Search for the Sunlight

It was raining hard when they reached the big iron entrance gates that led to the scrapyard.

On first impressions, the premises appeared deserted.

‘What a hideous place,’ Basil thought as he peered through the wire mesh security fence. The charcoal grey and orange oxide of the cold rusting metal that was stacked high in every corner of the yard made him shiver. It looked like Hell.

Suddenly, from behind an enormous pile of worn tyres, two scruffy, potato scrap merchants appeared. They were wearing identical chequered cloth caps, brown oil-stained dungarees and frayed herringbone jackets, with leather patches on the elbows.

The stouter of the two ruffians approached Harry and lifted him effortlessly off the ground by his lapels.

“That will be fourteen groats and thirty six wood cents if you please,” the fat spud announced in a gruff northern accent.

“Hold up a minute! What will be fourteen groats and thirty six wood cents?” the Constable demanded, stepping up to Harry’s assailant whilst loosening the safety catch on his truncheon in the event that things should turn nasty.

Observing Sherlock’s sturdy stature and the distinct possibility that he might be serious regarding the use of his knobbly baton, the scrap merchant gently lowered both the tone of his voice and Harry F. Treewood to the ground.

“The oil of course,” he replied, laughing nervously, whilst trying to adopting a more approachable manner. “The oil that this thieving weasel stole from my yard yesterday!” he roared. His attempt to remain calm had fallen at the first hurdle.

“It’s no good denying it! The Watch Frogs saw you nicking my oil,” he hollered, prodding Harry three times in the chest with his stubby fat index finger in time to the words, ‘nicking - my - oil!’

“But I had my shades on!” Harry replied innocently. “So how did they know it was me?”

“Precisely!” Rummage bellowed, raising his hands and his eyes to the heavens. “I rest my case!”

Herbert could hardly believe what he had just heard. In a lame bid to defend himself, Harry had as good as owned up to the theft and, with less than five wood groats between them, there was no possible way they could pay for the ill-gotten goods.

“You wallock!” he snapped, slapping his brother on the back of the head. “If you had kept quiet about the glasses, they would never have recognised you!”

“Whoa!” Basil called out, holding his hand in the air for calm.

“When you are quite finished bickering, I have a suggestion to make.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and, fumbling amongst the various items of trivia inside, he found his glasses and put them on. He looked up, and when his eyes settled on the scrap merchant’s face, he could read his mind…

“If I’m not mistaken, you look like a man who likes a wager,” he said, addressing the fat potato without revealing the slightest hint of his secret. Rummage paused for a moment and turned suspiciously to his brother before answering. He thought it a little odd that Basil should make such a statement, completely out of the blue. But after some thought, he cast his suspicions aside and was happy to admit that he did indeed partake in the odd flutter from time to time.

Basil moved in uncomfortably close and looked into the ugly potato’s eyes. “Well, I would like to propose a game of Snap!” he said, with an emphasis on the ‘S,’ the sibilant sound of which caused the scrap merchant to recoil.

“Snap? I like Snap!” Rummage enthused, cutting Basil off almost before he had finished what he was saying. “But there has to be a wager!” he added, rubbing his hands together at the prospect of stitching up what he perceived to be a bunch of naive Treewoods.

Basil clenched his teeth and drew in a long slow breath. He paused for a moment then, pretending to be deep in thought, he raised his eyes skywards as if considering what the wager should be. “Winner takes oil!” he finally replied.

John Rummage turned to his brother again and after a brief consultation, it was agreed that the oil and the spare parts in question should indeed be the prize. “Follow me,” he said, marching off in a business-like fashion towards the site office.

Inside the wooden shack, the air smelled of stale pipe tobacco, cheap stewed tea and lard fried hen’s eggs. All mixed together with a hint of calor gas and used engine oil, it was clear from the outset that their time spent in the so called site office was not going to be pleasant.

In the far corner of the cluttered room, a battered white enamel topped table stood lonely and neglected. Flanked on either side by two worn out, leatherette covered armchairs, it had long ago relinquished its ambition to become a high fashion retro feature in a designer farmhouse kitchen. To the left of the table, supported on a rough sawn timber frame, a dirty and badly chipped porcelain sink full of unwashed, tea-stained mugs set the tone further. In addition to the very visible domestic shambles, dirty plates and various items of cutlery lay scattered on a makeshift, corrugated iron draining board. Finally, on top of a big forty-gallon oil drum, a single gas ring and a filthy frying pan stood side by side, in silence, like an old married couple.

John Rummage sat down at the table first. He gestured to Basil to sit opposite then, turning to his brother, he gave a single nod of his head.

Tom Rummage, the younger and less outspoken of the two slobs, acknowledged his sibling’s signal and proceeded to unlock the door to a big cast iron safe.

From somewhere inside, he took a brand new pack of playing cards, removed the cellophane wrapper and passed the unopened pack to his brother.

Harry and Sherlock stood silently watching the scrap merchant’s every movement with suspicion, while Herbert discreetly scanned the room, looking for mirrors or any other devious means of cheating that the shady scoundrels might have in place. But as far as he could tell, there was nothing.

Basil sat back in his chair and adjusted his glasses. “Best of three?” he enquired politely. He had considered five, but time was of the essence. They were already running late and he had no desire to spend any longer than was necessary in the company of these thuggish louts.

“Fine by me,” Rummage agreed and without any consideration for sporting etiquette or good manners, he shuffled the cards and began to deal.

“Hold up a minute!” Sherlock called out, and reaching into his trouser pocket he produced a wood groat. “We’ll toss for the deal, shall we?”

Before Rummage had time to argue, the Constable flipped the coin into the air and caught it on the back of his left hand. “Heads or tails?”

Basil focused on the officer’s fingers and immediately his special glasses exposed the face of the hidden coin. “Tails!” he called out.

Sherlock removed his right hand to reveal Basil’s chosen icon. “Tails it is,” he said, smiling.

Like the spoiled brat that he was, Rummage threw a tantrum. He picked up the cards and slammed them down hard on the table, rattling the various pieces of crockery and discarded cutlery that littered its surface. He despised losing.

Ignoring his opponent’s angry outburst, Basil dealt the pack - including the jokers - evenly between them and waited for the fat man to simmer down.

Reluctantly accepting his loss, Rummage signalled that he was ready to play the game.

Basil placed his first card on the table. It was the king of hearts. Rummage replied with the four of diamonds. It was Basil’s turn again. As he leaned forwards to lay his next card on the table, he discretely glanced at the fat man’s hand. All at once, his glasses revealed the face value of every card that he held. Unaware of Basil’s secret, the merchant played on.

For a time the game continued uneventfully. Basil played the jack of clubs, while the scrap man followed with the five of hearts and, so it went on until eventually the two players were down to their last few cards.

But things were about to change. If Basil’s glasses were indeed glasses of truth then, Rummage’s next card was the seven of diamonds and with only eight cards left in play, he decided it was time to take the fat man for all he was worth…

The air in the site office was electric. The tension mounted as Rummage played his next card. No sooner had he placed it on the table, than Basil matched it with the seven of clubs. “SNAP!” he called out with such enthusiasm that the fat potato nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Huh, a lucky call!” Rummage jibed, laughing pretentiously in a bid to make light his loss, but beneath the facade he was seething at Basil’s convincing win.

In a bid to provoke his opponent further, Basil picked up his winning cards and shuffled them for much longer than was necessary before continuing with the game.

Rummage was furious. He was down to his last two cards and he knew that his chances of winning the first round were slim. But in spite of the odds being stacked firmly in Basil’s favour, he played on with unfaltering determination.

His next card was the nine of diamonds. Basil followed with the four of spades then Rummage again. It was his last card… The queen of hearts.

Not wishing to prolong the agony, Basil cunningly swapped his next card for the queen of clubs and placed it casually on the table. “SNAP!” he called out. Rummage didn’t have a chance. It was a pair of queens and Basil had the first game comfortably in the bag.

While the angry scrap merchant growled and muttered disapprovingly, Sherlock, Harry and Herbert applauded loudly in respect of Basil’s skilful win. It was time for the second round…

Rummage insisted they use fresh cards and, with no objections from Basil’s side, Tom Rummage opened the safe again and produced a brand new, factory-sealed pack.

It was Rummage’s turn to deal. He was one game down and he knew that in order for him to win the wager, he would have to use every trick in the book.

He removed the cellophane wrapper from the new pack and dealt the cards quickly and professionally. It was obvious that he wished only for the whole affair to be over and preferably with the winning result in his favour. Little did he know that his fate was already sealed. His first card was the queen of hearts. Basil followed with the six of diamonds, then Rummage again, with the eight of clubs. Basil was about to place his next card on the table when, in a sudden and unprovoked attack of coughing, the fat man slumped to one side and fell to the floor. He appeared to be suffering some sort of seizure.

Harry and Sherlock stood to one side while Tom Rummage, concerned for his brother’s wellbeing, rushed to his assistance.

In the ensuing kerfuffle, mugs and dirty plates were scattered in every direction as the two potatoes writhed and wrestled on the floor. A few minutes later, miraculously recovered, John Rummage re-appeared from beneath the table, straightened his hat and sat down ready to continue with the game as if nothing untoward had happened. It was then that Basil spotted the deception.

Prior to all the commotion, the card on top of Rummage’s hand was the ten of diamonds. Basil knew this to be true, for he had seen it clearly through his glasses. But sometime during the orchestrated upheaval, the card in question had mysteriously become the five of clubs, a winning card by all accounts, or so the twisted scoundrel thought!

Rummage slammed his card down hard on the table and without even checking to see what he had played, he looked directly at Basil and roared, “SNAP!”

Chuffed to bits with his deceitful manoeuvre, the fat man sat back in his chair and laughed. Basil was wild! He was desperate to challenge him on his dishonest ways, but such an accusation would only serve to reveal his own underhand dealings which, of course was out of the question. Like it or not, he had been cheated out of the winning hand and there was nothing he could do about it.

For a few frustrating moments, he sat in resolved silence and watched Rummage as he wallowed in all his glory. It was then, with a piercing blast, that Sherlock, acting as adjudicator, blew his emergency wood police whistle and announced foul play. “Wrong call!” he cried out loud.

The startled competitors looked at one another and then at the cards on the table. To their mutual astonishment, the card on top of the pile was not the five of clubs, as they had both assumed it to be. Instead, by some mysterious means, on its short journey from hand to table, it had changed into the seven of spades! How was it possible?

Basil turned slowly to face his friends. Perhaps they could shine a light on the mystery, but Harry and Herbert simply shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads. They knew nothing. It was only when he looked up at the Constable that it all became clear.

Throughout the entire game Sherlock had been wearing his glasses too and, from where he stood, he had witnessed the whole scam first hand.

During Rummage’s timely fainting fit, the Constable had spotted the illicit goings on beneath the table and, exercising his skills as a masterful illusionist, he moved in at supersonic speed and, with the most cunning slight of hand, switched Rummage’s winning card, namely the five of clubs, for a random other from the original pack that was still sitting on the table from the previous game.

He performed the move with such stealth and expertise that no one detected his swift actions. Sherlock looked at Basil and winked. His clever stunt had exposed John Rummage’s cheating ways. The game was up, and the prize was finally theirs.

Not unexpectedly, the scrap merchants were confused. For the life of them, neither could work out what had happened. Tom Rummage knew that beneath the table he had set his brother up with a winning hand and yet somehow, they had been outsmarted by what he had at first assumed to be a bunch of naive Treewoods.

Unable to contain his frustration any longer, John Rummage rose to his feet and roaring like an angry bull, he picked up the table and slung it, along with all the cards, across the office. Then, like the sad loser that he was, he stomped off up the muddy path outside and disappeared amongst the scattered mounds of junk and rusty mangled metal, where he so rightly belonged.

In the confusion, the travellers quickly picked up their belongings and walking as briskly as they could, without actually running, they left the premises via the main gate and disappeared into the fog.

How could Basil possibly have won? The Rummage brothers would go to their graves never knowing the truth…