QUARRY.

Otago Witness, Issue 4042, 1 September 1931, Page 73

QUARRY.

By

Ralph Plummer.

(Copyright.—For the Otago Witness.) They gave Sam Worthington seven years, which Sam accepted with a brief nod and a bass “ Thank ye, me Lod.” They gave Sam seven years. He gave them four, then pined for other pastures. Seven years, he decided, after a particularly hard day’s grind in the slate quarry, and weary, sweating march ba k to the cells, was overmuch. And there was yet three years to put in. Three more years of that damned slate quarry. And there would be all of three more years. Sam’s good-conduct sheet wasn’t. Standing in his cell that night he made up his mind that the first misty day would signalise both a break in the monotony, and from the warderfe. It wouldn’t be so very difficult from the quarry. A quick dash, a chance shot or two to dodge, perhaps; then a swift getaway.

Four years. Sam Worthington thought of the four years of hard, back-aching graft which he had put in at the quarry. He ground his teeth as he thought over it all. Sinnot, the head warder, had always seen to it that he (Sam) had the heavy work of carrying slate masses to load the trucks.

Sam went to sleep in his quiet cell to dream, as he was always dreaming—of sweating, labouring, panting in the accursed slate quarry. Sinnot, the head warder, was always with him—sneering, caustic.

A misty day. Oh, for a misty day! It came, that day; the day longed for, eagerly, tigerish!}’ awaited, for freedom from the thrice-cursed quarry. A sudden descending fog which gradually blotted out the salient points of the quarry where worked the convicts under the watchful warders. Whistles shrilled imperiously. But the grey swirling blanket temporarily isolated Sam Worthington with the man he loved so well that the thought of capital punishment alone prevented him showering marks of affection on the head of Sinnot in overwhelming profusion. Sam laughed once, shortly. He dropped his pick, connected up a knobbly fist with Sinnot’s jaw, and disappeared into the murk whilst the head warder lay groping for his rifle with one Hand and clutching his astronomically inclined head with the other. Shortly afterwards the prison bell was making rapid going. But so, in addition, was Sam Worthington some distance away. ¥ ¥ ¥ The man in the silk hat and frock coat strode along the darkening lane briskly. He hummed slightly as he walked, and swung his cane blithely as he turned a corner. A man with a bullet head and drab clothing stood calmly in his path. The man in the silk hat licked dry lips. He knew prison garb. He glanced at the other’s boots and the tell-tale broad arrows their soles left in the ground in his vicinity. “ Take ’em off,” instructed Sam Worthington briefly. The gentleman in the silk hat put a hand, betraying familiar speed, towards a back pocket. But Sam Worthington seized that hand and robbed it of its latest tenant. He pointed the revolver at its late owner and repeated gratingly his previous command. “ Take ’em off.” “ Look here, my good man,” began the other. “ Cloes,” growled Sam irritably, “ 1 bin lookin’. The sight of you gives me a pain. Take them flamin’ duds off of you or I’ll ventilate yer stummick. Look sharp now. I got to go off quick. Take care this doesn’t go off quicker.” The gentleman removed his silk hat. He removed his coat and waistcoat. He removed everything down to his vest. “ Silk,” said Sam approvingly, squinting in the gloom. “ Orf with it.” Pointing judicially with the revolver at a tree eight paces away, Sam gave stern utterance. “ Stan’ over by that tree. Move a humble inch without me orderin’ you, an’ you get lead poisonin’. Sharp now! ” With the gentleman, blue in expression and of exterior, standing strictly immobile against the tree, Sam calmly divested himself of his dun apparel, and redressed in the opulent garb of the other. The revolver lay ready for instant use at his feet.

Completing his raiment even to the glossy hat, Sam resumed the revolver and cryptic speech. “Put ’em on! ” he said majestically, and pointed to the heap of clothing he had discarded.

Leaving the gentleman feverishly protecting himself against a churlish nor’easter, Sam strode majestically down the lane and calmly passed through the village which he encountered at the foot of a steep hill.

A mile the other side of the village, a man in blue flashed a' bulls-eye lantern over Mr Worthington’s sartorial splendour. Being of the build of his recent victim, the borrowed plumes fitted Sam neither too soon nor too late. He was a picture. “ Good evening, officer,” began Sam. The policeman’ stepped close after a swift examination. “ You come along o’ me, please,” he snapped. “We ’as instructions from headquarters to be on the look-out for ‘ Swell George.’ That burglary in Lun non ” Mr Worthington was a man of quick thought and decision. “ Take ’em off,” he said calmly. To be arrested for another man’s crimes was not in Sam’s programme. Proved innocence for the burglary in “ Lunnon ' would help him from the quarry. “ Take ’em off!” he commanded crisply. The rural constable blinked and eyed the revolver stupidly. “ Look ’ere,” he spluttered. “ You can’t ” “ I can,” announced Mr Worthington firmly, “ and I will, if you don’t peel off them duds sharp. You’re a peeler, aren’t you? Good! Peel!” ‘ The constable separated himself from his outer garments and stood shivering. “ You can keep them undies on,” growled Sam, briefly inspecting the coarse wool. “And you needn’t dither; I won’t tickle you, brighteyes. Stand over there, ten paces away. Move without permission, and I’ll promote you.” “ Heaven,” he explained as an afterthought.

Swiftly Mr Worthington changed from a fashionable man about town to a minion of the law. A look down at his tunic, and the helmet in his hands gave him an involuntary scare. He laughed brusquely and pointed at the immaculate clothing at his feet. “ Put ’em on,” he growled. Leaving the policeman struggling into a new elegance, Mr Worthington sped on down the road at a speed which would have shocked the Policemen’s Union. The road let into a broad main artery at right angles. On the deserted expanse of macadam Sam paused to collect his thoughts. “ Must get a lift somehow,” he muttered anxiously. “No way of closin’ them two fellers’ mouths.” A faint illumination lit the road. Sam looked up vaguely, knew the powerful lights of an approaching motor, and made up hi s mind suddenly. If there was more than one in the car, he’d warn them about excessive speed! If only one Sam stepped ponderously into the centre of the road and raised a judicial hand. The approaching car slurred to a halt, and Mr- Worthington strolled unhurriedly out of the headlights’ glare and looked inside the car. There was a solitary owner-driver. “ A commercial, probably,” ruminated Mr Worthington, and spoke gruffly. “ Convict escaped from the prison. You’ve heard, I suppose? Good. Well, I must commandeer your car. He has been seen some 20 miles further on. You will drive on till I tell you to stop. Sorry, an’ all that, you know. But orders is orders, and the needs of the law. . . .” “ Hop in,” agreed the man. Mr Worthington got in slowly and with dignity as befits a guardian of law and order. The car picked up speed and the landscape travelled backwards. ¥ ¥ ¥ In the back seat Mr Worthington, keeping his helmet out of sight of possible inquisitive eyes, allowed a score of miles or so reel beneath him. He was preparing for a further score if possible, but his anxiety was awakened by shouts from three separate villages through which they passed. Mr Worthington had glimpsed constables, earnest constables evidently desirous of stopping the car and making inquiries. He reflected on the vengeful breast the disrobed policeman probably cherished. “ Bad news travels fast,” soliloquised Sam, and peered back with alarm at powerful headlights coming along well in the rear, and the clamorous and insistent note of a commanding Klaxon. At that moment the car shot around a bend. A lane was visible ahead. A sideturning. “ Take that turning,” bawled Mr Worthington. The car swung into the lane, travelled a mile; then, at his companion’s majestic injunction, the driver pulled up. Mr Worthington alighted. He pointed at the driver’s clothes with his revolver The motorist stared with- quicklywidening eyes. “ You’ll leave me here,” said Mr Worthington. staring calmly at the other. “ And take your mitt away from the reverse; you are going straight on down this road.” The driver took his hand from the reverse, and opened his mouth angrily. “ Look here.” he said curtly, “ I’ve got to get to Clavering Junction. That means taking the top road behind us—" the one we left when you made me turn down this lane. I’ll have to turn here and get back ” Mr Worthington set his uncomfortable helmet at a firmer stance on his bullet head. He spoke with ponderous majesty His keen ear had detected the raucous note of a Klaxon horn on the top road That pursuing car had turned back! Evidently it had decided that further chase along the main road was fruitless. Possibly it would investigate side-turn-ings. This side turning!

“ The convict will be lurking about somewhere. You understand. Probably watching the main road for the chance of a lift. It won’t be safe for you along there. No, you drive straight on and get to Clavering by a roundabout route.” “ But ”

“No huts,” snapped Sam, uncomfortably aware of the purr of a standing car in the distance. “ Yqu drive’straight on and ■ keep going. Temporary measures for your protection. Now — get going an’ keep goin’. I’ll let you get clear an’ then thi s road will be stopped for traffic. I think some of my mates will be coming down in a car very shortly, an’ we’ll draw a cordon all round here. That convict will be armed, an’ you’ll take my orders and keep moving—straight oil down this road.”

The motorist looked startled at the knowledge that an armed desperado was at large. He cast uneasy glances to right and left. The moan of a car became clearly audible. It had turned down the lane in which they were situated. “Get going! ” snapped Sam with sudden crispness.

The motorist let 'in his clutch. His car shot down the lane and disappeared around a bend. With the graceful speed of a startled fawn, despite hfs majestic uniform, Sam Worthington sprang for the hedge. . With feverish profanity at clinging twigs, he forced his w - ay through a gap and sought refuge in a friendly ditch. He was just in time. A large car hummed past the spot. A purplefaced gentleman in gorgeous raiment and glossy silk hat directed the driver. The constable who had been compelled to adopt a change of clothes with Mr Worthington still sported the fine raiment of “ Swell George.” “ So,”. muttered Sam, helmet in his hand, and with one eye peering watchfully over the edge of his nest, “ spilled the beans an’ got ’elp with him.” And it was even so. The back of the car was bulging with gentlemen in ominous blue and silver buttons. Until the vehicle had disappeared in a cloud of dust, Sam lay thoughtfully dormant within his ditch. Then, deciding that the time for action, and quick action, was ripe, he got to hie feet and emerged an to the road through a gate which was situated quite near to the main road richer in possibilities for the garnering of distance. At the corner of the lane abutting on to the main road, Mr Worthington paused. Uneasily he thrust his hands into the pockets of the uniform he wore. He searched in every poeket, turned up a clasp knife, a piece of stick tobacco, and a note-book and pencil. Of cold coin he mustered eightpence. “My Gawd!” he ejaculated unhappily. “Eightpence! The ruddy snipe! Wot <io they pay cops nowadays, I wonder ? ” His eye brooding on the meagre sum spread fanwise in his horny palm, Sam Worthington speculated grimly on his position. Moodily he straightened, mechanically stuck his thumbs within his belt, anil stared out over the countryside. If he could get a mackintosh or something to cover his uniform. And a cap. Then—• some money! Money; he must get money from somewhere. Just sufficient to get something decent to eat and jump a train. “Jump a train!” muttered Mr Worthington aloud. " That’s the caper! Get-right away! Then I’ll ’ave a chance to breathe.” His soliloquy suddenly ceased. The brows beneath the helmet furrowed blackly. Mr Worthington was staring at a hillside miles away. A hill-side that held a road. It would be the lane down which his pursuers had gone. The continuation of it. Yes, there it was, ribboning over that hill in the far distance. There was a black speck moving up that hill. Mr Worthington shaded his eyes and stared intently. A second black speck had impinged upon his vision. Behind the first. The second speck overtook the first, passed it, and stopped. Then the second speck was overtaken by number one speck. That stopped too! Mr Worthington swore vilely. The two specks began to separate. One was moving. It was coming back! The police car had overtaken the solitary motorist who had afforded him invo’untary hospitality in his car. Now the fat was in the fire! Sam cursed himself for not foreseeing what had happened. The policeman had stopped the motorist. Had questioned him! Had he seen a man in policeman’s uniform anywhere? Had ?

Sam walked rapidly down the main road. His imagination functioned. Conscious of a car filled to bursting point with avenging policemen, and careering in rapid appetite for the miles which separated them from their quarry, his eye brightened as it encountered something standing at the side of the road. A gleaming motor cycle. A thing of power. A solo machine, it stood immobile at a gate which fronted a snaking track leading to some farm out of sight of the road.

Mr Worthifigton cast swift glances up and down the road. It was empty. There was none to say him nay. His knowledge of these animated bicycles was but elementary. But he approached the machine with purposeful gait. He depressed the kickstart and was appalled at the roar of an engine which echoed the whole world with a shrieking crescendo of sound. Mr Worthington cocked a leg over the saddle. He juggled with levers.

As a powerful car shot from the lane and. turned into the main road, Mr Worthington spurted forward like an arrow from a bow. A gentleman in the car let out a roar of recognition, and the car roared afresh in pursuit. The constable whose dun clothes once draped the back of convict Worthington, ground his teeth as his uniform raced down the road in front, the blue tails of the coat draping ludicrously over the saddle of the speeding motor cycle. Mr Worthington had opened the throttle wide and was hoping for the best. He prayed feverishly as he held the handle-bars in fists of steel. His helmet-strap cut his chin in the wild gale keening at his ears. Mr Worthington didn’t care.

The pursuing car made good going. The irate constable seated by the driver stared down at his opulent clothing, took off his silk hat, and closed his eyes in silent ecstacy. He was thinking aliout what was going to happen to Sam Worthington when they caught him. And they were making good going. But it so happened that Sam’s machine was making even better going. The distance between them grew. It kept on growing. Sam won a tremendous lead in the wild race over miles of wonderful road surface. It was getting dark when Sam decided he had really shaken his pursuers off. He had twisted and turned at various times. At a quiet point now he stopped his machine and listened. All was quiet as the grave. Somewhere he heard an owl hoot. That was all. Sam got off his machine and rubbed his chin where the helmet-strap had cut into it with the force of the wind on the great dome of the helmet. He strolled to the top of a small rise in the road. From a point in the dark somewhere to the left he heard the shrill scream of a railway engine. Sam could have cheered. A railway! With a new light in his close-set eyes, he stared along the darkening road. All that remained was money. With money the rest was easy. A great and opulent car hummed in the distance. It topped the hill, flooded the road with its electric beacons, and bore down upon Sam at increased speed. A great and opulent car, evidently the private vehicle of the idle rich. Sara stepped into the centre of the road, twitching his uniform into shape. His palm raised above his head. Sam grinned to himself and kept his hand raised. The car screamed to a halt with jarring brakes. A well-fed gentleman protruded an inquiring head through the window. " °

“ Name an’ address, if you please,” announced Sam Worthington in a stern voice. “Doin’ something like fifty to the hour, you was. Drivin’ to the common danger.” He whetted his pencil and sighed as he opened the note book. The car owner was surprised. He did not think he was doing that speed or anything like it. The others in the car agreed with him. They said so. They tried to argue the point delicately. Sam was adamant. A pocket wallet appeared in the driver’s hands. A note rustled. “ Wot’s all this?” demanded Sam. “ Bribery an’ corruption, that’s wot it is! The law ”

The first note was joined by a second. Sam stared at hi s note book, stared at his pencil point. He hesitated.

“ Well,” he muttered doubtfully, “ I don't want to make no trouble if a warning will serve the purpose.” The car departed, leaving Sam fingering two crisp oblongs of paper in °his hand. He held up two more cars and

repeated the performance with enthusiasm. The better off by over seven pounds, he left the road and plunged in the direction whence had emanated the shriek of the railway engine. A lift on a train, and he’d manage clothes all right when lie had put many miles be--tween himself and this unhealthy portion of the country. He left the plunged intq the fields. Had he kept on the road to the next bend he would have seen a car. A police car. One he had seen before! Its occupants had traced someone to the locality and were scattered in search—a gentleman dressed in convict’s tailoring! But Sam took to the fields and didn't see that car. What he did see, vague and indefinite in front of him and proceeding slowlv towards a barn, was a shadowy form. Sam exulted inwardly. Clothes! He drew up silently behind the skulking shadow ahead. Sam raised his revolver and brought the butt down as an opiate to the other. In the dark, feeling with 'eager fingers, Sam changed clothes. Ten minutes later he left a gentleman now in police uniform, recumbent and sleeping still outside the farm buildings. Sam legged it away from the vicinity at great speed. He had heard the shriek of a railway whistle. It was not long before his wild running ended in a blundering half-tumble down the side of a railway cutting. A goods train chugged sleepily up a slight incline. Sam jumped, caught at the top of a lumbering wagon, and drew himself up. He stared up at the stars as the goods train rattled on increasing speed as the level was attained. Within an empty truck he knew sudden sanctuary. He was hungry. But, even more than hunger he knew tiredness. It had been a busy day. Very busy. Sam drew the tarpaulin over the top of the truck. He drifted off into a dose. A nap. He turned on his side finally as the miles chugged steadily beneath and the wheels ponded with even and soothing rhythm to his tired sensibilities. Sam Worthington fell into real slumber. ¥ ¥ ¥ Sam awoke with a start. He became gradually aware that the pounding of wheels had ceased. Vaguely he felt that it has ceased for quite a while. Also he heard voices approaching, and the crunch of feet. There w r as a medley of sounds, and daylight was peering in through a gap in the side of his tarpaulin roof. Worthington stared down at himself with horror. He was in his original clothes! The prison clothes! His brow puckered in an endeavour to solve the mystery. He had changed clothes with a man who was a shadow creeping towards a barn. Who? With a violent start, Sam remembered Swell George! “Cripe! ”he ejaculated. “ The bloke wot I first changed clo’es with! ” It was even so. Swell George had made good going. He had spotted the car load of police and sneaked for the friendly shelter of a barn just as Sam spied his shadowy form and pursued in quest of fresh apparel! At that point in Sam’s reflections the tarpaulin was jerked aside. The truck doors opened. Sam stared out in amazement. Faces stared in in amazement. One of them had been speaking. “ We’ll get this train loaded up right away,” lie had been saying. “ It's in for a load for the Midlands ” Then the speaker stared with amazed eyes at Mr Worthington. Mr Worthington laughed dreadfully. He stared at Warder Sinnot. He stared around the sullen faces of those with picks and shovels. He stared round at the old hated and familiar scene and laughed again. He knew every inch of the place. The prison slate quarry!