Doctor Syn on the High Seas - Thorndike Russell (читать лучшие читаемые книги TXT) 📗
as he leisurely put on his clothes he said:
“Ask if the wound is serious, Tony. Also whether he would wish me as
a parson to say a prayer.”
Tony approached, and the surgeon, looking up, said: “He is dead. But
I will e xtract the bullet while the body’s warm. The coroner will need
it.”
It was then that Doctor Syn perceived that they had made an error.
The pistol used by Sommers had been a clumsy weapon, and would have
fired no doubt a leaden ball of heavier caliber than dueling bullets.
He was reckoning without the thoroughness of Nicholas, for, as the
gypsies drew near, the surgeon held up in his pinchers, a silvered
bullet wet with blood.
“Lodged in the ribbone just below the heart,” he said.
“Fit it to the barrel, Mr. Cobtree,” said Nicholas. “Then we can
report to the Coroner that all was regular.”
“Aye, it fits,” replied Cobtree, marveling at this piece of
ingenuity.
“An affair of honour, eh, gentlemen?” asked one of the gypsies.
“What do you suppose it is if otherwise, you fool,” growled Nicholas,
making a fine attempt to show frayed nerves. “It is no picnic,
certainly. This gentleman is my uncle, and he is dead. Although I
acted for him, I will own that he gave the affront and forced the fight.
This gentleman who killed him is a parson from Queen’s College, and
acted throughout in all honour. The fight was fairly fought. You agree
with that of course, Mr. Cobtree?”
Tony bowed assent. “And now, you rogues,” went on Nicholas to the
gypsies, “would a guinea a piece help you to deliver a message
correctly? I see you think it would, so here it is. Now go to the Town
Hall, and tell the officer in charge that Doctor Syn of Queen’s has
killed the Squire of Iffley in a duel fought here in Magdalen Fields.
And add that the seconds and the surgeon will this morning wait upon the
Mayor and give him the circumstances.”
After making the rogues repeat this message, Nicholas gave them the
guinea. The gypsies, however, seemed in no hurry to set out, and as
they stared upon the body one of them muttered, “Didn’t he bleed?
Nicholas, who wisely did not wish to move the body beneath their eyes
lest the unnatural stiffness of the limbs should seem suspicious, rapped
out: “I think I paid you? Go at once.”
They sneaked off towards the gate, where already a few early risers
were gathered and watching from the distance.
“The story will be all over Oxford within an hour, and lose nothing
in the telling,” said Nicholas, with a smile.
He beckoned to the coachman, and directed the vehicle to draw up so
that it screened the body from the watchers at the gate. They lifted
the dead Squire, and placed him inside, drawing the window-curtains
close. The surgeon got in
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to steady the body, and Nicholas turned to the others and said:
“I will see my uncle taken home, and then we will wait upon you
gentlemen at Queen’s. We can then, Mr. Cobtree, drive to see the Mayor
and lay our information.” This he said aloud, but as he stepped into
the coach, h e whispered with a smile: “How beautifully it worked! I can
tell Sommers not to fret, I think.”
He closed the door, and the coach rolled away and through the gates.
Syn and Cobtree followed.
“It seems that we must run the gauntlet of a pretty crowd ,” said
Tony.
“Aye,” replied Syn, “and where they have sprung from at this early
hour, heaven alone knows. The whole business distresses me, Tony. The
more so because I have to own to you that I enjoyed that fight last
night. Aye, man. I would not ha ve missed a second of the joy of it.
Should they unfrock me for this business, I shall leave the pulpit for a
more adventurous life.”
“You must think the first of Imogene,” returned Tony.
“I thought on her with every clash of steel last night,” repl ied the
parson.
When they reached the gate, the crowd, which had now so mysteriously
increased, held the ate open for them. The men doffed their hats, and
such women and girls as were there dropped curtseys. As they passed
through the gate, the people raised a cheer. Syn stopped and silenced
them:
“I would rather you should weep for the dead than rejoice for me,” he
said gravely.
“Bully Tappitt was a scoundrel, and deserved to die,” cried out one
man, bolder than the rest. “It needed a man to kill him and that the
man is a parson gives me a better opinion of the Church.”
At this the crowd cheered the more widely.
“Come, Tony,” whispered Syn, taking his friend’s arm and hurrying him
along. “Would I were free of this and of the whole damne d business.”
But the crowd were not to be robbed of their triumph against a man
they hated. They had most of them witnessed the behaviour of the Iffley
Squire in St. Giles’ the day before, and to them Doctor Syn was a hero
who deserved the fullest acclaim. And so they followed him and cheered
him to the gates of Queen’s, where their wild enthusiasm roused the
porter before Doctor Syn was able to unlock the gates himself.
“You are a hero, Christopher,” said Tony, as they passed the gates.
“And you well deserve it for your courage of last night. And remember
this. The more popular you are in the public opinion, the more sympathy
you will get from the coroner’s court, and from the University itself.
You may be sure of the students as of the crowds in St. Giles’ fair.
Yes, I think you will come out of this with honour.”
“The whole thing is such a damnable lie,” grumbled the Doctor.
“But you have saved Sommers,” comforted Tony. “And though you did not
actually kill the scoundrel, you might have done twenty times last
night. By gad, old friend, I begin to think that your cloth is a
mistake. You fight too well to waste such talent. Let us pray that they
do unfrock you, and then you can lead a regiment in the wars. Come
along; a little breakfast will m ake you take a more cheerful view of it.
I wonder how many innocent lives you have saved from ruin by dealing
with this bully. Let that thought comfort you.”
As they anticipated, the news of Bully Tappitt’s death spread like a
raging fire through Oxfo rd. That he had fallen in a duel which he had
instigated appealed also to everyone’s sense of justice. Long before
Nicholas Tappitt arrived in his coach to take Cobtree with him to the
Mayor, congratulations were pouring in to the young Doctor of Queen’s.
That the Bully had fallen at
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the hands of a parson was choice news indeed, and Doctor Syn was
accordingly lionized. When at last the Iffley coach approached the
College, the way was blocked with carriages and chairs of every
description, while the great courtyard and the stairs leading to the
Doctor’s chambers were filled with the best rank and fashion of the
town, all eager and determined to shake the parson’s hand and hear the
delightful details from his own lips. The unfortunate young Doctor,
suffering as he was from lack of sleep and exhaustion, never knew that
he had so many friends and admirers. That the parson won the hand of a
rich and beautiful Spanish girl who was visiting the town gave him an
additional luster, since the news leaked out that this same beauty had
been the cause of the duel. The College servants, unable to cope with
such a fashionable crowd or deny them entrance, were swept aside, while
the fine folk invaded the parson’s chamber and fawned upon him through
their quizzing-glasses.
