Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [48]
“Never in the history of this great classic (so his dream of Sporting Life read) has there been a more wonderful exhibition of masterly jockeyship than that given by the famous amateur rider, Captain (or Major) Tibbetts. He is a noble-looking fellow, with grave blue eyes and a mask-like yet mobile face…”
At this point Bones would sigh happily and introduce The Girl. There was always a girl. He saw her on the stand, white-faced and tearing at her handkerchief (not an expensive handkerchief) or clutching at her throat, and she always fell into his arms when he dismounted, and, presumably, was weighed in with him.
He had surprised the War Office by inventing a new gun and the Admiralty by compounding a new strategy, but mostly, as has been remarked before, he surprised girls by his strength, genius, workmanship, knowledge of women, kindness of disposition, tenderness of heart, wit, nobility of character, and general all-round excellence. And the motif of Bones’ plan of surprisement at the moment was an amazing cinema camera which he had seen advertised in an American magazine, and which at that moment was speeding on its way – it would in fact arrive by the same steamer that carried home Father Carrelli.
Bones had an immense faith in the probity of magazine advertisements, and when he read of Keissler’s King Kamera which was offered at $150.00, and after he had discovered that $150.00 was not fifteen thousand, but a hundred and fifty and no cents, he wrote for the prospectus and received in reply an avalanche of literature which was alone worth the money.
Therefore, anything of a photographic nature meant much to Bones. He could have explained his fault in a word. Instead he maintained silence. There was time enough later – and the story had to be written, for in those days the picture play was coming to its own, and Bones was an enthusiastic subscriber to all movie periodicals that were published. He had many stories in his mind.
Nobody paid any particular attention to the arrival of a large case or of sundry other bulky packages, because both Sanders and Hamilton had long since ceased to wonder at the amazing character of Bones’ mail. He had, on an average, one new hobby a month, and the inauguration of each was signalised by mails of terrific or mysterious proportions.
The first hint Hamilton had that something unusual was afoot, came to him in the nature of a shock. One afternoon he strolled over to the hut in which Bones had his headquarters, and, as was usual, he made straight for the big window which gave access to the young man’s sitting-room; and, looking in, he gasped.
Sitting at the table was a young man who was not Bones. His face was a bright and vivid yellow; his hands and bare arms were similarly tinted; about his eyes were two rings of blue. Hamilton stared open-mouthed, and then dashed into the hut through the door.
“For heaven’s sake, what’s the matter with you, Bones – fever?”
Bones looked up with a horrible smile, for his lips were painted a blue that was nearly purple.
“Get into bed at once,” ordered Hamilton. “I’ll wire through to Administration to get a doctor down – you poor young devil!”
Bones looked at him haughtily as he fixed a slight, dark moustache to his upper lip. And then it was that Hamilton saw the make-up box and the mirror.
“What are you doing, you great jackass?” he asked, offensive in his relief.
“Just a bit of make-up, dear old audience.”
“Make-up? Yellow? What are you supposed to be? The King of the Gold Coast?”
“That’s who I’m supposed to be,” said Bones carelessly, and handed a slip of paper to his visitor.
“Reginald de Coursy, a man of synister appearance, yet of plesing apearance. His eyes show sings of diserpation dissipation disapation his nose is aquerline his mouth creul. He looks like a man who has