MARKET MILCASTER
The of well-informed men which Spargo had in view when he out of the Watchman office well from ordinary and knowledge in one of those Fleet Street the like of which is not in the world. Only of it. It was, of course, a club; otherwise it would not have been what it was. It is the thing in life, in England, at any rate, to a of spirits. You so many of your choice friends and to you; you register yourselves under a name of your own choosing; you take a house and it according to your means and your taste: you with the very easy of the law, and there you are. Keep that easy letter, and you can do what you on your own premises. It is much more to have a small of your own of this than to about Fleet Street bars.
The particular to which Spargo his steps was called the Octoneumenoi. Who this of Latin and Greek was a dark mystery: there it was, however, on a plate you once the portals. The were by ways. You out of Fleet Street by an so narrow that it as if you might the walls. Then you another and in a small court, with high around you and a of printer's in your nose and a of in your ears. You another into a dark entry, much by of paper, of material, of ink; after over a of these you an of stairs and up past landings, always in a of and fear. After a of and you came to the very top of the house and it off. You a and in a small entresol, painted—the whole and work of an who came one day with a of and paint-pots and his will on the wood. Then you saw the plate and its name, and it the legal notice that this was registered and so on, and if you were a you in, and if you weren't a you an electric and asked to see a member—if you one.
Spargo was not a member, but he many members, and he the bell, and asked the boy who answered it for Mr. Starkey. Mr. Starkey, a with the of a prize-fighter and a of that would have done to Antinous, came in and Spargo by the hand until his teeth rattled.
"Had we you were coming," said Mr. Starkey, "we'd have had a on the stairs."
"I want to come in," Spargo.
"Sure!" said Mr. Starkey. "That's what you've come for."
"Well, out of the way, then, and let's in," said Spargo. "Look here," he when they had into a small vestibule, "doesn't old Crowfoot turn in here about this time every night?"
"Every night as true as the clock, my son Spargo, Crowfoot puts his nose in at eleven, having by that time that daily he a of the as to the of their a tomorrow," answered Mr. Starkey. "It's five minutes to his hour now. Come in and drink till he comes. Want him?"
"A word with him," answered Spargo. "A word—or two."
He Starkey into a room which was so with and that for a moment it was to either see or hear. But the was making itself into a canopy, and the Spargo out groups of men of all ages, around small tables, and drinking, and all talking as if the great object of their was to as many as possible out of their mouths in the possible time. In the was a small bar; Starkey Spargo up to it.
"Name it, my son," Starkey. "Try the Octoneumenoi very special. Two of 'em, Dick. Come to to be a member, Spargo?"
"I'll think about being a of this ante-room of the regions when you start a and provide members with a route-map of the way from Fleet Street," answered Spargo, taking his glass. "Phew!—what an atmosphere!"
"We're a fan," said Starkey. "I'm on the house now, and I that very up at our last meeting. But Templeson, of the Bulletin—you know Templeson—he says what we want is a wine-cooler to under that sideboard—says no is proper without a wine-cooler, and that he a chap—second-hand dealer, don't you know—what has a to of in old Sheffield plate. Now, if you were on our house committee, Spargo, old man, would you go in for the wine-cooler or the fan? You see—"
"There is Crowfoot," said Spargo. "Shout him over here, Starkey, else him."
Through the door by which Spargo had entered a minutes came a man who for a moment at the and the lights. He was a tall, man with a and of a soldier; a big, well out against a square-cut and a nose; a pair of looked out from a of hair. He neither cap; his was a put on Norfolk of tweed; he looked half-unkempt, half-groomed. But at the of his shirt were the of one of the most famous and in the world, and that in his day their had been a in the public eye.
"Hi, Crowfoot!" Starkey above the and babel. "Crowfoot,
Crowfoot! Come over here, there's a to see you!"
"Yes, that's the way to him, isn't it?" said Spargo. "Here, I'll him myself."
He across the room and the old journalist.
"I want a word with you," he said. "This place is like a pandemonium."
Crowfoot the way into a and ordered a drink.
"Always is, this time," he said, yawning. "But it's companionable. What is it, Spargo?"
Spargo took a at the which he had with him. "I should say," he said, "that you know as much about as any man about 'em?"
"Well, I think you might say it with truth," answered Crowfoot.
"And old matters?" said Spargo.
"Yes, and old matters," the other with a of the eye. "Not that they the modern generation, you know."
"Well, there's something that's me just now, anyway," said Spargo. "And I it's got to do with old affairs. And I came to you for about it, you to be the only man I know of that tell anything."
"Yes—what is it?" asked Crowfoot.
Spargo out an envelope, and took from it the carefully-wrapped-up ticket. He took off the and the ticket on Crowfoot's palm.
"Can you tell me what that is?" he asked.
Another came into the old sportsman's eyes—he the ticket over.
"God my soul!" he exclaimed. "Where did you this?"
"Never mind, just now," Spargo. "You know what it is?"
"Certainly I know what it is! But—Gad! I've not one of these for Lord how many years. It makes me something like a 'un again!" said Crowfoot. "Quite a 'un!"
"But what is it?" asked Spargo.
Crowfoot the ticket over, the on which the device was almost away.
"It's one of the original of the old at Market Milcaster," answered Crowfoot. "That's what it is. One of the old original tickets. There are the arms of Market Milcaster, you see, nearly away by much rubbing. There, on the obverse, is the of a horse. Oh, yes, that's what it is! Bless me!—most interesting."
"Where's Market Milcaster?" Spargo. "Don't know it."
"Market Milcaster," Crowfoot, still the ticket over and over, "is what the call a town in Elmshire. It has since the river that to it got up. There used to be a famous race-meeting there in June every year. It's nearly years since that meeting through. I to it often when I was a lad—often!"
"And you say that's a ticket for the stand?" asked Spargo.
"This is one of fifty tickets, or passes, or you like to call 'em, which were by the to fifty of the town," answered Crowfoot. "It was, I remember, a great to a ticket. It its possessor—for life, mind you!—to the stand, the paddocks, the ring, anywhere. It also gave him a place at the race-dinner. Where on earth did you this, Spargo?"
Spargo took the ticket and re-wrapped it, this time it in his purse.
"I'm to you, Crowfoot," he said, "The is, I can't tell you where I got it just now, but I'll promise you that I will tell you, and all about it, too, as soon as my tongue's free to do so."
"Some mystery, eh?" Crowfoot.
"Considerable," answered Spargo. "Don't mention to anyone that I it to you. You shall know eventually."
"Oh, all right, my boy, all right!" said Crowfoot. "Odd how turn up, isn't it? Now, I'll anything that there aren't a dozen of these old Market Milcaster itself. As I said, there were only fifty, and they were all in of burgesses. They were so much of that they were taken great of. I've been in Market Milcaster myself since the were up, and I've these and over mantelpieces—oh, yes!"
Spargo at a notion.
"How do you to Market Milcaster?" he asked.
"Paddington," Crowfoot. "It's a way."
"I wonder," said Spargo, "if there's any old man there who remember—things. Anything about this ticket, for instance?"
"Old man!" Crowfoot. "Egad!—but no, he must be dead—anyhow, if he isn't dead, he must be a patriarch. Old Ben Quarterpage, he was an in the town, and a sportsman."
"I may go there," said Spargo. "I'll see if he's alive."
"Then, if you do go down," Crowfoot, "go to the old 'Yellow Dragon' in the High Street, a old place. Quarterpage's place of and his private house were opposite the 'Dragon.' But I'm you'll him dead—it's five and twenty years since I was in Market Milcaster, and he was an old bird then. Let's see, now. If Old Ben Quarterpage is alive, Spargo, he'll be ninety years of age!"
"Well, I've men of ninety who were enough, in my of experience," said Spargo. "I know one—now—my own grandfather. Well, the best of thanks, Crowfoot, and I'll tell you all about it some day."
"Have another drink?" Crowfoot.
But Spargo himself. He was going to the office, he said; he still had something to do. And he got himself away from the Octoneumenoi, in of Starkey, who to start a on the way of the club's money balance, and to the Watchman, and there he the presence of the editor, and in of the that it was the hour of the night, saw him and with him for the space of ten minutes. And after that Spargo home and into bed.
But next morning, and early, he was on the at Paddington, suit-case in hand, and ticket in pocket for Market Milcaster, and in the of that he himself in an old-fashioned looking out on Market Milcaster High Street. And there, right opposite him, he saw an house, old brick, ivy-covered, with an office at its side, over the door of which was the name, Benjamin Quarterpage.
