Chapter One Part FifteenTell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but a gentleman’s dream! --
For the gentleman’s soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
In that case, give a speech honoring the heroic sacrifice of our noble deceased friend.
Seated upon a rock outside the small building wherein lies his erstwhile colleague Mr Thomas Wallace,
Henry McGeenyton declaims an ode to the passing of the gentlemen spies’ deceased friend.
His noble voice rises clear into the night air as the sky begins to lighten in the east.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Duel to the death. With my top hat. Can't pick a better weapon than the other chap, can I?
“We shall duel to the death good sir.”
Wellington answers Gunther Stoph after a slight pause. “And I shall fight with my top hat.”
An irritated scowl crosses the German’s face.
“Sir, you mock me. I will not fight with a top hat. I shall use one of my dueling pistols, and I should warn you, I am a fine shot. Now you have mocked me so, I shall show no mercy. Pray, do take the second gun so we can be finished with this nonsense. ”
Wellington takes the offered pistol from the finely engraved case. Under the watchful eye of the German Zeppelin commander, who offers to be a second to Stoph whilst they wait for an available gentleman for Wellington, the two offended parties load their pistols carefully, and walk a small distance from the battlefield.
They stand face to face, and shake hands.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act like gentlemen, that each to-morrow
Find us more gentlemanly than to-day.
Find a rope. Attach it to the basket if it isn't already, then climb it down with a "Lebwohl!". At the end of the rope, drop down the last few feet and roll to prevent damage.
Above the soon-to-be dueling pair there floats
John Link, aloft in his wicker basket. He looks about for a rope somewhere on board, and after the briefest of searches he finds something that, at first glance, appears to be suitable. The clear declaiming voice of McGeenyton floats up to him, seemingly stronger than the wind itself.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though gentlemanly and brave,
Like muffled drums and bagpipes are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
Link struggles in the wind-swung Zeppelin, but finally manages to attach the rope to the side. “Lebwohl!” he shouts, as he climbs down, swinging precariously in the stiff breeze, having apparently forgotten the German spy still, in a fashion, on board the dirigible.
Find another rock, and serve it sky high at the zeppelin, whilst hoping that I don't double fault (even though this is the first serve). Don't forget to say the score. Also, still pick up my top hat.
As Link nears halfway to the ground, arms tiring from climbing down nigh on a hundred feet, a small rock passes by him at a startling speed, the whoosh in his ears letting him know he has had a close escape. He continues his descent, and a split second later hears a bloodcurdling “SCHWEINHUND!” bellow down from above.
Less than a second later a briefcase falls past him, still grasped by what appears to be von Hildebrand’s arm.
“I say,” proclaims
Smith, learning fast the ways of the English gentleman, as the briefcase falls at his feet, “Game, set and all that, what?”
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, and bravely, in the living Present!
Gentlemen below, and gentle Link o'erhead!
Do what I can to help Link down from the zeppelin.
As McGeenyton carries on with his lamenting ode,
von Fersen looks up in surprise when he sees the all important briefcase fall to the ground between him and Smith. He continues looking up in surprise when he sees Link dangling off a rope fifty feet in the air, trailing underneath the wind-driven dirigible. The end of the rope drifts past him where he stands, and he strolls, nay, he is nearly provoked to a mild sprint as he chases after it and holds it firm.
He pulls it taut as Link approaches the ground. Link feels the loss of slack and glances down, sees von Fersen, and gracefully slides the remaining length to the floor, landing with a nimble roll like the noble acrobat he is.
“Good morning sirs,” he addresses to von Fersen and Smith. “We appear to have possession of the troublesome briefcase. I think this calls for a cigar. I say, what on earth is Wellington up to with that Prussian?”
Lives of great gentlemen all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Gentlemanly footprints on the sands of time;
The three gentlemen walk over to where Wellingon and Stoph stand face to face, waiting for a second so as to be able to start their duel. Smith offers to be that awaited second, and the pair walk a distance apart, both anxious for satisfaction to be gained. They turn to face each other, and as they do so, Wellington carefully places his dueling pistol on the ground.
He takes off his top hat, and prepares to wield it in his hand, and as he does so, the look on Stoph’s face passes from anger, to bewilderment, to astonishment.
“To the death?” he asks, again. “What the blazes?”
“To the death,” comes Wellington’s unchanging reply. “You may fire away; I’ve always preferred a good hat. Start the duel, Link; drop your napkin and give the sign man. Let’s be done with this.”
Stoph lowers his gun to shoot; Wellington pulls back his arm to throw; Link drops his white and ironed napkin to start.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to fight for King and country; to-morrow
Be more gentlemanly in every way.
From the right of the field where Stoph stands there is a flash and a bang, a cloud of smoke rises slowly above the German’s head, and is swiftly sliced apart by a careering top hat. Both parties have missed, and missed impressively. Walking over to collect his top hat and straighten it out, Wellington clears his throat with some embarrassment and asks,
“I say, that was dreadfully poor. What are the chances? Shall we try again?”
The German takes the loaded pistol Wellington abandoned a minute or two ago, and they once again take position.
As the German’s pistol goes off, the smoke obscures his vision such that he never notices the top hat murderously flung toward his imposing forehead; being a true gentleman he would not have moved if he had.
He topples to the floor, hands clutching his head, the top hat protruding from the fatal wound.
Wellington strolls over nonchalantly, yet respectfully, and removes his top hat. Alas, it is no longer recognisable; it is a crumpled disc; it is a former top hat: a ruin of its past glory. Reminded by this distasteful sight Smith walks off to find his own hat.
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Not yet flung from bowling ball and chain,
A not yet broken, cruelly smashed brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
A few feet from McGeenyton, Smith spies his hat and bends down to pick it up. He dusts it off; as he goes to place it upon his head he sees the single hole through the middle.
He raises it to the dawning sky to the east to look through the hole in thought and wonderment, and as he does he sees beyond his hat, silhouetted against the first rays of the sun, a man hanging on to the side of a Zeppelin, floating off across the sea.
“I say,” he says. “Von Hildebrand. Gosh.”
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a stiff upper lip for any fate;
Still gentlemanly spying, and still pursuing,
Learning to eat fine caviar and pate.
Bugger, I meant pâté. Blast.
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Topic: Roll to Be a Gentleman Spy - Chapter Three Part Twenty One. (Read 75025 times)