CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MARKET MILCASTER
The haunt of well-informed men which Spargo had in view when he turnedout of the _Watchman_ office lay well hidden from ordinary sight andknowledge in one of those Fleet Street courts the like of which is notelsewhere in the world. Only certain folk knew of it. It was, ofcourse, a club; otherwise it would not have been what it was. It is thesimplest thing in life, in England, at any rate, to form a club ofcongenial spirits. You get so many of your choice friends andacquaintances to gather round you; you register yourselves under a nameof your own choosing; you take a house and furnish it according to yourmeans and your taste: you comply with the very easy letter of the law,and there you are. Keep within that easy letter, and you can do whatyou please on your own premises. It is much more agreeable to have asmall paradise of your own of this description than to lounge aboutFleet Street bars.
The particular club to which Spargo bent his steps was called theOctoneumenoi. Who evolved this extraordinary combination of Latin andGreek was a dark mystery: there it was, however, on a tiny brass plateyou once reached the portals. The portals were gained by devious ways.You turned out of Fleet Street by an alley so narrow that it seemed asif you might suddenly find yourself squeezed between the ancient walls.Then you suddenly dived down another alley and found yourself in asmall court, with high walls around you and a smell of printer's ink inyour nose and a whirring of printing presses in your ears. You madeanother dive into a dark entry, much encumbered by bales of paper,crates of printing material, jars of printing ink; after falling over afew of these you struck an ancient flight of stairs and went up pastvarious landings, always travelling in a state of gloom and fear. Aftera lot of twisting and turning you came to the very top of the house andfound it heavily curtained off. You lifted a curtain and found yourselfin a small entresol, somewhat artistically painted--the whole and solework of an artistic member who came one day with a formidable array oflumber and paint-pots and worked his will on the ancient wood. Then yousaw the brass plate and its fearful name, and beneath it the formallegal notice that this club was duly registered and so on, and if youwere a member you went in, and if you weren't a member you tinkled anelectric bell and asked to see a member--if you knew one.
Spargo was not a member, but he knew many members, and he tinkled thebell, and asked the boy who answered it for Mr. Starkey. Mr. Starkey, ayoung gentleman with the biceps of a prize-fighter and a head of curlyhair that would have done credit to Antinous, came forth in due courseand shook Spargo by the hand until his teeth rattled.
"Had we known you were coming," said Mr. Starkey, "we'd have had abrass band on the stairs."
"I want to come in," remarked Spargo.
"Sure!" said Mr. Starkey. "That's what you've come for."
"Well, stand out of the way, then, and let's get in," said Spargo."Look here," he continued when they had penetrated into a smallvestibule, "doesn't old Crowfoot turn in here about this time everynight?"
"Every night as true as the clock, my son Spargo, Crowfoot puts hisnose in at precisely eleven, having by that time finished that dailycolumn wherein he informs a section of the populace as to the prospectsof their spotting a winner tomorrow," answered Mr. Starkey. "It's fiveminutes to his hour now. Come in and drink till he comes. Want him?"
"A word with him," answered Spargo. "A mere word--or two."
He followed Starkey into a room which was so filled with smoke andsound that for a moment it was impossible to either see or hear. Butthe smoke was gradually making itself into a canopy, and beneath thecanopy Spargo made out various groups of men of all ages, sittingaround small tables, smoking and drinking, and all talking as if thegreat object of their lives was to get as many words as possible out oftheir mouths in the shortest possible time. In the further corner was asmall bar; Starkey pulled Spargo up to it.
"Name it, my son," commanded Starkey. "Try the Octoneumenoi very extraspecial. Two of 'em, Dick. Come to beg to be a member, Spargo?"
"I'll think about being a member of this ante-room of the infernalregions when you start a ventilating fan and provide members with aroute-map of the way from Fleet Street," answered Spargo, taking hisglass. "Phew!--what an atmosphere!"
"We're considering a ventilating fan," said Starkey. "I'm on the housecommittee now, and I brought that very matter up at our last meeting.But Templeson, of the _Bulletin_--you know Templeson--he says what wewant is a wine-cooler to stand under that sideboard--says no club isproper without a wine-cooler, and that he knows a chap--second-handdealer, don't you know--what has a beauty to dispose of in oldSheffield plate. Now, if you were on our house committee, Spargo, oldman, would you go in for the wine-cooler or the ventilating fan? Yousee--"
"There is Crowfoot," said Spargo. "Shout him over here, Starkey, beforeanybody else collars him."
Through the door by which Spargo had entered a few minutes previouslycame a man who stood for a moment blinking at the smoke and the lights.He was a tall, elderly man with a figure and bearing of a soldier; abig, sweeping moustache stood well out against a square-cut jaw andbeneath a prominent nose; a pair of keen blue eyes looked out frombeneath a tousled mass of crinkled hair. He wore neither hat nor cap;his attire was a carelessly put on Norfolk suit of brown tweed; helooked half-unkempt, half-groomed. But knotted at the collar of hisflannel shirt were the colours of one of the most famous and exclusivecricket clubs in the world, and everybody knew that in his day theirwearer had been a mighty figure in the public eye.
"Hi, Crowfoot!" shouted Starkey above the din and babel. "Crowfoot,Crowfoot! Come over here, there's a chap dying to see you!"
"Yes, that's the way to get him, isn't it?" said Spargo. "Here, I'llget him myself."
He went across the room and accosted the old sporting journalist.
"I want a quiet word with you," he said. "This place is like apandemonium."
Crowfoot led the way into a side alcove and ordered a drink.
"Always is, this time," he said, yawning. "But it's companionable. Whatis it, Spargo?"
Spargo took a pull at the glass which he had carried with him. "Ishould say," he said, "that you know as much about sporting matters asany man writing about 'em?"
"Well, I think you might say it with truth," answered Crowfoot.
"And old sporting matters?" said Spargo.
"Yes, and old sporting matters," replied the other with a sudden flashof the eye. "Not that they greatly interest the modern generation, youknow."
"Well, there's something that's interesting me greatly just now,anyway," said Spargo. "And I believe it's got to do with old sportingaffairs. And I came to you for information about it, believing you tobe the only man I know of that could tell anything."
"Yes--what is it?" asked Crowfoot.
Spargo drew out an envelope, and took from it the carefully-wrapped-upsilver ticket. He took off the wrappings and laid the ticket onCrowfoot's outstretched palm.
"Can you tell me what that is?" he asked.
Another sudden flash came into the old sportsman's eyes--he eagerlyturned the silver ticket over.
"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "Where did you get this?"
"Never mind, just now," replied Spargo. "You know what it is?"
"Certainly I know what it is! But--Gad! I've not seen one of thesethings for Lord knows how many years. It makes me feel something like ayoung 'un again!" said Crowfoot. "Quite a young 'un!"
"But what is it?" asked Spargo.
Crowfoot turned the ticket over, showing the side on which the heraldicdevice was almost worn away.
"It's one of the original silver stand tickets of the old racecourse atMarket Milcaster," answered Crowfoot. "That's what it is. One of theold original silver stand tickets. There are the arms of MarketMilcaster, you see, nearly worn away by much rubbing. There, on theobverse, is the figure of a running horse. Oh, yes, that's what it is!Bless me!--most interesting."
"Where's Market Milcaster?" enquired Spargo. "Don't know it."
"Ma
rket Milcaster," replied Crowfoot, still turning the silver ticketover and over, "is what the topographers call a decayed town inElmshire. It has steadily decayed since the river that led to it gotgradually silted up. There used to be a famous race-meeting there inJune every year. It's nearly forty years since that meeting fellthrough. I went to it often when I was a lad--often!"
"And you say that's a ticket for the stand?" asked Spargo.
"This is one of fifty silver tickets, or passes, or whatever you liketo call 'em, which were given by the race committee to fifty burgessesof the town," answered Crowfoot. "It was, I remember, considered agreat privilege to possess a silver ticket. It admitted itspossessor--for life, mind you!--to the stand, the paddocks, the ring,anywhere. It also gave him a place at the annual race-dinner. Where onearth did you get this, Spargo?"
Spargo took the ticket and carefully re-wrapped it, this time puttingit in his purse.
"I'm awfully obliged to you, Crowfoot," he said, "The fact is, I can'ttell you where I got it just now, but I'll promise you that I will tellyou, and all about it, too, as soon as my tongue's free to do so."
"Some mystery, eh?" suggested Crowfoot.
"Considerable," answered Spargo. "Don't mention to anyone that I showedit to you. You shall know everything eventually."
"Oh, all right, my boy, all right!" said Crowfoot. "Odd how things turnup, isn't it? Now, I'll wager anything that there aren't half a dozenof these old things outside Market Milcaster itself. As I said, therewere only fifty, and they were all in possession of burgesses. Theywere so much thought of that they were taken great care of. I've beenin Market Milcaster myself since the races were given up, and I've seenthese tickets carefully framed and hung over mantelpieces--oh, yes!"
Spargo caught at a notion.
"How do you get to Market Milcaster?" he asked.
"Paddington," replied Crowfoot. "It's a goodish way."
"I wonder," said Spargo, "if there's any old sporting man there whocould remember--things. Anything about this ticket, for instance?"
"Old sporting man!" exclaimed Crowfoot. "Egad!--but no, he must bedead--anyhow, if he isn't dead, he must be a veritable patriarch. OldBen Quarterpage, he was an auctioneer in the town, and a raresportsman."
"I may go down there," said Spargo. "I'll see if he's alive."
"Then, if you do go down," suggested Crowfoot, "go to the old 'YellowDragon' in the High Street, a fine old place. Quarterpage's place ofbusiness and his private house were exactly opposite the 'Dragon.' ButI'm afraid you'll find him dead--it's five and twenty years since I wasin Market Milcaster, and he was an old bird then. Let's see, now. IfOld Ben Quarterpage is alive, Spargo, he'll be ninety years of age!"
"Well, I've known men of ninety who were spry enough, even in my bit ofexperience," said Spargo. "I know one--now--my own grandfather. Well,the best of thanks, Crowfoot, and I'll tell you all about it some day."
"Have another drink?" suggested Crowfoot.
But Spargo excused himself. He was going back to the office, he said;he still had something to do. And he got himself away from theOctoneumenoi, in spite of Starkey, who wished to start a general debateon the wisest way of expending the club's ready money balance, and wentback to the _Watchman_, and there he sought the presence of the editor,and in spite of the fact that it was the busiest hour of the night, sawhim and remained closeted with him for the extraordinary space of tenminutes. And after that Spargo went home and fell into bed.
But next morning, bright and early, he was on the departure platform atPaddington, suit-case in hand, and ticket in pocket for MarketMilcaster, and in the course of that afternoon he found himself in anold-fashioned bedroom looking out on Market Milcaster High Street. Andthere, right opposite him, he saw an ancient house, old brick,ivy-covered, with an office at its side, over the door of which was thename, _Benjamin Quarterpage_.