The Missing Link | Page 2

billet he
had to keep his hair dyed a presentable black, but otherwise the duties
were light, and Nickie might still have been useful mute, only that he

had the misfortune to get drunk at the funeral of an eminent politician
and behaved himself in a way obnoxious to the other mourners.
Some credit must be given to Crips for the above in view of the fact
that he had long, since discovered how unnecessary work was to a man
free of prejudices and unhampered with conscience. Every man should
be master of his own conscience, and the exactions of conscience
should be subordinate to the needs of the body. That was a large part of
Nickie's philosophy, and he had acted up to it with marked success, but
this morning housewives were incredulous and tough, and our hero was
faring badly.
He entered the yard of Ebonwell, the chemist, and was about to knock,
when his eye fell upon a well-worn Gladstone bag full of small bottles.
In the course of long experience as a beat, Nickie had learned the value
of prompt action. He gently snapped up the bag, and jauntily to the gate.
Here he collided with a female entering in a hurry.
"Was yeh wantin' anythin', mister?" said the woman suspiciously.
"Good morning, madam," said Nickie, with unction. "Can I tune your
piano this morning?" His manner was most courteous, he smiled kindly,
but he did not invite attention to the bag.
"No yeh can't," snapped the woman, "an' a good reason why--coz we
ain't got a pianner to toon."
"A pity," said Nickie, suavely, "a pity, madam. No home should be
without the refining influence of good music."
The woman passed in as Nickie passed out, and the latter looked back
over the gate, and said, "Good morning, lady," with profound respect.
Nickie must have forgotten all about his weak heart; the dash he made
out of that right-of-way, across the street, down a second right-of-way,
and into a public garden, would not have discredited a trained
pedestrian. An hour later Mr. Crips was seated in a secluded spot on the
river bank, taking stock. He possessed one very second-hand black bag

and four dozen four-ounce bottles. The Kid's intention in the first place
had been to dispose of the loot at the nearest marine store, but Nickie
was a man of ideas, and one had come to him there in his loneliness.
He hid his bag of bottles, and wandered into the city. After several
misses he succeeded in begging sixpence to buy cough drops for his
influenza.
He paid threepence for the cough drops at a convenient hotel, and took
them in bulk. With his change he purchased threepence worth of small
corks. Back at the Yarra Nickie the Kid dissolved one of three
gingernuts he had taken from the bar lunch in a two pound jam tin of
river water, and started to fill his bottles. He filled one dozen.
Having explained to a small knot of brother professionals that he
needed change of air and scenery, Nickie the Kid started out of town
that afternoon. We next discover him seated under a spreading gum in a
pleasant sweep of sunny landscape at Tarra, with his trousers in his
hands, carefully and systematically repairing and renovating the same.
The frock coat had been "restored," the rag cap was abandoned in
favour of a limp bell-topper, contributed by the family of a benevolent
clergyman, and the tan boots were artistically blacked with stove polish.
Nickie the Kid warbled at his work with the innocent gaiety of a bird.
It was not yet sundown, and Nicholas Crips was clothed, and stood
with his black Gladstone in his right hand, prepared for the campaign.
He had had a clean shave, and his face had a sort of calm dignity
touched with benevolence. He turned round, examining himself, and
the coat-tails floated gracefully in the breeze.
"Eminently satisfactory," said Mr. Crips. "And now for business." He
cleared his throat, as if about to commence an oration, and set off at a
smart pace towards the farm-house whose chimneys peeped over the
hill.
A dog barked surlily as Nickie passed up the garden walk, but Nickie
knew the character and quality of dogs, no beat better, and he
recognised this one as harmless to man. A woman came to the door,
wiping her fat, red arms on a canvas apron.

"A very good day to you, madam," said Mr. Crips, lifting his belltopper
with some grace, and bowing slightly. "I have taken the liberty of
calling upon you to bring under your attention my celebrated
medicine--Dr. Crips's Healing Mixture, for coughs, colds, consumption
indigestion, biliousness and all bronchial complaints."
He took a bottle from his bag and shook it invitingly,