Synopsis No Mans Island by : Herbert Strang
It was Saturday afternoon. The spacious lawn in front of Mr. Crawshay’s house was spread with bamboo tables and deck-chairs. At the porch stood Mr. Crawshay and Mr. Ambrose Pratt side by side, smoking long cigars, chatting and laughing with the familiarity of old friends. Mr. Pratt’s right arm was in a sling. “It’s time they came,” said Mr. Crawshay, taking out his watch. He wore a large panama, and his suit of spotless ducks gave him a festal air. “They’re probably squabbling for precedence,” said Mr. Pratt; “not on social grounds, but for modesty. It’s an ordeal, you know, Crawshay; and when they see your rig, and that purple tie of yours, they’ll be abashed.” “What’ll they say to the women, then?” returned Mr. Crawshay. “Upon my soul, Pratt, I think you are right to come in your old clothes; they’ll feel more at home. It never occurred to me.” “Oh, well, you’re lord of the manor; I dare say you’re right to look the part. But here they come, in a bunch. Mrs. Rogers is, perhaps, a shade ahead.” Mr. Crawshay turned and called through the open door. His daughter, in a dainty confection of muslin and lace, and a straw hat trimmed with pink silk, came running out, followed by her mother, an impressive figure in blue, and our three campers, in flannels and blazers. Armstrong also had an arm in a sling. Grouped in front of the porch they awaited the coming of the party that had just entered the drive. Mrs. Rogers, in stiff black silk, and a wonderful bonnet, marched along a little in advance of her husband, hardly recognisable in his Sunday suit of blue serge and a bowler hat sitting uneasily on the back of his head. Samuel Blevins, the general dealer, had affected a long frock coat and a tall hat. Henery Drew, magnificent in a brown bowler and a suit of large-checked tweed, walked beside Hardstone, the constable, disguised in habiliments that might have become a prosperous plumber. The rest of the company, whose names we do not know, were alike in one respect; all had donned their “Sunday best.” Every face, without exception, wore an air of deep solemnity. Mr. Crawshay took a step forward. “Glad to see you, neighbours,” he said, genially. “We are lucky in a fine afternoon.” He shook hands with them individually, a greeting that inflicted on them various degrees of embarrassment, deepened by the smiling welcome of his wife and daughter. Mr. Pratt contented himself with a general salutation; it was not until the boys began to crack jokes with them that the prevailing gloom lightened. “You didn’t bring your sister, Rogers?” said Mr. Crawshay to the innkeeper. “True, sir; she bain’t come along.” “She couldn’t face ‘ee, sir,” added Mrs. Rogers. “I always did say as she was making a rod for her back, though never did I think Rod was such a downright wicked feller. And Henery Drew, as would have made her a good husband as far as husbands do go, and now he can’t marry her without committing bigamy.” “Well, well! We must hope for the best,” said Mr. Crawshay. “Now, my friends, we’re all here. Take your seats, and we’ll have tea.” The company seated themselves. Maids brought from the house trays filled with good things. Mrs. Crawshay poured out tea, and Lilian and the boys carried round the eatables. Under the influence of good cheer the villagers’ stiffness wore off, and they began to descant upon the moving events of the past days. For the first time in its history the village had become a place of importance. Visitors had flocked to it from all parts; journalists with cameras had interviewed the actors in the drama, and expressed themselves very freely on Mr. Pratt’s refusal to admit them to his grounds, and to pose for his photograph. His modesty in this respect was a standing puzzle to his humble neighbours. Mrs. Rogers, for instance, was extremely proud of the portrait of her husband that had appeared in the previous day’s picture paper. “The scar shows beautiful,” she said, complacently. “Dear me,” said Mrs. Crawshay, with a discreet glance at Rogers’s broad face, “I wasn’t aware––” “Take off your hat, Joe, and show the lady.” Removing his hat, Rogers displayed a red furrow that ran across his shiny pate. “What a narrow escape!” exclaimed Mrs. Crawshay. “Ay sure, ma’am, ‘twas so,” said Mrs. Rogers. “And I’m certain a widow’s cap wouldn’t have suited me.” “Well, Mrs. Rogers, you won’t be so particular about Joe’s wig after this,” said Percy Pratt. “You see, if he’d worn his wig, his scalp wouldn’t have been touched; think what millions of people have had the pleasure of admiring your husband, talking about his bravery, discussing the track of the bullet across his skull. No one wanted to take my photograph.” “They took ‘ee unbeknownst, then, becos there you be, next to Joe, with ‘Pepper and Salt’ printed underneath; very clever, I call it, Joe being once a sailor.” “Oh, I say,” exclaimed Pratt, “did they get the others too?” “No, sir. Not as I think it a very good likeness. You’ve got your two eyes half shut, and your mouth is a very queer shape, like as if you was expecting of somebody to pop something in it–a drop of physic, maybe.” The villagers looked merely interested, the others frankly amused. Pratt blushed. “He must have caught you when you were singing a particularly sentimental song, old chap,” said Warrender, smiling. “That reminds me,” said Mrs. Crawshay. “Do bring out your banjo, Mr. Pratt, and sing us something.” “Wait a minute,” said Mr. Crawshay. “Before we begin the–entertainment, shall I call it?–I want to say a word or two.” “Hear, hear!” exclaimed Blevins. “‘Tis what I call an event.” “No heroics, for goodness’ sake, Crawshay,” murmured Mr. Pratt. Mr. Crawshay assumed the look of one determined not to be interfered with. “I just want to say, neighbours,” he proceeded, “how glad I am to see you all here this afternoon, in celebration of what Mr. Blevins rightly calls an event in the simple history of our little parish. You all had a part in the frustration of the most nefarious criminal conspiracy that has ever come within my long experience as a county magistrate. Thanks to the ingenuity and perseverance of my dear young friends, their refusal to be intimidated, their sleepless vigils and untiring watchfulness, the secrets of that criminal conspiracy were laid bare, my old friend and neighbour was rescued from a most distressing situation, and you, anticipating the slow operation of the law, but sanctioned by the presence among you of an officer of the law, were able to secure the apprehension of the whole band of criminals, who are now awaiting in the darkness of the county gaol the due reward of their deeds. Our village is to be congratulated on the visit of three young men, typical products of our renowned public school system, and on the public spirit of its own inhabitants, who, when the call for action came, forgetting all class distinctions, regardless of personal risk, braved the murderous weapons of unscrupulous villains, and nobly carried out the first duty of the patriotic citizen. I am speaking the mind of you all,” the worthy magistrate went on, warming to his subject, “when I say that we shall long treasure the memory of our young friends, their high spirits, their unfailing cheerfulness under persecution, their courage and ingenuity; and it is a matter of regret that, yielding to paramount claims, the claims of parental affection, they are leaving us to-day. But it will please you all to hear that, in response to my invitation–I may say to my insistence–they have agreed to visit us again next year; and I understand from my old friend and neighbour, Mr. Pratt, that he intends to acquire No Man’s Island, so long derelict, and restore the cottage as a holiday hostel for boys of our public schools.” Here there were general cheers. “Dear old Father!” whispered Lilian to the boys. “He gets so few chances of making a speech, and he does love it so.” “I won’t detain you longer,” Mr. Crawshay went on. “No doubt Mr. Pratt would like to say a few words.” “Hate it!” exclaimed Mr. Pratt. “One thing only. I’ve had a bad time. I deserved it. I was over-hasty. My old servants are scattered; if any of you know where they are, tell them to come to me. I’ll reinstate them–if we can agree about wages.” Under cover of the villagers’ applause, Percy seized the opportunity of unbosoming himself to a select audience, his companions and Lilian Crawshay. “Are we blushing, Miss Crawshay?” he asked. “I don’t think we are, because, you see, we are supremely conscious of each other’s merits. We really are benefactors, you know–public and private. Who would ever believe that the two old gentlemen were not long ago calling each other luna––” “Now, Mr. Pratt,” the girl interrupted. “Well, X and Y then,” rejoined Pratt. “It’s undeniable, isn’t it, that they’re reconciled through us? And as for my uncle and me, we’re quite pally; the old feud is healed, and before long I expect my father and Uncle Ambrose will kiss again with tears. Tennyson, you know. Anyway, it’s been a ripping holiday, and––” “Now, Mr. Pratt, we are all waiting,” said Mrs. Crawshay, amiably. Pratt obediently went into the house, brought out his banjo, and trolled out ditties of the most sentimental order. Presently Warrender announced that it was time to go if they meant to reach Southampton before dark. The whole company trooped down to the bank with them, and watched them board the motor-boat, already loaded with their camp equipment. Last good-byes were said; Warrender opened the throttle; and as the boat panted down stream there came to the ears of the silent spectators the gentle strumming of the banjo, and Pratt’s melodious tenor...FROM THE BOOKS.
