Cleek: The Man of the Forty Faces | Page 2

round the angle of the bridge at that
moment, and made as though to scud down the Embankment into the
thick of the chase--"pull that thing up sharp! Stop where you are! Dead
still. At once, at once, do you hear? We don't want you getting in the
way. Now, then"--nodding his head in the direction of the running
man--"come on you bounder; I'm ready for you!"
And, as if he really heard that invitation, and really was eager to accept
it, the red-headed man did "come on" with a vengeance. And all the
time, "madmazelly," unheeding Collins's advice, stood calmly and
silently waiting.
Onward came the runner, with the whole roaring pack in his wake,
dodging in and out among the vehicles, "flooring" people who got in
his way, scudding, dodging, leaping, like a fox hard pressed by the
hounds--until, all of a moment he spied a break in the traffic, leapt
through it, and--then there was mischief. For Collins sprang at him like
a cat, gripped two big, strong-as-iron hands on his shoulders, and had
him tight and fast.
"Got you, you ass!" snapped he, with a short, crisp, self-satisfied laugh.
"None of your blessed squirming now. Keep still. You'll get out of your
coffin, you bounder, as soon as out of my grip. Got you--got you! Do
you understand?"
The response to this fairly took the wind out of him.
"Of course I do," said the captive, gaily; "it's part of the programme
that you should get me. Only, for Heaven's sake, don't spoil the film by
remaining inactive, you goat! Struggle with me--handle me
roughly--throw me about. Make it look real; make it look as though I
actually did get away from you, not as though you let me. You chaps
behind there, don't get in the way of the camera--it's in one of those
cabs. Now, then, Bobby, don't be wooden! Struggle--struggle, you goat,
and save the film!"

"Save the what?" gasped Collins. "Here! Good Lord! Do you mean to
say--?"
"Struggle--struggle--struggle!" cut in the man impatiently. "Can't you
grasp the situation? It's a put-up thing: the taking of a kinematograph
film--a living picture--for the Alhambra to-night! Heavens above,
Marguerite, didn't you tell him?"
"Non, non! There was not ze time. You come so quick, I could not.
And he--ah, le bon Dieu!--he gif me no chance. Officair, I beg, I entreat
of you, make it real! Struggle, fight, keep on ze constant move.
Zere!"--something tinkled on the pavement with the unmistakable
sound of gold--"zere, monsieur, zere is the half-sovereign to pay you
for ze trouble, only, for ze lof of goodness, do not pick it up while the
instrument--ze camera--he is going. It is ze kinematograph, and you
would spoil everything!"
The chop-fallen cry that Collins gave was lost in a roar of laughter from
the pursuing crowd.
"Struggle--struggle! Don't you hear, you idiot?" broke in the
red-headed man irritably. "You are being devilishly well paid for it, so
for goodness' sake make it look real. That's it! Bully boy! Now, once
more to the right, then loosen your grip so that I can push you away and
make a feint of punching you off. All ready there, Marguerite? Keep a
clear space about her, gentlemen. Ready with the motor, chauffeur? All
right. Now, then, Bobby, fall back, and mind your eye when I hit out,
old chap. One, two, three--here goes!"
With that he pushed the chop-fallen Collins from him, made a feint of
punching his head as he reeled back, then sprang toward the spot where
the Frenchwoman stood, and gave a finish to the adventure that was
highly dramatic and decidedly theatrical. For "mademoiselle," seeing
him approach her, struck a pose, threw out her arms, gathered him into
them--to the exceeding enjoyment of the laughing throng--then both
looked back and behaved as people do on the stage when "pursued,"
gesticulated extravagantly, and, rushing to the waiting motor, jumped
into it.

"Many thanks, Bobby; many thanks, everybody!" sang out the
red-headed man. "Let her go, chauffeur. The camera men will pick us
up again at Whitehall, in a few minutes' time."
"Right you are, sir," responded the chauffeur gaily. Then "toot-toot"
went the motor-horn as the gentleman in grey closed the door upon
himself and his companion, and the vehicle, darting forward, sped
down the Embankment in the exact direction whence the man himself
had originally come, and, passing directly through that belated portion
of the hurrying crowd to whom the end of the adventure was not yet
known, flew on and--vanished.
And Collins, stooping to pick up the half-sovereign that had been
thrown him, felt that after all it was a poor price to receive for all, the
jeers and gibes of the assembled onlookers.
"Smart capture, Bobby, wasn't it?" sang out a