LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1746, 24 September 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

LEMONPINOERS. Five years ago I was telegraph clerk at Newstone station. I had a week of day duty and a week of night duty alternately. Christmas eve had come round, of all nights In the year, and there I found myself cooped up as usual in the little office; two great staring instruments in front of me, a flaring gaslight overhead, and a well heaped grate by my side, not forgetting a three-volume novel to assist me in whiling away the long, dark hours. The night messages at Newstone were never very numerous. Thera were rarely any for private people; they referred mostly to the business of the railway company. That evening I felt very low spirited. It went against the grain to work on Christmas eve, when everybody else seemed to be keeping holiday and enjoying themselves’ Cary and I had. been engaged for about two years, and, for any prospect of marriage, we might be engaged for twenty years longer. Mr Lancaster, Cary’s father, was a tradesman in a good way of business, and naturally refused to let his daughter marry a fellow who was getting only £7O a year. He several times advised Cary to give me up, but, as she would not do that, he contented himself with forbidding me the house, trusting to time and distance —for they lived several miles from Newstone —to aid his cause. I knew that Mr Lancaster always invited a number of young people to his house on Christmas Eve, and I pictured them there, dancing: Cary flitting about in her white muslin dress with the very riband round her waist that I had given her only a month before. Would any thought of my miserable self cross her mind, as she moved among the gay company ? Perhaps my detested rival, Sinks, the draper, might be even dancing with Jher, and pressing her waist with his arm at that very moment. Thoughts not calmly to be borne ; so away I went on the platform for a change of scene A clear starlight night, with a keen breeze that whistled shrill and dry throngh the telegraph wire above my head, and brought to my ears the faint sounds, made soft and sweet by distance, of the Christmas waits. Lanterns, flitting like fire flames among the waggons in the station yard ; hoarse nnconth shouts of men, and wild shrieka from distracted locomotives, that seemed madly tearing up and down merely to keep themselves in a glow on such a bitter night, and not because they had anything to do. So into the office again, with numb fingers, glad of such a haven. The long dark hours sped slowly; each hour clinked ont by the valorous little clock in the corner. Midnight came and went—one o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock. I had grown tired of the charming heroine, and had again become weakly despondent on the subject of Binks, when I was aroused by the quick tinkle of the electric bell. A private message : 1 Mr Kork, Ironville, to Mr Darke, 39 High street, Newstone.’ ‘ Lemonfingera by the mail to-night. All Crene. Take care of the black dwarf.’ I was accnstomed to queer messages, but this was the oddest I had seen. I spelled it over twice to see that I had got it down correctly, then copied it out on one of the printed forms, signed it, entered at the foot the time I had received—-3.4s—and placed it in an envelope. No. 39 High street was the residence of Mr Breem, the tailor, and was only five minutes walk from the station. Mr Breem generally had apartments to let, and Mr Darke was probably a lodger. Having locked the office, I proceeded on a rapid trot toward Mr Breem’s. I concluded that Mr Darke was a showman, and that somebody was sending him a dwarf—perhaps a giant, also—but certainly a dwarf, to put in his caravan. There was a light In the second floor of No. 39. Was Mr Darke waiting, expectant of a message ? It looked like it. I gave a loud knock and stepped back to note the effect. The light in the second floor was not moved, but the window was opened, and a gruff voice demanded—- ‘ Who’s there ?’ ‘ Does Mr Darke live here ?’ ‘ Why do you want to know ?’ » I’ve got a telegraphic message for him.’ * Ugh ! All right. Wait a minute.’ A very gruff voice certainly. Next moment the door was opened, as far as the chain would admit, and a great muscular hand was thrust out. ‘Hand it here,’ said Mr Darke. Accordingly I placed the note in his hand. ‘ Wait a bit till I see whether any answer is required.’ In a minute or two the window was again opened, ‘ No answer,’ and the casement was slammed down. With the exception of voice, I had no more idea of Mr Darke when I left No. 39 than I had when I went. I had merely seen the outline of his head when he looked out of the window. Whether he was a young man or an old man, a fair or a dark man, 1 was equally at a loss to know. Ironville is thirty-five miles from Newstone. The mail train runs the distance in rather under an hour, and reaches the latter place at 5 30 o’clock. As the clock pointed to 5.30 I set off for a stroll up the platform, determined that if any dwarf, or giant, or other strange monster arrived by the train, he should not depart unseen by me. I half expected to find Mr Darke waiting for the train, but ho was not to be seen True to time, the train crawled slowly in the station, and in another minute the platform was flooded with those strangely attired individuals. whose business or pleasure induces them to travel by night. No dwarf, or giant, nor other strange montter. Only one passenger for Newstone, all the others booked through, as was evident from their frantic struggles to find their seats the moment the bell clashed ont its warning note. And this one passenger ! A slim gentleman, stylishly dressed. Young, without whiskers, but with a long, fair moustache, which ho was fond of stroking with hia exquisitely gloved thumb and finger. He alight'd jauntily from a first-class carriage, smiled amiably on the porter, who touched his cap, took up his small black portmanteau, gave one hurried anxious glance round, broke into a smile again, swaggered slowly down the platform, and, pushing throngh the heavy folding doors, emerged into the street. _ Some swell from London come to spend Christmas with his friends, I said to myself. But where can he he going to at this time of the morning ? None of the inns will be open for above an hour. Without waiting to consider whether it was any business of mine, I pushed throngh the folding doors after the traveller. He was walking slowly across the little square in front of the station, looking from side to side, as if not knowing which road to take. Suddenly a

dark figure glided out from behind some projection, and advanced towards him. I could hear the murmur of a few words. Then the stranger took the portmanteau from the traveller’s hand, and they went on together at a rapid pace into the town. All this I saw by the light of the station lamps. When the two figures got beyond their influence, and passed out of view in the denser darkness beyond, impelled by a vague feeling of curiosity, I drew my coat closer around me, and set off after them at a stealthy pace, taking the darker side of the square as I went. I had not far to follow. They passed into High street, and stopped opposite Kb. 39. A moment more and they were both inside the house and the door was shut; another moment and I saw the light shining from Mr Darke’s room in the second fli o.• front.

Having no expectation of seeing anything more, I turned back to the office, and there, bending over a jovial fire, fell gradually into a doze, in which Mr Darke, the traveller, Gary, a black dwarf, and Sinks, the draper, were all mingled in a fantastic drama, revolving endlessly in my weary brain. What had the telegraphic message to do with the handsome stranger ? I sleepily kept asking myself at intervals of a few minutes, but without troubling myself to find an answer. Suddenly a new light burst upon me. I started up, thoroughly awake, and tearing open the despatch-book read over again the first part of the message : “Lemonfingers s.arls by the mail.” Well, what has that to do with the handsome traveller ? Why, this, doesn’t the traveller wear a pair of tightly-fitting lemoncoloured gloves ; and wasn’t the outside seam of the first finger of the right-hand glove burst open ? This I had noticed as he stroked his moustache. But, even supposing the traveller to be the lemonfingers of the message, what about the black dwarf ? Yes, but had he not with him a small black portmanteau, of which he seemed to take particular care, refusing to let the porter so much as take it out of the carriage for him ? A theory, ingenious but improbable, X remarked to myself as I put out the gas and ihrew up the blind to admit the struggling day. My duty was over at eight o’clock. The London train was about to start as I went up the platform on my way home. Passing a group of people standing near a carriage door, I was suddenly startled by a deep, grnff voice exclaiming to some one, ‘We shall be off in half a minute more.’ ‘I would pick that voice in a thousand as Mr Darke’s ! ’ I exclaimed under my breath as I glanced quickly around. The group had dispersed, except two persons, a man and a woman, who were preparing to take their places in the train, The person whom I took for Mr Darke was a bulky, middle aged man, dressed in a good suit of black clothes. He had blaek hair, and thick, black eyebrows ; his whiskers Wtre black; meeting full and bushy under the chin ; his face was pale and marked by the small-pox, and his eyes were black, bold and cunning; altogether a fierce fellow, whom it would be unwise to enrage. His companion's face I could not see, it being concealed by a thick veil; but judging from her figure she could not bo mnch above twenty years old. She was well, but rather conspicuously attired, having over her silk dress a voluminous scarlet shawl, comfortable looking enough, certainly, on a cold Christmas morning. Bat see! As I live she has got on the very pair of lemon-colored gloves that were worn by the young dandy who arrived by the night mall; the same pair of gloves without a doubt, having the outside seam of the first finger of the right hand a li'.tle torn. There, too, is the identical little black portmanteau, carefully carried this time by Mr Darke himself. What can it all mean ?

Under ordinary circumstances I should have gone to bed and slept till two or three o’clock in the afternoon, but on Christmas day such a proceeding was not to be thought of. So, having breakfasted, I put on my Sunday suit and left for home, with the intention of taking a long stroll in the country. Before setting out I went to the station to see if I could not induce a certain friend to accompany me, when whom should I meet on the platform but Mr Choop, the chief constable of Newstone.

Mr Choop is a small, wiry, active looking man, with a sauntering and negligent air, as If he were in want of something to do. Mr Choop has a smiling, open countenance, he wears his hat very much at the back of his head, and generally displays an ample amount of shirt bosom, seeming in a quiet way to invite the confidence of every one. But tell him something that interests him, excite him, bring him out of the passive into the active mood, and you will see his eyes become keen and piercing, his features sharpen, and his teeth glisten. He looks at such a moment as dangerous and full of mischief as a tiger-cat crouched for a spring. Mr Choop is a distant relative of mine by marriage, and was aware of my affections. He was in a passive mood when I encountered him on the platform, and looked the most amiable and artless of men, • How are you this morning ?’ he said, as we shook hands. ‘And how is Cary? Have you and the old man made matters up yet ?’ I shook my head disconsolately. ‘Well, faint heart, you know,’ he added with a smile. ‘ What brings me down here? Business to be sure. The fact is,’ mysteriously taking me by the button, ’ there was a daring burglary committed last night at Ironville and property to a large amount was stolen. From information I received half an hour ago by telegraph I have reason to believe that one of the accomplices, having in his possession a considerable part of the stolen property arrived here this morning by the early train. A slender young man, fashionably dressed, light moustache, wearing a pair of lemon-colored kid gloves, and carrying a small black portmanteau,’ ‘ Mr Darke’s friend, by Jupiter !’ ‘ Eh, what do you mean ?’ asked Choop sharply, and his eager ferret-look, that changed him into man. Three minutes sufficed to put him in possession of all I knew. Mr Choop gave an almost imperceptible jerk with his thumb, and a tall ungainly looking man, having the appearance of a farm laborer in his beat clothes, lounged up, and I recognised Timothy, Mr Choop’s confidential subordinate. Mr Choop sent Timothy off to No. 39 to make certain enquiries, then went himself to the booking office to ask the clerk whether he remembered to what station Mr Darke and his companion were booked. The clerk booked so many passengers by that train that he could not positively remember ; but he thinks through to London. Mr Choop then desired me to accompany him to the telegraph office. The nine o’clock train had hardly got half way to London yet. By consulting a time-table Mr Choop found out on what part of the line the train ought to be ; so at his request I telegraphed to the station at which it would next stop, giving a brief description of Mr Darke and his companion, desiring the train to be searched on its arrival, and the individuals in question to be detained. In a quarter of an hour we received a reply, ‘ The train has been searched, but no individuals answering to the description given by you were in it.* (To he continued.')