Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ the blazes is happening, Jarvie?” “What is it?” “Where away, then?” “I say, Jarvie, what’s happened?” The riders were reining in round the trap, the frustrated pack, the belabouring huntsman, and the innocent Mr Franklin, with a clamour of inquiry; a burly young man with a heavy moustache was to the fore, flourishing a heavy riding crop.

      “Good God, Jarvie, what are the hounds doing?” he demanded, and the sweating little man, having beaten a way through the yelping mass, was springing nimbly into the trap and surveying the jerking picnic basket with astonishment.

      “I … I dunno, milord. Why, bloody ’ell – I think it’s gone to ground in this ’ere basket!”

      Cries of astonishment and laughter; Mr Franklin noted that a couple of ladies were among the hunters who were pressing forward to see. One horse stamped perilously close to him, and he had to step back, catching at the hedge to prevent his falling.

      “What’s that? In the basket? Good God!” exclaimed the burly young man. “Well, I’m damned! Heave it out then, Jarvie – sling it on to the road, man!”

      “I think it’s locked, milord,” said Jarvie, eyeing the basket.

      “Then break the dam’ thing open, can’t you? Throw it down!”

      Mr Franklin was conscious of a slight irritation. It was not only the brutality of the burly young man’s tone, proclaiming as it did an obvious disregard for anyone and anything that got in his way; nor was it the threatened destruction of his property. What ruffled Mr Franklin’s spirit was the fact that no one, especially the burly young man, had even noticed him or apparently given a thought to who the owner of the trap and basket might be. On the contrary, he had been forced into the hedge, and was still in some danger of being trampled as the riders pressed their horses forward round the trap, chattering excitedly.

      “In the basket?” “Good lord, it can’t be!” “Open it up, then Jarvie.” “Come on, man!” Jarvie stood perplexed, and was just stooping to the basket when Mr Franklin succeeded in forcing himself between the hedge and the nearest rider, and approached the trap.

      “Just a moment,” he said, and the chatting subsided slightly. The riders regarded him with some surprise, and the young man demanded:

      “Who are you?”

      It was said impatiently, and Mr Franklin found himself disliking the young man. His face was beefy, his moustache was aggressive, and his eyes were staring with that unpleasant arrogant hostility which Mr Franklin had already noted in a certain type of Englishman. He hadn’t put a name to it, but it was the look of a nature that would rather be rude than not, and took satisfaction in displaying contempt for outsiders, and putting them in their place.

      “I’m the owner of the basket. And the trap. And the horse – wherever it is,” said Mr Franklin quietly, and a lady laughed among the hunters. The young man stared at Mr Franklin blankly, and then directed his attention to Jarvie again.

      “Come on, Jarvie!” he snapped, slapping his crop, and as Jarvie stooped obediently Mr Franklin lost his temper completely. There was no outward sign of this; he simply laid a hand on the side of the trap and said:

      “Don’t touch that basket, Jarvie. And get out of the rig, will you – now.”

      Jarvie looked, and stopped abruptly, his hands coming away from the basket. He was conscious of a lean brown face and two cold steady eyes staring into his, and what he thought he saw in them took him aback. Still, he hesitated, and then the quiet voice said:

      “Step down, Jarvie.”

      And to his own astonishment, Jarvie found himself stepping down into the road, while exclamations of surprise and bewilderment came from the onlookers.

      “Thank you,” said Mr Franklin, and came round to Jarvie’s side of the trap, where the hounds, subdued and fretful by now, were whining round the huntsman’s boots. It was echoed by a murmur of discontent from the hunt. “What the deuce?” grumbled one stringy old gentleman with a puce complexion, and a stout woman said: “Really!” At this the burly young man, momentarily rendered speechless by his huntsman’s apparent defection, swung down from his saddle and strode towards the trap. Mr Franklin moved to confront him, and the young man stopped, his face flushed with fury.

      “What the devil d’you mean by … by impeding the hunt?” he demanded.

      “What do you mean,” responded Mr Franklin, “by interrupting my dinner and invading my property?”

      “His dinner,” exclaimed a female voice. “Did you hear?” And: “Property?” demanded the stringy man. “What property? Stuff and nonsense!”

      “As I said, it is my trap, and my basket,” said Mr Franklin, and the murmur rose to a growl, although one or two of the hunt, struck by the comic side of the situation, laughed. Among them was an angel-faced young lady in a bowler hat with her hair tied back in a large black bow; it seemed to him that her laughter particularly stung the burly young man, who was standing glowering uncertainly.

      “Dammit, sir, this is dam’ ridiculous,” exclaimed a fat man whose complexion matched his coat. “You’ve got the dam’ fox in the dam’ basket! What? You – you can’t steal a dam’ fox, dammit!”

      “I’m not stealing anything,” said Mr Franklin abruptly; his temper was still high. “The fox arrived uninvited –”

      “Well, then, let the dam’ thing go!” exclaimed the stringy man. “Good God, never heard the like in all my life!” He glared suspiciously at Mr Franklin. “Are you some kind of blasted Yankee crank, or what?”

      “Shove him out of the way, Frank,” shouted a voice, and the burly young man came a step closer to Mr Franklin; plainly he was measuring the American’s breadth of shoulder and general potential in a roadside brawl, for he demanded: “Are you going to stand out of the way?”

      “No,” said Mr Franklin with a coolness he was far from feeling, “and if you lay a hand on anything that belongs to me, I’ll not only sue you under whatever laws you have in England, I’ll also beat the living daylights out of you.”

      At this, slight pandemonium broke out; someone suggested getting the police, the young man clenched his fists, Mr Franklin braced himself, but before the young man could do anything rash he was set aside by a blond young giant who grinned amiably at Mr Franklin, tossed his hat away, and cried: “That’s the ticket! Want a turn-up, do you, Yankee! Come on, then, here we are!”

      “Arthur, stop it!” cried the girl with the black bow, but Arthur shook his head, his eyes laughing as he watched Franklin. “No, no, Peg, you mind your own business. If this chap’s ready to fight for his fox, good luck to him! Eh, Yankee?”

      “If you like,” said Mr Franklin slowly, and at this point another of the huntsmen urged his horse forward; an elderly, intelligent-looking man with a distinct air of authority.

      “Stop this dam’ nonsense,” he said. “Arthur, don’t be a fool! And you, sir, what are you driving at? Are you bent on making mischief – you’ve no right to … to make away with that fox, and you know it!”

      “I haven’t even touched the fox,” said Mr Franklin. “And I dare say I’d have felt obliged to let him loose five minutes ago – if someone had just troubled to ask me politely.”

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