"I say, wake me at six, will you? and leave my waterproof and top-boots
on the hall table; and, I say, tell Mason to cut me a dozen strong ash
sticks about a yard long; and, I say, leave a hammer and some tacks on
the hall table too; and tell Appleby to go by the early coach to
Overstone and get me a pound of cork, and some whalebone, and some tar.
Here's five shillings to pay for them. Don't forget. Tell him to leave
them at the lodge before twelve, and I'll fetch them. Oh, and tell Raby
if she wants to see what I was telling her about, she had better hang
about the lodge till I come. I'm sure to be there somewhere between
twelve and four."
With which the young lord of creation retires to his cubicle, leaving
Walker scratching his head, and regarding the five shillings in his hand
in anything but a joyful mood.
"He ought to be put on the treadmill a week or two; that's what would do
him good," observed the sage retainer to himself; "one thing at a time,
and plenty of it. A dozen ash sticks before six o'clock in the morning!
What does he want with ash sticks? Now his schoolmaster, if he'd got
one, would find them particular handy."
With which little joke Walker goes off to agitate Appleby and Mason with
the news of their early morning duties, and to put the servants' hall in
a flutter by announcing for the fiftieth time that summer that either he
or the young master would have to leave Wildtree Towers, because,
positively--well, they would understand--a man's respect for himself
demanded that he should draw the line somewhere, and that was just what
Master Percy would not allow him to do.
We have changed the scene once already in this chapter. Just before we
finish let us change it once more, and leaving beautiful Wildtree and
its happy family, let us fly to a sorry, tumbledown, desolate shed five
miles away, on the hill-side. It may have once belonged to a farm, or
served as a shelter for sheep on the mountain-slopes. But it now
scarcely possesses a roof, and no sign of a habitation is anywhere
visible.
The night has come on rainy and dark, and a weary tramp with his dog has
been thankful to crawl into its poor shelter and rest his limbs. The
wind has risen and howls dismally round the shed, breaking every now and
then through the loose planks, and stirring up the straw which carpets
the place. But the traveller is too weary to heed it or the rain which
intrudes along with it, and crouching with his dog in the darkest
corner, curls himself up in true tramp fashion, and settles down to
sleep.
He has lain there two hours or more, and the mountain storm begins to
abate. The dog has been uneasy for some time, and now in the midst of a
peal of thunder awakens his master with a gruff yap. The sleeper sits
up in an instant. It is not the thunder that has disturbed the dog, nor
is it thunder that the tramp now listens to close at hand. It is the
sound of voices, either inside the shed or just outside it.
Not a strange thing, perhaps, in a storm like this, for two wayfarers
like himself to seek shelter--and yet the tramp seems startled by the
sound, and signals to the dog to lie down and hold his peace.
"Will it do?" says one voice; and the tramp perceives that the speakers
are standing outside the shed under the shelter of the projecting eaves.
"No. No good. Too well looked after, and the people about the wrong
sort."
"There's a pile of swag there--heaps."
"Know that. Better wait till the family are away."
"There's a child, isn't there?"
"A boy--fourteen--only child."
"Might work it that way; eh? Get a trifle for him eh?"
"A thousand, and no questions asked. It's settled."
"It is! Why didn't you say so? How are you going to do it?"
"Never you mind. Corporal and I have worked it out. It will be done
to-night. Moon's down at ten. You be here at midnight, and have your
hay-cart handy. Corporal and I will bring him here. We know where to
find him in daylight, and can keep him quiet in the woods till dark."
"What then? Who's to keep him?"
"Wait till you've got him."
"Are you sure they'll go a thousand for him?"
"Probably two. Sheer off now, and don't forget, twelve o'clock."
The footsteps move away through the wet heather, and the tramp, waiting
motionless till the last sound has faded away, draws a long breath and
curls himself back into his roost.
But not to sleep--to meditate a campaign.
"Julius," says he to the dog, who appears to be fully alive to the
brewing storm, "you and I will have to stop this business. There'll be
three to two, unless the boy fights too. We must be here at eleven, and
tackle one of them before the other two come. What do you say to that?"
Julius looks only sorry the business is not to begin at once.
Then the tramp and he go carefully into the plan of their little
campaign, and, as soon as day dawns, go out for a walk, Julius taking
care before quitting the shed to acquaint himself with the scent of the
two gentlemen who had lately sheltered outside it.
The tramp spends a quiet day on the mountain, reading Homer, and
admiring the view. Towards nightfall he descends to Overstone and
spends a few of his remaining pence in a frugal meal. Then, as the moon
dips behind the shoulder of Wild Pike, he betakes himself, with the
faithful Julius close at his heels, to the shed on the mountain-side.