guard of the 7 o'clock Continental finished his last cup of tea, put on his thick winter coat, kissed bis wife and baby girl, and took up his lantern preparatory to joining bis train. He reached the .station as the great engine was being coupled, and gave the driver a cheory salute, which that official acknowledged with a surly growl. " Something put Jimmy out to-night," he laughed to the fireman, a young, inexperienced fellow, making his inspection of things in general before starting. At the last moment a richly-dressed gentleman, wearing a long fur coat, and carrying a large travelling rug, entered a first-class smoking compartment. This gentleman, whom numerous people on the platform recognised as he passed and saluted respectfully, was Eustace Margraf, Esq. The carriage he got into was an empty one, and, lying full length on the seat, covered with his rug, he lit a cigar and composed himself to make the best of a long and tiresome journey. The guard blew his whistle, the great engine reproduced it in a loud, deep tone, and the train steamed slowly out of the station, twenty minutes late in starting. Left to his own reflections, which were none of the liveliest, and lulled by the motion of the train, our traveller soon fell into a fitful sleep, wherein he was haunted by dreams that wrought upon his brain until he was almost as nervous as he had been in his own room some hours before. He awoke suddenly, with a vague sense that the train vas travelling at most unusual and unaccountable speed ; and as he leapt to his feet in a half-dazed fright, they shot through Tunbridge — a place at which they were timed to make a ten minutes stop — and he was conscious of seeing as in a flash a crowd of frightened and awe-struck faces looking at the train from the platform. He sank back on the cushioned seat, seized with a nameless terror. Time and space seemed to his overwrought nerves to be filled with tokens of some approaching calamity which he was powerless to prevent; the terrific speed and violent swaying of the train, the shrill howl of the ceaseless whistle, tho terrible darkness and silence of everything outside his immediate .surroundiugs, aud the recollection of that crowd of terrified faces, all seemed to thrill him with a sense of impending horror, and the wretched man sat terror-stricken on his seat, a mere mass of highly-strung and delicate nerves. Suddenly, as he looked into the Muck night, a face passed the window as of someone walking along the footboard to the engine; a stern-set face, as of one going to certain danger and needing all tho pluck he possessed to carry him through ; and at the apparition the traveller fairly shrieked aloud ; but that face passed on and was gone. In another moment there was a sudden shout — a terrific orach — a wild chaos of sight and sound — and our traveller kuew no more. When next he found his senses, he was lying among cushion! and rugs in the waiting-room at Turnbridge Wells Station. He awoke with a faint shiver, and tried to raise himself, but found to his astonishment that he could not so much as lift a finger. As a matter of fact, he was among those whom the busy surgeons had given up as a desperate case ; and, after doing all in bis power to ease him, had abandoned in favour of more hopeful subjects ; but this he did not know. Several of the passenger^ who>:e injuries were only very slight were discussing the accident in an animated manner, and as usual iv such cases many wild and fanciful conjectures were passed about as truth. At last one said : — "Does anyone know the rights of matter P" " Yes, I do," volunteered a young man with an arm in a sling ; and Margraf lay silently listening, unable to move or speak. "Well, what is it?" "Just after we passed Grove Park, the fireman was on the front of the engine oiling, when he felt the locomotive increasing in speed till it became so appalling that ho grew terrified, and could not get back. He is a young fellow, and this is his trial trip. At length he managed to crawl back to the cab, where he found the driver lying, as he supposed, dead. This so increased his terror that he was only able to open the whistle and pull the chord communicating with the rear guard, and then (ell in a swoon across the tender. "The rear guard, a plucky young lellow of about six-and- twenty, ■ Lsigjni"the situation, came, as we oil know, along the footboard to the engine " — Margraf listened with all his remaining strength — " in order to stop the train before it ran into the Ramsgate express, but apparently was too late. " But what was up with the driver, and where was the front guard in the meanwhile?" "Well, it appears from what the front guard says - marvellouH how ho escaped with hardly a scratch— that theso had been drugged, and as they were both of them to have run the mail train to the Centinent to-night things looked very fishy." Margraf nearly fainted in his efforts to listen more intensely. " They were changed on to this train at the last moment, and hence this accident. The rearguard, poor fellow, was shockingly mangled. Stone dead, of course ; and leaves, I understand, a wife and child. There will, no doubt, be a collection made for him. He was a plucky fellow." "Does anyone know his name?" asked one. "Yes ; his name was Charlie Osborne." There was a heartrending groan from the cushions and rugs. " Here," cried a young medical student among the party to :t passing Burgeon, "you d better come and have a look at this poor chap. He isn't as dead as you thought he W The surgeon came and looked at Margraf. "Isn't ho:'" he (.aid, in his 0001, professional way. Ho is a good deal further gone than I thought. He couldu't be gone much farther."