Collected works of j s f.., p.294
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 294
“This,” he remarked, eyeing the damsel with enquiry, “appears to me to be a very quiet place.”
“Quiet!” exclaimed the lady. “Quiet?”
“That,” continued Spargo, “is precisely what I observed. Quiet. I see that you agree with me. You expressed your agreement with two shades of emphasis, the surprised and the scornful. We may conclude, thus far, that the place is undoubtedly quiet.”
The damsel looked at Spargo as if she considered him in the light of a new specimen, and picking up her needlework she quitted the bar and coming out into the room took a chair near his own.
“It makes you thankful to see a funeral go by here,” she remarked. “It’s about all that one ever does see.”
“Are there many?” asked Spargo. “Do the inhabitants die much of inanition?”
The damsel gave Spargo another critical inspection.
“Oh, you’re joking!” she said. “It’s well you can. Nothing ever happens here. This place is a back number.”
“Even the back numbers make pleasant reading at times,” murmured Spargo. “And the backwaters of life are refreshing. Nothing doing in this town, then?” he added in a louder voice.
“Nothing!” replied his companion. “It’s fast asleep. I came here from Birmingham, and I didn’t know what I was coming to. In Birmingham you see as many people in ten minutes as you see here in ten months.”
“Ah!” said Spargo. “What you are suffering from is dulness. You must have an antidote.”
“Dulness!” exclaimed the damsel. “That’s the right word for Market Milcaster. There’s just a few regular old customers drop in here of a morning, between eleven and one. A stray caller looks in — perhaps during the afternoon. Then, at night, a lot of old fogies sit round that end of the room and talk about old times. Old times, indeed! — what they want in Market Milcaster is new times.”
Spargo pricked up his ears.
“Well, but it’s rather interesting to hear old fogies talk about old times,” he said. “I love it!”
“Then you can get as much of it as ever you want here,” remarked the barmaid. “Look in tonight any time after eight o’clock, and if you don’t know more about the history of Market Milcaster by ten than you did when you sat down, you must be deaf. There are some old gentlemen drop in here every night, regular as clockwork, who seem to feel that they couldn’t go to bed unless they’ve told each other stories about old days which I should think they’ve heard a thousand times already!”
“Very old men?” asked Spargo.
“Methuselahs,” replied the lady. “There’s old Mr. Quarterpage, across the way there, the auctioneer, though he doesn’t do any business now — they say he’s ninety, though I’m sure you wouldn’t take him for more than seventy. And there’s Mr. Lummis, further down the street — he’s eighty-one. And Mr. Skene, and Mr. Kaye — they’re regular patriarchs. I’ve sat here and listened to them till I believe I could write a history of Market Milcaster since the year One.”
“I can conceive of that as a pleasant and profitable occupation,” said Spargo.
He chatted a while longer in a fashion calculated to cheer the barmaid’s spirits, after which he went out and strolled around the town until seven o’clock, the “Dragon’s” hour for dinner. There were no more people in the big coffee-room than there had been at lunch and Spargo was glad, when his solitary meal was over, to escape to the bar-parlour, where he took his coffee in a corner near to that sacred part in which the old townsmen had been reported to him to sit.
“And mind you don’t sit in one of their chairs,” said the barmaid, warningly. “They all have their own special chairs and their special pipes there on that rack, and I suppose the ceiling would fall in if anybody touched pipe or chair. But you’re all right there, and you’ll hear all they’ve got to say.”
To Spargo, who had never seen anything of the sort before, and who, twenty-four hours previously, would have believed the thing impossible, the proceedings of that evening in the bar-parlour of the “Yellow Dragon” at Market Milcaster were like a sudden transference to the eighteenth century. Precisely as the clock struck eight and a bell began to toll somewhere in the recesses of the High Street, an old gentleman walked in, and the barmaid, catching Spargo’s eye, gave him a glance which showed that the play was about to begin.
“Good evening, Mr. Kaye,” said the barmaid. “You’re first tonight.”
“Evening,” said Mr. Kaye and took a seat, scowled around him, and became silent. He was a tall, lank old gentleman, clad in rusty black clothes, with a pointed collar sticking up on both sides of his fringe of grey whisker and a voluminous black neckcloth folded several times round his neck, and by the expression of his countenance was inclined to look on life severely. “Nobody been in yet?” asked Mr. Kaye. “No, but here’s Mr. Lummis and Mr. Skene,” replied the barmaid.
Two more old gentlemen entered the bar-parlour. Of these, one was a little, dapper-figured man, clad in clothes of an eminently sporting cut, and of very loud pattern; he sported a bright blue necktie, a flower in his lapel, and a tall white hat, which he wore at a rakish angle. The other was a big, portly, bearded man with a Falstaffian swagger and a rakish eye, who chaffed the barmaid as he entered, and gave her a good-humoured chuck under the chin as he passed her. These two also sank into chairs which seemed to have been specially designed to meet them, and the stout man slapped the arms of his as familiarly as he had greeted the barmaid. He looked at his two cronies.
“Well?” he said, “Here’s three of us. And there’s a symposium.”
“Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said the dapper little man. “Grandpa’ll be here in a minute. We’ll start fair.”
The barmaid glanced out of the window.
“There’s Mr. Quarterpage coming across the street now,” she announced. “Shall I put the things on the table?”
“Aye, put them on, my dear, put them on!” commanded the fat man. “Have all in readiness.”
The barmaid thereupon placed a round table before the sacred chairs, set out upon it a fine old punch-bowl and the various ingredients for making punch, a box of cigars, and an old leaden tobacco-box, and she had just completed this interesting prelude to the evening’s discourse when the door opened again and in walked one of the most remarkable old men Spargo had ever seen. And by this time, knowing that this was the venerable Mr. Benjamin Quarterpage, of whom Crowfoot had told him, he took good stock of the newcomer as he took his place amongst his friends, who on their part received him with ebullitions of delight which were positively boyish.
Mr. Quarterpage was a youthful buck of ninety — a middle-sized, sturdily-built man, straight as a dart, still active of limb, clear-eyed, and strong of voice. His clean-shaven old countenance was ruddy as a sun-warmed pippin; his hair was still only silvered; his hand was steady as a rock. His clothes of buff-coloured whipcord were smart and jaunty, his neckerchief as gay as if he had been going to a fair. It seemed to Spargo that Mr. Quarterpage had a pretty long lease of life before him even at his age.
Spargo, in his corner, sat fascinated while the old gentlemen began their symposium. Another, making five, came in and joined them — the five had the end of the bar-parlour to themselves. Mr. Quarterpage made the punch with all due solemnity and ceremony; when it was ladled out each man lighted his pipe or took a cigar, and the tongues began to wag. Other folk came and went; the old gentlemen were oblivious of anything but their own talk. Now and then a young gentleman of the town dropped in to take his modest half-pint of bitter beer and to dally in the presence of the barmaid; such looked with awe at the patriarchs: as for the patriarchs themselves they were lost in the past.
Spargo began to understand what the damsel behind the bar meant when she said that she believed she could write a history of Market Milcaster since the year One. After discussing the weather, the local events of the day, and various personal matters, the old fellows got to reminiscences of the past, telling tale after tale, recalling incident upon incident of long years before. At last they turned to memories of racing days at Market Milcaster. And at that Spargo determined on a bold stroke. Now was the time to get some information. Taking the silver ticket from his purse, he laid it, the heraldic device uppermost, on the palm of his hand, and approaching the group with a polite bow, said quietly:
“Gentlemen, can any of you tell me anything about that?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK
IF SPARGO HAD upset the old gentlemen’s bowl of punch — the second of the evening — or had dropped an infernal machine in their midst, he could scarcely have produced a more startling effect than that wrought upon them by his sudden production of the silver ticket. Their babble of conversation died out; one of them dropped his pipe; another took his cigar out of his mouth as if he had suddenly discovered that he was sucking a stick of poison; all lifted astonished faces to the interrupter, staring from him to the shining object exhibited in his outstretched palm, from it back to him. And at last Mr. Quarterpage, to whom Spargo had more particularly addressed himself, spoke, pointing with great empressement to the ticket.
“Young gentleman!” he said, in accents that seemed to Spargo to tremble a little, “young gentleman, where did you get that?”
“You know what it is, then?” asked Spargo, willing to dally a little with the matter. “You recognize it?”
“Know it! Recognize it!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, and so does every gentleman present. And it is just because I see you are a stranger to this town that I ask you where you got it. Not, I think, young gentleman, in this town.”
“No,” replied Spargo. “Certainly not in this town. How should I get it in this town if I’m a stranger?”
“Quite true, quite true!” murmured Mr. Quarterpage. “I cannot conceive how any person in the town who is in possession of one of those — what shall we call them — heirlooms? — yes, heirlooms of antiquity, could possibly be base enough to part with it. Therefore, I ask again — Where did you get that, young gentleman?”
“Before I tell you that,” answered Spargo, who, in answer to a silent sign from the fat man had drawn a chair amongst them, “perhaps you will tell me exactly what this is? I see it to be a bit of old, polished, much worn silver, having on the obverse the arms or heraldic bearings of somebody or something; on the reverse the figure of a running horse. But — what is it?”
The five old men all glanced at each other and made simultaneous grunts. Then Mr. Quarterpage spoke.
“It is one of the original fifty burgess tickets of Market Milcaster, young sir, which gave its holder special and greatly valued privileges in respect to attendance at our once famous race-meeting, now unfortunately a thing of the past,” he added. “Fifty — aye, forty! — years ago, to be in possession of one of those tickets was — was—”
“A grand thing!” said one of the old gentlemen.
“Mr. Lummis is right,” said Mr. Quarterpage. “It was a grand thing — a very grand thing. Those tickets, sir, were treasured — are treasured. And yet you, a stranger, show us one! You got it, sir—”
Spargo saw that it was now necessary to cut matters short.
“I found this ticket — under mysterious circumstances — in London,” he answered. “I want to trace it. I want to know who its original owner was. That is why I have come to Market Milcaster.”
Mr. Quarterpage slowly looked round the circle of faces.
“Wonderful!” he said. “Wonderful! He found this ticket — one of our famous fifty — in London, and under mysterious circumstances. He wants to trace it — he wants to know to whom it belonged! That is why he has come to Market Milcaster. Most extraordinary! Gentlemen, I appeal to you if this is not the most extraordinary event that has happened in Market Milcaster for — I don’t know how many years?”
There was a general murmur of assent, and Spargo found everybody looking at him as if he had just announced that he had come to buy the whole town.
“But — why?” he asked, showing great surprise. “Why?”
“Why?” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “Why? He asks — why? Because, young gentleman, it is the greatest surprise to me, and to these friends of mine, too, every man jack of ’em, to hear that any one of our fifty tickets ever passed out of the possession of any of the fifty families to whom they belonged! And unless I am vastly, greatly, most unexplainably mistaken, young sir, you are not a member of any Market Milcaster family.”
“No, I’m not,” admitted Spargo. And he was going to add that until the previous evening he had never even heard of Market Milcaster, but he wisely refrained. “No, I’m certainly not,” he added.
Mr. Quarterpage waved his long pipe.
“I believe,” he said, “I believe that if the evening were not drawing to a close — it is already within a few minutes of our departure, young gentleman — I believe, I say, that if I had time, I could, from memory, give the names of the fifty families who held those tickets when the race-meeting came to an end. I believe I could!”
“I’m sure you could!” asserted the little man in the loud suit. “Never was such a memory as yours, never!”
“Especially for anything relating to the old racing matters,” said the fat man. “Mr. Quarterpage is a walking encyclopaedia.”
“My memory is good,” said Mr. Quarterpage. “It’s the greatest blessing I have in my declining years. Yes, I am sure I could do that, with a little thought. And what’s more, nearly every one of those fifty families is still in the town, or if not in the town, close by it, or if not close by it, I know where they are. Therefore, I cannot make out how this young gentleman — from London, did you say, sir?”
“From London,” answered Spargo.
“This young gentleman from London comes to be in possession of one of our tickets,” continued Mr. Quarterpage. “It is — wonderful! But I tell you what, young gentleman from London, if you will do me the honour to breakfast with me in the morning, sir, I will show you my racing books and papers and we will speedily discover who the original holder of that ticket was. My name, sir, is Quarterpage — Benjamin Quarterpage — and I reside at the ivy-covered house exactly opposite this inn, and my breakfast hour is nine o’clock sharp, and I shall bid you heartily welcome!”
Spargo made his best bow.
“Sir,” he said, “I am greatly obliged by your kind invitation, and I shall consider it an honour to wait upon you to the moment.”
Accordingly, at five minutes to nine next morning, Spargo found himself in an old-fashioned parlour, looking out upon a delightful garden, gay with summer flowers, and being introduced by Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, to Mr. Quarterpage, Junior — a pleasant gentleman of sixty, always referred to by his father as something quite juvenile — and to Miss Quarterpage, a young-old lady of something a little less elderly than her brother, and to a breakfast table bounteously spread with all the choice fare of the season. Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, was as fresh and rosy as a cherub; it was a revelation to Spargo to encounter so old a man who was still in possession of such life and spirits, and of such a vigorous and healthy appetite.
Naturally, the talk over the breakfast table ran on Spargo’s possession of the old silver ticket, upon which subject it was evident Mr. Quarterpage was still exercising his intellect. And Spargo, who had judged it well to enlighten his host as to who he was, and had exhibited a letter with which the editor of the Watchman had furnished him, told how in the exercise of his journalistic duties he had discovered the ticket in the lining of an old box. But he made no mention of the Marbury matter, being anxious to see first whither Mr. Quarterpage’s revelations would lead him.
“You have no idea, Mr. Spargo,” said the old gentleman, when, breakfast over, he and Spargo were closeted together in a little library in which were abundant evidences of the host’s taste in sporting matters; “you have no idea of the value which was attached to the possession of one of those silver tickets. There is mine, as you see, securely framed and just as securely fastened to the wall. Those fifty silver tickets, my dear sir, were made when our old race-meeting was initiated, in the year 1781. They were made in the town by a local silversmith, whose great-great-grandson still carries on the business. The fifty were distributed amongst the fifty leading burgesses of the town to be kept in their families for ever — nobody ever anticipated in those days that our race-meeting would ever be discontinued. The ticket carried great privileges. It made its holder, and all members of his family, male and female, free of the stands, rings, and paddocks. It gave the holder himself and his eldest son, if of age, the right to a seat at our grand race banquet — at which, I may tell you, Mr. Spargo, Royalty itself has been present in the good old days. Consequently, as you see, to be the holder of a silver ticket was to be somebody.”
“And when the race-meeting fell through?” asked Spargo. “What then?”
“Then, of course, the families who held the tickets looked upon them as heirlooms, to be taken great care of,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “They were dealt with as I dealt with mine — framed on velvet, and hung up — or locked away: I am sure that anybody who had one took the greatest care of it. Now, I said last night, over there at the ‘Dragon,’ that I could repeat the names of all the families who held these tickets. So I can. But here” — the old gentleman drew out a drawer and produced from it a parchment-bound book which he handled with great reverence— “here is a little volume of my own handwriting — memoranda relating to Market Milcaster Races — in which is a list of the original holders, together with another list showing who held the tickets when the races were given up. I make bold to say, Mr. Spargo, that by going through the second list, I could trace every ticket — except the one you have in your purse.”
