Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 16, 1921 — page 46: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

WHITE HEATHER WEATHER. man alone showed no signs of fatigue. After the final rebuff from Samson he made not the slightest attempt to reopen conversation. On the other hand he was not sullenly silent. He remained quiet not an instant. Here he stood up and whistled to Geoffrey, with: whom he was on the best of terms be- fore the morning was half worn away. There he opened a running fire of conversa- tion at the horses for a whole ten minutes together, and it seemed to Samson Integrity that the poor, weary brutes understood his cheery nonsense and pricked their ears to listen to it. Again, a bird stooped twitter- ing above the coach and the fellow would tilt back his head and imitate the whistle of the songster. Again he broke into song and rattled off ballad after ballad—political quips, satires, and love songs. Toward evening it grew quite apparent that the horses could not complete the trip to London without some rest. Already it was necessary for Samson to ply the lash with a cruel liberality, and every mile or more he must draw up the team in a favorable spot and breathe them for a few minutes. During the last hours before sunset they dragged on at a:pace slower tHan a brisk man’s walk. So before dark the coachman clambered down into the body of the vehicle and held consultation with the ladies.- They were loath to halt on their trip with their goal so near; for now the towers and the spires of London were plainly in view and melting away into the heart of the night. But the necessity was great, and with many a lament the corpulent lady admitted that they must put up somewhere by the road. She was chiefly persuaded by the coachman. “For,” said he, “if they were truly on our track, they would long ago have over- , taken us on horseback. Why, I could run on foot two leagues to the one these poor nags are making now. Besides, our good Master Northam is ever and anon falling asleep on the seat and nodding his head off —poor lad! He may run us into the ditch, for aught I know, any moment, and leave us to kick our heels in the air.” This argument carried the day, and the coachman, who apparently knew the en- virons of the great city liké a book, pointed out to Samson Integrity the road to an a” obscurely withdrawn tavern, far from all main thoroughfares. They came thus short- ly after pitch dark to the Three Rams. It had been, at one time, a great and flourish- ing inn where travelers who left London late often stopped over for the first night, but now the way to the northern shires had shifted ‘farther toward the coast and the Three Rams lived on little more than its reputation. Like Jerry-on-the-Hill, it had once occupied the three sides around a courtyard, but one of these sides lay in shapeless ruins and the courtyard was open to the storm. The other two sections of the building remained in fearfully dilapi- dated condition, yet there were still portions of the rooms inhabitable. Before this hostelry, then, they drew up and their whistle summoned out the stable- boy. Samson ‘helped him to unhook the team and went with him to supervise the stabling and feeding of the nags, for it was necessary that they receive the most scrupu- lous attention if they were to be made fit to take the road on the following morning. When he returned to the tavern he was met by the coachman in the tap-room. “A beastly hole, eh?” observed the cheerful fellow, who already sat at a snug corner table near the fire fronted by a bot- tle of wine and a generous portion of roast- ed beef. ‘I was here a twelvemonth ago and the shack was bad enough then, but since then the winter has given it another shake. Damme, but the stairs trembled when I helped the ladies to their room. One chamber between ’em, and never a sign of a bed for you and me. But, you being the son of a soldier, and I but a coachman 7 —here he made a wry face at the floor— ‘we must e’en make out with the floor of the tap-room, eh?”’ “Is there no better hostelry. near by?” sighed Samson, longing for a rest. “A hundred within an hour’s ride,” re- plied the coachman, “‘ but this is better for us. to London, who would ever dream of turn- ing aside to trail us to this place? And who would look for Venus in a hovel? Tut! This scheme of mine should be marked in red; and we can all sleep in peace this night.” Go NOOK S} A Even if they followed us on tthe road — C@