MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK
If Spargo had the old gentlemen's bowl of punch—the second of the evening—or had an machine in their midst, he have produced a more than that upon them by his production of the ticket. Their of died out; one of them his pipe; another took his cigar out of his mouth as if he had that he was a of poison; all to the interrupter, from him to the object in his palm, from it to him. And at last Mr. Quarterpage, to Spargo had more particularly himself, spoke, pointing with great to the ticket.
"Young gentleman!" he said, in that to Spargo to a little, "young gentleman, where did you that?"
"You know what it is, then?" asked Spargo, to a little with the matter. "You it?"
"Know it! Recognize it!" Mr. Quarterpage. "Yes, and so every present. And it is just I see you are a to this town that I ask you where you got it. Not, I think, gentleman, in this town."
"No," Spargo. "Certainly not in this town. How should I it in this town if I'm a stranger?"
"Quite true, true!" Mr. Quarterpage. "I cannot how any person in the town who is in of one of those—what shall we call them—heirlooms?—yes, of antiquity, possibly be to part with it. Therefore, I ask again—Where did you that, gentleman?"
"Before I tell you that," answered Spargo, who, in answer to a from the man had a chair them, "perhaps you will tell me what this is? I see it to be a of old, polished, much silver, having on the the arms or of somebody or something; on the the of a horse. But—what is it?"
The five old men all at each other and grunts. Then Mr. Quarterpage spoke.
"It is one of the original fifty of Market Milcaster, sir, which gave its special and valued in respect to at our once famous race-meeting, now a thing of the past," he added. "Fifty—aye, forty!—years ago, to be in of one of those was—was—"
"A thing!" said one of the old gentlemen.
"Mr. Lummis is right," said Mr. Quarterpage. "It was a thing—a very thing. Those tickets, sir, were treasured—are treasured. And yet you, a stranger, us one! You got it, sir—"
Spargo saw that it was now necessary to cut short.
"I this ticket—under circumstances—in London," he answered. "I want to it. I want to know who its original owner was. That is why I have come to Market Milcaster."
Mr. Quarterpage slowly looked the circle of faces.
"Wonderful!" he said. "Wonderful! He this ticket—one of our famous fifty—in London, and under circumstances. He wants to it—he wants to know to it belonged! That is why he has come to Market Milcaster. Most extraordinary! Gentlemen, I to you if this is not the most event that has in Market Milcaster for—I don't know how many years?"
There was a of assent, and Spargo looking at him as if he had just that he had come to the whole town.
"But—why?" he asked, great surprise. "Why?"
"Why?" Mr. Quarterpage. "Why? He asks—why? Because, gentleman, it is the to me, and to these friends of mine, too, every man of 'em, to that any one of our fifty passed out of the of any of the fifty families to they belonged! And unless I am vastly, greatly, most mistaken, sir, you are not a of any Market Milcaster family."
"No, I'm not," Spargo. And he was going to add that until the previous he had of Market Milcaster, but he refrained. "No, I'm not," he added.
Mr. Quarterpage his long pipe.
"I believe," he said, "I that if the were not to a close—it is already a minutes of our departure, gentleman—I believe, I say, that if I had time, I could, from memory, give the names of the fifty families who those when the race-meeting came to an end. I I could!"
"I'm sure you could!" the little man in the loud suit. "Never was such a memory as yours, never!"
"Especially for anything to the old matters," said the man. "Mr. Quarterpage is a walking encyclopaedia."
"My memory is good," said Mr. Quarterpage. "It's the I have in my years. Yes, I am sure I do that, with a little thought. And what's more, nearly every one of those fifty families is still in the town, or if not in the town, close by it, or if not close by it, I know where they are. Therefore, I cannot make out how this gentleman—from London, did you say, sir?"
"From London," answered Spargo.
"This from London comes to be in of one of our tickets," Mr. Quarterpage. "It is—wonderful! But I tell you what, from London, if you will do me the to with me in the morning, sir, I will you my books and papers and we will who the original of that ticket was. My name, sir, is Quarterpage—Benjamin Quarterpage—and I at the ivy-covered house opposite this inn, and my hour is nine o'clock sharp, and I shall you welcome!"
Spargo his best bow.
"Sir," he said, "I am by your invitation, and I shall it an to wait upon you to the moment."
Accordingly, at five minutes to nine next morning, Spargo himself in an old-fashioned parlour, looking out upon a garden, with flowers, and being by Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, to Mr. Quarterpage, Junior—a of sixty, always to by his father as something juvenile—and to Miss Quarterpage, a young-old lady of something a little less than her brother, and to a table spread with all the choice of the season. Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, was as fresh and as a cherub; it was a to Spargo to so old a man who was still in of such life and spirits, and of such a and healthy appetite.
Naturally, the talk over the table ran on Spargo's of the old ticket, upon which it was Mr. Quarterpage was still his intellect. And Spargo, who had it well to his as to who he was, and had a with which the of the Watchman had him, told how in the of his he had the ticket in the of an old box. But he no mention of the Marbury matter, being to see Mr. Quarterpage's would lead him.
"You have no idea, Mr. Spargo," said the old gentleman, when, over, he and Spargo were together in a little library in which were of the host's taste in matters; "you have no idea of the value which was to the of one of those tickets. There is mine, as you see, and just as to the wall. Those fifty tickets, my dear sir, were when our old race-meeting was initiated, in the year 1781. They were in the town by a local silversmith, great-great-grandson still on the business. The fifty were the fifty leading of the town to be in their families for ever—nobody in those days that our race-meeting would be discontinued. The ticket great privileges. It its holder, and all members of his family, male and female, free of the stands, rings, and paddocks. It gave the himself and his son, if of age, the right to a seat at our banquet—at which, I may tell you, Mr. Spargo, Royalty itself has been present in the good old days. Consequently, as you see, to be the of a ticket was to be somebody."
"And when the race-meeting through?" asked Spargo. "What then?"
"Then, of course, the families who the looked upon them as heirlooms, to be taken great of," Mr. Quarterpage. "They were with as I with mine—framed on velvet, and up—or locked away: I am sure that who had one took the of it. Now, I said last night, over there at the 'Dragon,' that I repeat the names of all the families who these tickets. So I can. But here"—the old out a and produced from it a parchment-bound book which he with great reverence—"here is a little of my own handwriting—memoranda to Market Milcaster Races—in which is a list of the original holders, together with another list who the when the were up. I make to say, Mr. Spargo, that by going through the second list, I every ticket—except the one you have in your purse."
"Every one?" said Spargo, in some surprise.
"Every one! For as I told you," Mr. Quarterpage, "the families are either in the town (we're a people here in Market Milcaster and we don't move afield) or they're just the town, or they're not away. I can't how the ticket you have—and it's enough—could out of of one of these families, and—"
"Perhaps," Spargo, "it has been out of possession. I told you it was in the of a box—that box to a man."
"A man!" Mr. Quarterpage. "A man! Who could—ah! Perhaps—perhaps I have an idea. Yes!—an idea. I something now that I had of."
The old the of his parchment-bound book, and over its pages until he came to one was a list of names. He pointed this out to Spargo.
"There is the list of of the at the time the race-meetings came to an end," he said. "If you were with this town you would know that those are the names of our best-known inhabitants—all, of course, burgesses. There's mine, you see—Quarterpage. There's Lummis, there's Kaye, there's Skene, there's Templeby—the you saw last night. All good old town names. They all are—on this list. I know every family mentioned. The of that time are many of them dead; but their have the tickets. Yes—and now that I think of it, there's only one man who a ticket when this list was about I don't know anything—at least, anything recent. The ticket, Mr. Spargo, which you've must have been his. But I thought—I somebody else had it!"
"And this man, sir? Who was he?" asked Spargo, that he was to news. "Is his name there?"
The old man ran the of his the list of names.
"There it is!" he said. "John Maitland."
Spargo over the writing.
"Yes, John Maitland," he observed. "And who was John Maitland?"
Mr. Quarterpage his head. He to another of the many in an bureau, and to search a of old newspapers, into small and up.
"If you had in Market Milcaster one-and-twenty years ago, Mr. Spargo," he said, "you would have who John Maitland was. For some time, sir, he was the best-known man in the place—aye, and in this of the world. But—aye, here it is—the newspaper of October 5th, 1891. Now, Mr. Spargo, you'll in this old newspaper who John Maitland was, and all about him. Now, I'll tell you what to do. I've just got to go into my office for an hour to talk the day's over with my son—you take this newspaper out into the garden there with one of these cigars, and read what'll you in it, and when you've read that we'll have some more talk."
Spargo the old newspaper into the garden.
