The Final Count

The Final Count

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by Sapper
     
 

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In endeavouring to put before the public for the first time the truth
concerning the amazing happenings of the summer of 1927, I feel myself to
be at a disadvantage. In the first place I am no storyteller: so maybe my
presentation of the facts will fail to carry conviction. Nay, further: it
is more than likely that what I am about to write down will be

Overview

In endeavouring to put before the public for the first time the truth
concerning the amazing happenings of the summer of 1927, I feel myself to
be at a disadvantage. In the first place I am no storyteller: so maybe my
presentation of the facts will fail to carry conviction. Nay, further: it
is more than likely that what I am about to write down will be regarded
as a tissue of preposterous lies. And yet to those who condemn me offhand
I would say one thing. Take the facts as you know them, and as they
appeared in the newspapers, and try to account for them in any other way.
You may say that in order to write a book--gain, perhaps, a little cheap
notoriety--I have taken the ravings of a madman around which to build a
fantastic and ridiculous story. You are welcome to your opinion. I can do
no more than tell you what I know: I cannot make you believe me.

In one respect, however, I feel that I am in a strong position: my own
part was a comparatively small one. And it is therefore from no reason of
self-aggrandisement that I write. To one man, and one man only, is praise
and honour due, and that is the man who led us--Hugh Drummond. But if
unbelievers should go to him for confirmation, it is more than probable
they will be disappointed. He will burble at them genially, knock them
senseless with a blow of greeting on the back, and then resuscitate them
with a large tankard of ale. And the doubter may well be pardoned for
continuing to doubt: I, myself, when I first met Drummond was frankly
incredulous as to his capabilities of being anything but a vast and
good-natured fool. I disbelieved, politely, the stories his friends told
me about him: to be candid, his friends were of very much the same type
as himself. There were four of them whom I got to know intimately: Algy
Longworth, a tall young man with a slight drawl and an eyeglass; Peter
Darrell, who usually came home with the milk each morning, but often
turned out to play cricket for Middlesex; Ted Jerningham, who fell in
love with a different girl daily; and finally Toby Sinclair, who was
responsible for introducing me into the circle.

Finally, there was Drummond himself of whom a few words of description
may not be amiss. He stood just six feet in his socks, and turned the
scales at over fourteen stone. And of that fourteen stone not one ounce
was made up of superfluous fat. He was hard muscle and bone clean
through, and the most powerful man I have ever met in my life. He was a
magnificent boxer, a lightning and deadly shot with a revolver, and
utterly lovable. Other characteristics I discovered later: his complete
absence of fear (though that seemed common to all of them); his cool
resourcefulness in danger; and his marvellous gift of silent movement,
especially in the dark.

But those traits, as I say, I only found out later: just at first he
seemed to me to be a jovial, brainless creature who was married to an
adorable wife.

It was his face and his boxing abilities that had caused him to be
nicknamed Bulldog. His mouth was big, and his nose was small, and he
would not have won a prize at a beauty show. In fact, it was only his
eyes--clear and steady with a permanent glint of lazy humour in
them--that redeemed his face from positive ugliness.

So much, then, for Hugh Drummond, D. S.O., M.C., who was destined to play
the leading part in the events of that summer, and to meet again, and for
the last time, the devil in human form who was our arch-enemy. And though
it is not quite in chronological order, yet I am tempted to say a few
words here concerning that monstrous criminal. Often in the earlier
stages of our investigations did I hear Drummond mention his name--a name
which conveyed nothing to me, but which required no explanation to the
others or to his wife. And one day I asked him point blank what he meant.

He smiled slightly, and a dreamy look came into his eyes.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
2940013770584
Publisher:
WDS Publishing
Publication date:
01/12/2012
Sold by:
Barnes & Noble
Format:
NOOK Book
File size:
197 KB

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The Final Count 1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 1 reviews.
DoItNow More than 1 year ago
Iread this because I remember reading Sapper as a teenager. It is really old fashioned but fun.