SOLITUDE LTD.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18926, 23 November 1929, Page 23 (Supplement)

SOLITUDE LTD.

” STAR’S ” NEW SERIAL

BY

JOHN HASLETTE VAHEY

Author of “ Fiddlestrings,” " Down River," “The Storm Lady,** “Up North,** “ Payment Down,” etc.

CHAPTER Vll.—(Continued). To a man with uncertain nerves this vigil by the shore of the darkling pond would have been rather an ordeal, but Tony was not superstitious, and he was only wondering now why the duck did not begin to drop in. The time of possible shooting in the dusk was over, and he had forgotten to consult a calendar to see if there was going to be a moon. “Perhaps this is the solitude I paid my thirty pounds for,” he reflected, smiling. ‘‘l asked for it.” Still there was no sign of birds coming to that particular pond. Sometimes he heard a bunch of widgeon whistle, or the rush of wings far off, but the detestable wild-fowl always seemed to change their minds and swing off at a tangent at the last moment. It did not occur to him that there might be a reason for this, apart from the natural perversity of feathered things when you want to secure them. He decided to give it ten minutes more, then go. The surrounding scene was already blotted out, the eerie silence seemed to be intensified, and a cold air that comes after sundown at that time of year breathed damply over him, while the seat he sat on emanated chill and moisture. Where were the duck that Callaghan had boasted would fill a sack ? It was very odd, for Callaghan, though anxious to say anything that would please best, must know that his observations would be checked that evening. A new sound now made itself heard, the curlews flying high and calling in their plaintive way. Tony remembered hearing o£ an Irish superstition that there were six curlews condemned to fly for ever by night in search of the sacred seventh curlew. It was assumed that the finding of this belated bird would herald the approach of the last da feut the whistle was eeerie enough without that, a ululation, a sad twisting series of notes, running up and down, spetftral music from the dark night ■■ j don’t know about the last day. but this is the last night for me here, if the ducks don’t come in a minute,” he reflected. “It would have been better fun to knock the balls about on that confounded bagatelle board.” Five minutes more, and he extracted the cartridges from the breech of his ‘gun, put them in his pocket and shook

himself. He had a general idea of the way he had come, and no\y took his torch from his pocket and flashed it on. With its aid he could pick his way between the bog-holes and avoid stumbling over the hummocks. He set out at' once. He had not gone more than twenty yards when he heard what sounded like a murmur. He pulled up. He was suspicious now. The duck had avoided the pond in the bog that night, and it might have been the presence of other human beings there which had kept them from their favourite haunt. He was not, of course, decided that this was so; but what he had heard from Forge of the attitude of the people in the fishing village, combined j with the anonymous letter which had reached him, made the contingency seem possible. He hesitated to reload his gun. After all it would not do to get rattled, and the beam of his torch, which he now directed in a wide arc ahead of him, showed no signs of possible antagonists. He smiled, tucked his breechloader under his arm again, and was about to move on when the blow fell. He had been lighting up the path ahead, but as he took a step forward, a man lying behind a tussock of rushes rose and hit him a blow with a stick. Fortunately it was a glancing one, but it was' sufficient to daze him for a moment, an<J before he could recover himself a hand snatched the gun from under his arm, and two men ran in at him from the side. Not a word was said. Tony, though not boasting Forge’s proficiency with his fists, was quite capable of taking his part in a rough-and-tumble. He doubled his elbow and found someone’s ribs with a jar that produced a grunting noise of distress. His left hand got entangled in a shirt-collar and tightened. A stick whistled through the air . again, but missed his ear so closely that he involuntarily flinched and let go the shirt-collar. Someone took him round the waist, and he cut a knuckle on one assailant’s teeth, stamped violently on an unguarded foot, and lashed out wildly. His blows missed, and now he was in the arms of a hefty man. Luckily the grip was low. He got home on the throat with his right, and took a punch low which made him feel groggy and sick. The solitude he had purchased for thirty pounds had sudden-

ly peopled itself. were three or four of them, and now they were in intimate contact with him. “Give the sooner the frog’s march, me boys! ” said a voice that he did not recognise, and Tony, who had seen that unpleasant march performed by drunken men in the hands of police, determined to try a ruse. He went limp suddenly and fell down between them. He heard thuds as two of them exchanged blows, and again the swish of a stick, followed by a curse. Then he made an error in tactics. Instead of crawling silently away, he reached out right and left, and seiz ed two ankles; snatching violently at them and bringing their owners down pell-mell. Unfortunately they fell on him—a heavy boot came down on hi? shin, a knee descended on his midrifi and knocked all the wind out of him, and when he had choked and gasped himself sore, he was in the hands o! the little gang and being neatly turned over on his face. He kicked, struggled and writhed, but to no purpose. Hands pulled his arms behind his back, hands took his legs, and in a moment he was swinging face downwards by those wearied members: and being carried forward, every jolt a wrench to legs and arms. But he did not struggle now. In the frog’s march the frog must keep as quiet as he can if he wishes to avoid broken limbs or torn muscles. Tony suffered, but remained passive. lie was wondering what they were going to do with him. Surely they were not of a mind tc drown him in that dark pond? For all his nerve, the thought made him shudder. The pond, with its dark, thick water, covered with scum and slimy weeds, where swimming would be hampered, would provide a ghastly sort oi end. But he kept his teeth on his lip and did not cry out. The men did not speak either though he heard them still panting after the* struggle. The march went on. darkness on every side, even his cap tors invisible. He heard the splashes they made in the bigger parts, but a little relief came to his mind as they progressed and the sound of feet in shallow water grew less frequent. Now, he thought, they were walking on rough grass and heather. Every moment he felt as if his arms would come out of their sockets, a slip by one of the men gave him acute agony. Where were they going? In ten minutes the answer came. They were plashing into another bog. How they knew their way in that gloom was a mystery to him, and threw a new light on the old word bog-trotter, a man who has been brought up among his native bogs and knows every turn in them by day or night. “If I am spared to get a turn at you, Mr Donovan,” he said to himself. “I won’t leave a whole bone in you' body ! And you don’t even do you own work, you skunk!” That, however, was utter folly, like all threats of the kind. The men meant, business, and the outcome was not yet certain. In another five minutes his I bearers stopped suddenly. I

“Swing him, boyoes!” said the voice he had first heard, and, with that, strong arms gave him a side-swing, he was released, and shot through the air to fall splash into a pool of water. The terrible final wrench forced a cry from him. The pain of it drove every thought from his mind for a moment, so that he did not realise that he was lying in two feet of water, not ten or twelve, and it was only when he swallowed a mouthful of peat water, and felt the chill envelop him, that he roused him self sufficiently to get on his knees. For a few seconds he could not rise further. Pains were in his arms, his knees were cramped and aching, and his thighs felt as if they had been beaten with a heavy stick. He groaned a little, then got up cautiously, over his knees in the shallow pool, and began tenderly to massage his painful arms and shoulders. His assailants has disappeared as silently as they had stolen on him at first, but he was too busy counting the damage to his person to think of them just then. Wrenched knees and arms, sore shoulders, a thump on the head which was beginning to flower in a long bruise, and shins that had felt the effect of hob-nailed boots. That seemed to be the extent of the damage. That could be mended with rest and liniment. But his position in the second bog without his torch might be more - serious. The bog is a danger by night or day to those unfamiliar with its depths and shallows. Here there may be a hole only two feet across, but full of liquid mud; there lies a patch of what seems fine green grass, but is actually almost bottomless Ponds lurk in the dark; a quaking spot puts terror in the heart of the man who ventures on it unawares. Everywhere is the sensi j of the unknown; the unexpected, that terrible feeling of uncertainty, is the ghost that terrorises the man who is lost in a bog. There it is ajways the next step that is the horror.