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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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RGL e-Book Cover
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THE place which Finegan chose for making his escape was as curious as his method. It had been a warm, spring day, but a soft mist dropping over the tors about half-past four had caused the signal to be given for the outdoor gangs to be marched in.
Number 17, of which party he was not the least distinguished member, was passing the red barn in the horse pasture, and Eames, the warder in charge, was already congratulating himself on having shepherded his flock without the slightest trouble, when Finegan made one leap out of the ranks, seized by the mane one of the ponies that was grazing close by the path, flung himself on to its back, and, driving his heels into its flanks, was off like a rocket.
Almost before Eames could level his carbine, Finegan was over the wall. It was a fine feat of horsemanship. Eames let loose his charge of buck-shot over the fugitive''s head, but the only result was to make the startled pony travel a little faster; and before Warren, the other warder, could fire, horse and man were a mere blur in the mist.
The civil guards, however, on their game little ponies, followed by sound. Then the men opened out like a fan, and galloped on sharply, hoping to catch their man as he climbed the big boundary wall of the prison farm. Imagine their feelings when they a heard a neigh, and found the pony standing under the wall sweating profusely, but not a sign of its late rider!
"Think he's over the wall?" growled one.
"I reckon so. We'd best sweep the moor this side before it gets dark," answered another.
Meantime, Finegan himself was lying doggo in a heap of rubbish half a mile back, and chuckling where he lay.
He lay listening until he felt sure that the guards were not coming back, then crept out of his refuge and started briskly off almost due south. It was the very last direction which an ordinary convict would have chosen.
The mist was thickening, and Finegan heaved a sigh of relief.
Moving cautiously along behind the walls, and pausing at every sound, Finegan came at last to the main road which runs along the south side of the prison farm. Summoning all his courage, he swung himself to the top of the wall, slipped down quietly the far side, and tip-toeing across the hard macadam was over the far wall like a shadow.
No one had seen him. He could have yelled with relief.
Soon he was down upon moist ground, which squelched beneath his feet, and presently heard the rush of water. It was the Graybrook, tearing swiftly seawards along its boulder-strewn channel. Jumping like a cat from rock to rock, he crossed to the far side, and, climbing some way up the slope beyond, turned and kept a course parallel with the river.
Finegan crept cautiously through the undergrowth till he found between two rocks a crevice large enough to crawl into, and roofed conveniently by a projecting slab. Groping about, he collected dry ferns and made a bed, curled up, and was asleep in five minutes.
When he awoke, shafts of warm sunlight were piercing the green foliage, the sky was blue, the birds were singing merrily. He crawled out of his refuge, saluted the lovely morning with a grin, and made downhill towards the river. A cleanly man by nature, he thought that a wash would not be amiss, and a drink of the clear, cool water would be a substitute—if a poor one—for breakfast.
But when he got near the river a sound of splashing startled him, and dropping flat on his stomach he began to creep onwards like an overgrown lizard. The bank was high and deep in whin bushes, which afforded excellent cover, so he reached the edge without risk, and peered over.
Below was a strip of sandy beach, and in the deep still pool beyond a stout man was plunging and rolling like a porpoise.
"'Ere's a bit of orl right!" said Finegan to himself, as his quirk eyes fell upon the swimmer's clothes lying in a heap on a rock. He glanced quickly round to make sure that no one else was about.
"Hi, mister!" he called. "Swim across to t'other bank, an' sit there quiet! Don't go for to shout, and I won't hurt ye."
The swimmer turned and saw the convict—a long, lean, formidable figure in his ugly, drab-coloured garments. With a gasp of terror he hastened to obey.
"It's your clothes I needs, mister," went on Finegan genially. "I hate to deprive anybody of anything, but necessity 'as no laws."
As he spoke he flung off his convict things, and rapidly dressed himself in the flannel shirt and warm rough tweeds and cap of the unfortunate bather, who watched him, with chattering teeth.
A minute later Finegan, safe back in his refuge, was hastily examining the contents of the pockets of his borrowed suit.
"Crikey, but I'm in luck!" he muttered delightedly, as he found a purse with two sovereigns and some silver. A well-filled cigarette-case broadened his smile. But a third discovery—a fat packet of ham sandwiches—was, perhaps, more valuable than anything else, and as he wolfed them down he vowed to himself that things could not have fallen out better if he himself had been the ordering of them.
The next thing was to find a fresh hiding-place.
He had a hiding-place in mind, and walking at a brisk pace soon came in sight of it. It was a patch of furze, very rough and brambly, which lay on the south bank of the river, sloping steeply towards the water.
"Jest about the last place any o' the screws 'ud think of searching," he chuckled to himself.
After about an hour there came a sound of galloping. Finegan raised his head. One great advantage of his present refuge was that it commanded a wide view of the opposite side of the river.
Sure enough a mounted warder was coming sharply from the direction of the prison. Up on the high ground beyond were two other mounted men—farmers, no doubt, who had been attracted by the five-pound reward for bringing in an escapee.
"Pore beggars!" muttered Finegan amiably. "Bloomin' 'ot they finds it, I expect."
There were other people in sight. A man fishing a long way down the river; the sun flashed on his rod varnish as he cast his flies. Closer were a lady and a little girl. The child was darting here and there, picking flowers and bringing them to her mother. Finegan was fond of children. He had once had one of his own, and he watched the bright little baby thing with a smile on his grim lips. The pair came straight up opposite his hiding-place, but presently, finding that he had to raise his head rather high to keep his eye on them, he dropped back and lit another cigarette.
All of a sudden came a splash, and a shrill scream echoed through the soft, sun-warmed air followed instantly by a louder, sharper cry.
"By the holy poker she's fallen in!" exclaimed Finegan, springing up hastily and peering out over his stockade of thick, dark gorse.
He was right. Ripples ringed the rocky pool immediately below him, and in the middle a small white object, floated—the baby girl's hat.
On the bank the mother ran wildly up and down, screaming piteously for help.
Finegan looked towards the opposite road. Ay, there were people there. In the distance the two mounted farmers were jogging slowly side by side, and nearer was a man afoot—a warder, by the look of him, though in civilian dress. The latter had heard the screams, and was casting round, uncertain where they came from.
But even if he started at once he could never be there in time.
"It's up to you, my boy!" said Finegan to himself.
Ah, that stolen suit! It meant at least another three years tacked on to his previous sentence.
The ripples were smoothing. Something glimmered, still struggling, far below the surface.
"Blithered if I can stand that!" growled Finegan, and the next moment the mother, who by this time was on the point of flinging herself in after the baby, heard a crash, saw a tall figure flash past her, and with one great bound leap from the top of the bank and vanish in a patch of white foam.
A moment of agonising suspense, then up he came, and with a scream of joy she saw that he had her child in the hollow of his left arm. She met him at the water's edge and snatched the limp, dripping little body from him.
"Is she dead?" she cried piteously.
"No, mum; she ain't been under long enough for that. Let me 'ave her. There, lay her down like that on the grass. That'll clear her little inside of the water. Work 'er arms a bit—that's right! She'll come round, don't you worry. See, her little eyes is opening. An' now, mum, I mustn't stop. I got a most important engagement!"
"Ay," came a cool voice at his elbow; and whirling round Finegan saw Warren, the warder of his own gang. He was gripping his truncheon in his right hand.
"It's no good, Finegan," he said quietly. "There's plenty more in call."
Finegan gave a sigh.
"All right, Mr. Warren. I'll come quiet," he said.
AFTER all, Finegan was no loser. As it happened, the lady was the sister of the bather whose clothes Finegan had stolen, and the next day he and she together called on Col. Peyton, the governor of Moorlands Prison. Later, the governor had Finegan up from his cell, and the two had a long talk. Of course, Finegan lost his remission marks, but as there was no prosecution he was released as soon as he had completed his original sentence; and when he went out, instead of dropping into the hands of his former criminal associates, he found kind friends awaiting him at the prison gate.
To-day he is butler in the house of the lady whose baby's life he saved that sunny morning, and the only fault that is ever laid to his charge is the disgraceful way in which he spoils Miss Evelyn.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.